Lessons Learned
Title: Lessons Learned
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Word Count: 940
Rating: PG-13
Note: Written for day fourteen of watsons_woes July Writing Prompts
Summary: Apologies and admitting when he's wrong aren't things that come easily to Sherlock.
Lessons Learned
“John, I-“
“Don’t. Just… Don’t, Sherlock.”
John did his best to maintain his stoic silence while they climbed out of the cab, but he was tired and in pain, and from the way Sherlock’s hands were twitching toward him, he was fairly sure that it showed.
Really, he wasn’t that upset - it really had been an accident after all. But it was just the principal of the matter. And, maybe, just maybe, it would sink into Sherlock’s gigantic brain a bit more if he played at being angrier than he actually was.
Or maybe Sherlock would just delete the whole thing from his hard drive. It was hard to tell with him.
So, he scowled and pulled away from the helping hands that tried to ease him through the front door of 221B - keeping up his stony silence until, about five steps up he felt a cold sweat break out across his brow and decided he needed a little break. Maybe he should’ve taken those pain meds after all… But he’d wanted to be clear headed for this conversation with Sherlock.
Speaking of, the detective was looking more distraught by the second as John leaned heavily against the railing. As much as he hated looking weak in front of Sherlock, he thought this might be a good time to point out the error of the consulting detective’s ways - maybe if it was attached to the image of John’s pathetic face in his mind palace or what-the-fuck-ever it would actually be a lesson learned.
“Why did you even have it with you?” He asked, keeping his voice clipped and jaw tight, both from pain and a show of anger.
“I thought we might need it,” Sherlock said, then added quietly. “And, really, I was right. We did need it.”
John jaw actually fell open. “Really? You’re going with ‘I was right’, right now?”
He shook his head and started back up the stairs at a faster clip, true anger edging out the false display and giving him the steam to move faster despite his pain. Who was he kidding, thinking he could actually get Sherlock to admit he’d been mistaken? That his great big brain might not always have all the details worked out?
“You shot me,” John said, stopping again and looking back at the detective who cringed away from the words like a dog being scolded with a rolled up newspaper. “You took my gun without asking, carried it around all day, and then, when you used it, you bloody shot me.”
“The ricochet-“
“Is something you should’ve accounted for! Or not since you shouldn’t have had my gun in the first place!” John was breathing hard and the rib that had been broken by the bullet was sending stabs of pain through his side. “You’re not trained to use that weapon, Sherlock. It’s not something you can just read about and do perfectly. And it's not a toy. You can’t just wave around at people like you do the walls.”
He turned back up the stairs but was stopped from moving by the blurted, “I’m sorry” from behind him.
“For what?” John shot back immediately, turning back to him. Sherlock blinked in confusion, obviously not expecting that question.
“Why are you sorry, Sherlock?” He pressed. “Because things didn’t turn out the way you’d planned? If I hadn’t gotten shot, would you think this was all well and good? Are you sorry that you took my gun at all or just that you cocked up?”
“Neither. I’m sorry…” Sherlock paused and raised his chin almost in defiance, looking John directly in the eye as he finished. “I’m sorry that you’re in pain. Seeing you like this… Knowing I’m responsible, I hate it. But I’m not sorry I took your gun, because I truly thought it was likely that we’d need it and you wouldn’t want to carry it with the Yarders about. And I’m not sorry I shot when that man was threating to stab you. But I’m sorry for the result.”
The awkward, stilted apology wasn’t really much of an apology at all. Really more, “I feel badly, but I’m not sure why or what to say to make this better. And by the way, my reasoning was sound and I was right. But it’s a bit not good that you got hurt and all.”
John let out a snort followed by a giggle as he rubbed his face with the hand not pressed protectively to his side. Given his lack of practice, Sherlock’s apology wasn’t terrible. Okay, yes, it was terrible. But it was still better than nothing. And it was Sherlock, so he supposed he should just be happy he got any expression of regret at all.
“How about next time you just tell me you think we’ll need the gun and let me decide for myself if I want to carry it? I think I’d rather risk Lestrade catching me with it than get shot any more - I’ve had quite enough of that, thank you.”
Sherlock stayed stuck to the stair below John, kind of leaning back and forth uncertainly, like he wasn’t sure if he was going to get yelled at again or not. John turned and started back up the stairs, leaving Sherlock standing silently behind him for about three seconds before he skipped two steps to hover next to him again.
“Guess it’s a good thing you’re such a crap shot,” he teased.
“Maybe… Maybe you could teach me,” Sherlock said quietly, hands resuming their twitching, fluttering dance around John as they climbed.
John smiled. Maybe there’d be lessons learned after all. For both of them.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Word Count: 940
Rating: PG-13
Note: Written for day fourteen of watsons_woes July Writing Prompts
Summary: Apologies and admitting when he's wrong aren't things that come easily to Sherlock.
Lessons Learned
“John, I-“
“Don’t. Just… Don’t, Sherlock.”
John did his best to maintain his stoic silence while they climbed out of the cab, but he was tired and in pain, and from the way Sherlock’s hands were twitching toward him, he was fairly sure that it showed.
Really, he wasn’t that upset - it really had been an accident after all. But it was just the principal of the matter. And, maybe, just maybe, it would sink into Sherlock’s gigantic brain a bit more if he played at being angrier than he actually was.
Or maybe Sherlock would just delete the whole thing from his hard drive. It was hard to tell with him.
So, he scowled and pulled away from the helping hands that tried to ease him through the front door of 221B - keeping up his stony silence until, about five steps up he felt a cold sweat break out across his brow and decided he needed a little break. Maybe he should’ve taken those pain meds after all… But he’d wanted to be clear headed for this conversation with Sherlock.
Speaking of, the detective was looking more distraught by the second as John leaned heavily against the railing. As much as he hated looking weak in front of Sherlock, he thought this might be a good time to point out the error of the consulting detective’s ways - maybe if it was attached to the image of John’s pathetic face in his mind palace or what-the-fuck-ever it would actually be a lesson learned.
“Why did you even have it with you?” He asked, keeping his voice clipped and jaw tight, both from pain and a show of anger.
“I thought we might need it,” Sherlock said, then added quietly. “And, really, I was right. We did need it.”
John jaw actually fell open. “Really? You’re going with ‘I was right’, right now?”
He shook his head and started back up the stairs at a faster clip, true anger edging out the false display and giving him the steam to move faster despite his pain. Who was he kidding, thinking he could actually get Sherlock to admit he’d been mistaken? That his great big brain might not always have all the details worked out?
“You shot me,” John said, stopping again and looking back at the detective who cringed away from the words like a dog being scolded with a rolled up newspaper. “You took my gun without asking, carried it around all day, and then, when you used it, you bloody shot me.”
“The ricochet-“
“Is something you should’ve accounted for! Or not since you shouldn’t have had my gun in the first place!” John was breathing hard and the rib that had been broken by the bullet was sending stabs of pain through his side. “You’re not trained to use that weapon, Sherlock. It’s not something you can just read about and do perfectly. And it's not a toy. You can’t just wave around at people like you do the walls.”
He turned back up the stairs but was stopped from moving by the blurted, “I’m sorry” from behind him.
“For what?” John shot back immediately, turning back to him. Sherlock blinked in confusion, obviously not expecting that question.
“Why are you sorry, Sherlock?” He pressed. “Because things didn’t turn out the way you’d planned? If I hadn’t gotten shot, would you think this was all well and good? Are you sorry that you took my gun at all or just that you cocked up?”
“Neither. I’m sorry…” Sherlock paused and raised his chin almost in defiance, looking John directly in the eye as he finished. “I’m sorry that you’re in pain. Seeing you like this… Knowing I’m responsible, I hate it. But I’m not sorry I took your gun, because I truly thought it was likely that we’d need it and you wouldn’t want to carry it with the Yarders about. And I’m not sorry I shot when that man was threating to stab you. But I’m sorry for the result.”
The awkward, stilted apology wasn’t really much of an apology at all. Really more, “I feel badly, but I’m not sure why or what to say to make this better. And by the way, my reasoning was sound and I was right. But it’s a bit not good that you got hurt and all.”
John let out a snort followed by a giggle as he rubbed his face with the hand not pressed protectively to his side. Given his lack of practice, Sherlock’s apology wasn’t terrible. Okay, yes, it was terrible. But it was still better than nothing. And it was Sherlock, so he supposed he should just be happy he got any expression of regret at all.
“How about next time you just tell me you think we’ll need the gun and let me decide for myself if I want to carry it? I think I’d rather risk Lestrade catching me with it than get shot any more - I’ve had quite enough of that, thank you.”
Sherlock stayed stuck to the stair below John, kind of leaning back and forth uncertainly, like he wasn’t sure if he was going to get yelled at again or not. John turned and started back up the stairs, leaving Sherlock standing silently behind him for about three seconds before he skipped two steps to hover next to him again.
“Guess it’s a good thing you’re such a crap shot,” he teased.
“Maybe… Maybe you could teach me,” Sherlock said quietly, hands resuming their twitching, fluttering dance around John as they climbed.
John smiled. Maybe there’d be lessons learned after all. For both of them.