elementary
I have written Sherlock fic, because this is my favourite John Watson of all time ever. It is not the story where Harry hits on Donovan, or the story where John and Rory totally have lots in common, but they are on the way.
Sherlock
Gen, violence, language
The Facts of the Matter
John stands in the change cubicle in an anorak and pounds of plastic explosive and thinks about what he knows.
He knows what a bullet does to a body. He knows what a knife does, what a lead pipe does, he knows what cholera and pnuemonia look like. He’s picked bits of car out of five different nationalities of soldier, and too many civilians.
(He knows someone’s bought the anorak for this occasion, it’s still got that new anorak smell. He wonders which highly trained member of the elite criminal organisation had to buy the anorak.)
He had wanted to come home, of course. You went to war, you came home, you lived life in the real world.
(He had known what a fist does, what boot or belt or open handed slap could do long before he joined the army.)
Of course, he had been told, it had been mentioned, the real world takes time to seem real, obviously, that was pretty much lesson one of returned servicemen’s rule book, up there with stop stacking your shoes and avoid football matches and shopping centers, they’ll only cause flashbacks.
(He still stacks his shoes. It’s just neater.)
He had wanted to come home to get away from that, to get back to what he was meant to be protecting. It’s no one’s fault but his the real world wasn’t good enough. No one made him shack up with a skinny sociopathic selective genius detective who really enjoyed crime, and wasn’t overtly fussy about which side he was on.
(He knows the anorak is for Sherlock’s sake, for some stagey moment the man behind the curtain wants to have; for what seems to pass for water cooler humour among hyper-intelligent, ultra-observant, self-obsessed nutters.)
He’s seen what bombs do. This amount of explosive is unnecessary. It’s attention seeking, it’s childish, it’s overkill, which is almost sort of funny. You can kill a man with a spoonful of semtex, if you know where to put it.
He knows with this amount of explosive, he won’t feel anything.
(That makes it a lot worse, really.)
He and Harry had played a game, when they got very drunk together after their mother’s funeral, and again after their father’s. It was the “Who would die first?” game.
Statistically, as a man and a soldier, John would probably die first, though after Dad had finally passed, it looked like Harry’s shitty impulse control evened the odds a bit. John also maintained that the universe had a sense of humour, and it was just too simple that he would die first, that Harry would probably die dramatically, unexpectedly, while giving birth to a miracle baby John would probably raise after sobbing all the things he should have said over her casket. They laughed, and then Harry fixed him with a glassy eye and said, “You fucking better.”
“Sob?”
“Raise my miracle baby, you cunt. And raise her right.”
And then they argued about genetics and gender and eventually John won because Harry threw up.
(It was a terrible game.)
He and Harry haven’t gotten drunk together for over ten years, but he knows she would remember it. He probably should have seen this particular punchline coming, to get home and then die dramatically, unexpectedly, leaving Harry to sob things onto his symbolic empty casket. She’d get drunk with guilt and fury and indignation, hit rock bottom and wallow, for a bit. Then she’d probably tearily get back together with Clara and maybe even get it right this time. He’s always liked Clara.
(Their father had told them, over and over, that they weren’t worth anything. They only sometimes didn’t believe him.)
Sarah will cry too, and probably (irrationally) feel guilty, and within a year he’ll be a story she tells, about a man she knew who died in that pool bombing.
Sarah had called him a crime fighter, which was just funny until he remembered three months of staring out his window, listening to distant sirens and crashes, waiting for something to happen. He had thought about, in vague, fantastical and easily dismissible terms, being some kind of vigilante. That kind of thought was dangerous.
(One night, on the way home from staring down a pint, 82 days after getting “home”, John had been mugged. Sort of.
“Give me your money.”
It was a kid, clearly, skinny and shaking. He didn’t even have his hands in his pockets, for god’s sake.
“Or what?”
“What?”
John raised one hand, palm up. No threat.
“My money, or what?”
The kid was twitching even more. John figured if he had to, he could incapacitate with his cane.
“Or I’ll cut you?”
The rising inflection was almost endearing.
“Right. OK. With what?”
They stood like that for a second, the kid vibrating, John holding one hand up and eyes open wide. The kid ran off. John didn’t really have any Batman daydreams after that, until he found himself vaulting rooftops.)
He wants to be more to Sarah than a vaguely depressing anecdote.
He wants to tell Donovan to stop sleeping with Anderson, partly because Anderson was clearly a twat, partly because she reminds him of Harry, in that stubborn fragile way she held herself, proved herself, destroyed herself.
(It was not unlike Harry to have regrettable sex with her married colleagues at that.)
He has no idea what will happen to Sherlock.
He’s about 60% sure the voice in his ear would happily kill everyone in London before he kills Sherlock, but this is also quite clearly a trap sat by a madman, so.
So Sherlock might go on doing whatever it was he was doing before John had met him, in a less comfortable apartment, with even less contact with real live humanity, becoming increasingly creepy, or he might have his own casket over which Mycroft will do whatever it is Holmes’ do instead of emotion.
Half the restaurant owners in the city will save a small amount of money and Mrs Hudson will empty boxes of tissues and fill the room soon enough. Lestrade will hit dead ends. Criminals who thought they were clever enough to win, will.
He doesn’t want any of that, and not just because Sherlock will never find another room mate near as mad as him.
(It was something like a week into co-habitation when Sherlock bought the violin out.
At about four thirty on an otherwise ordinary Friday morning, John was on his feet with his gun in his hand, not completely sure what had woken him up, but fairly certain someone was in pain. Then he heard the shriek rise and fall and sing into shape.
He made tea as Sherlock sawed away. It was cold, dark, quiet outside. He sat in the soft green armchair and drank his tea with his eyes closed. Forty minutes later, the sound dropped and the music is gone, just Sherlock standing there, rolling his wrist.
“You never said whether it would be a problem.”
“It’s not.”
“The gun is not for threatening me into silence, I presume?”
It’s there, at the end of his hand. He hadn’t meant it to be.
“That wouldn’t work.”
Sherlock laughed quickly, tucked the violin up under his chin.
“How do you feel about Sibelius?”)
John Watson knows he might die very soon. He knows the voice in his ear doesn’t care. He knows Sherlock just walked into the trap, yelling, like an idiot.
He knows if he’s going to die, he’s going to make it worth something.
Sherlock
Gen, violence, language
The Facts of the Matter
John stands in the change cubicle in an anorak and pounds of plastic explosive and thinks about what he knows.
He knows what a bullet does to a body. He knows what a knife does, what a lead pipe does, he knows what cholera and pnuemonia look like. He’s picked bits of car out of five different nationalities of soldier, and too many civilians.
(He knows someone’s bought the anorak for this occasion, it’s still got that new anorak smell. He wonders which highly trained member of the elite criminal organisation had to buy the anorak.)
He had wanted to come home, of course. You went to war, you came home, you lived life in the real world.
(He had known what a fist does, what boot or belt or open handed slap could do long before he joined the army.)
Of course, he had been told, it had been mentioned, the real world takes time to seem real, obviously, that was pretty much lesson one of returned servicemen’s rule book, up there with stop stacking your shoes and avoid football matches and shopping centers, they’ll only cause flashbacks.
(He still stacks his shoes. It’s just neater.)
He had wanted to come home to get away from that, to get back to what he was meant to be protecting. It’s no one’s fault but his the real world wasn’t good enough. No one made him shack up with a skinny sociopathic selective genius detective who really enjoyed crime, and wasn’t overtly fussy about which side he was on.
(He knows the anorak is for Sherlock’s sake, for some stagey moment the man behind the curtain wants to have; for what seems to pass for water cooler humour among hyper-intelligent, ultra-observant, self-obsessed nutters.)
He’s seen what bombs do. This amount of explosive is unnecessary. It’s attention seeking, it’s childish, it’s overkill, which is almost sort of funny. You can kill a man with a spoonful of semtex, if you know where to put it.
He knows with this amount of explosive, he won’t feel anything.
(That makes it a lot worse, really.)
He and Harry had played a game, when they got very drunk together after their mother’s funeral, and again after their father’s. It was the “Who would die first?” game.
Statistically, as a man and a soldier, John would probably die first, though after Dad had finally passed, it looked like Harry’s shitty impulse control evened the odds a bit. John also maintained that the universe had a sense of humour, and it was just too simple that he would die first, that Harry would probably die dramatically, unexpectedly, while giving birth to a miracle baby John would probably raise after sobbing all the things he should have said over her casket. They laughed, and then Harry fixed him with a glassy eye and said, “You fucking better.”
“Sob?”
“Raise my miracle baby, you cunt. And raise her right.”
And then they argued about genetics and gender and eventually John won because Harry threw up.
(It was a terrible game.)
He and Harry haven’t gotten drunk together for over ten years, but he knows she would remember it. He probably should have seen this particular punchline coming, to get home and then die dramatically, unexpectedly, leaving Harry to sob things onto his symbolic empty casket. She’d get drunk with guilt and fury and indignation, hit rock bottom and wallow, for a bit. Then she’d probably tearily get back together with Clara and maybe even get it right this time. He’s always liked Clara.
(Their father had told them, over and over, that they weren’t worth anything. They only sometimes didn’t believe him.)
Sarah will cry too, and probably (irrationally) feel guilty, and within a year he’ll be a story she tells, about a man she knew who died in that pool bombing.
Sarah had called him a crime fighter, which was just funny until he remembered three months of staring out his window, listening to distant sirens and crashes, waiting for something to happen. He had thought about, in vague, fantastical and easily dismissible terms, being some kind of vigilante. That kind of thought was dangerous.
(One night, on the way home from staring down a pint, 82 days after getting “home”, John had been mugged. Sort of.
“Give me your money.”
It was a kid, clearly, skinny and shaking. He didn’t even have his hands in his pockets, for god’s sake.
“Or what?”
“What?”
John raised one hand, palm up. No threat.
“My money, or what?”
The kid was twitching even more. John figured if he had to, he could incapacitate with his cane.
“Or I’ll cut you?”
The rising inflection was almost endearing.
“Right. OK. With what?”
They stood like that for a second, the kid vibrating, John holding one hand up and eyes open wide. The kid ran off. John didn’t really have any Batman daydreams after that, until he found himself vaulting rooftops.)
He wants to be more to Sarah than a vaguely depressing anecdote.
He wants to tell Donovan to stop sleeping with Anderson, partly because Anderson was clearly a twat, partly because she reminds him of Harry, in that stubborn fragile way she held herself, proved herself, destroyed herself.
(It was not unlike Harry to have regrettable sex with her married colleagues at that.)
He has no idea what will happen to Sherlock.
He’s about 60% sure the voice in his ear would happily kill everyone in London before he kills Sherlock, but this is also quite clearly a trap sat by a madman, so.
So Sherlock might go on doing whatever it was he was doing before John had met him, in a less comfortable apartment, with even less contact with real live humanity, becoming increasingly creepy, or he might have his own casket over which Mycroft will do whatever it is Holmes’ do instead of emotion.
Half the restaurant owners in the city will save a small amount of money and Mrs Hudson will empty boxes of tissues and fill the room soon enough. Lestrade will hit dead ends. Criminals who thought they were clever enough to win, will.
He doesn’t want any of that, and not just because Sherlock will never find another room mate near as mad as him.
(It was something like a week into co-habitation when Sherlock bought the violin out.
At about four thirty on an otherwise ordinary Friday morning, John was on his feet with his gun in his hand, not completely sure what had woken him up, but fairly certain someone was in pain. Then he heard the shriek rise and fall and sing into shape.
He made tea as Sherlock sawed away. It was cold, dark, quiet outside. He sat in the soft green armchair and drank his tea with his eyes closed. Forty minutes later, the sound dropped and the music is gone, just Sherlock standing there, rolling his wrist.
“You never said whether it would be a problem.”
“It’s not.”
“The gun is not for threatening me into silence, I presume?”
It’s there, at the end of his hand. He hadn’t meant it to be.
“That wouldn’t work.”
Sherlock laughed quickly, tucked the violin up under his chin.
“How do you feel about Sibelius?”)
John Watson knows he might die very soon. He knows the voice in his ear doesn’t care. He knows Sherlock just walked into the trap, yelling, like an idiot.
He knows if he’s going to die, he’s going to make it worth something.