Mission In Action
Aug. 9th, 2010 11:18 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moose_mcmooseTitle: Missing In Action
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,316
Summary: A somewhat depressing aftermath of the ending of The Great Game. Mostly Watson focussed but Watson only ever focusses on Sherlock.
Warning: Spoilers from The Great Game
Mrs Hudson padded into the kitchen, a gleaming silver try clasped in her delicate hands.
He would hasten a guess that it was Victorian, judging by the curving, ornate styling of the handles. Possibly solid silver, judging by the way Mrs Hudson's hands were trembling under the strain of its weight, even with only one mug of tea placed upon it. And definitely not overly used, judging by the cleanliness, the lack of wear on the underside, and the lack of cup rings on the surface.
It was these sorts of things that John never used to notice. There was never much call for knowing your antiques in Afghanistan.
It's the sympathy silverware, he deduces, using Mrs Hudson's kindly old smile on her face when she settles the tray onto the mucky table and pops the cup onto the coaster as firm evidence. The extra digestive she has slid onto a plate also helps to re-affirm his suspicions.
"Fresh from the shop this morning." She grins vividly, and pats him on the shoulder.
He can only muster a half-hearted 'thank you', which only makes him more disappointed with himself in not being able to even appreciate the simple yet kind offering. He sips his tea, the strength just right, the amount of sugar making the whole concoction deliciously sweet, but he can't really concentrate, not with Mrs Hudson standing, almost leering, in the doorway.
"It's lovely Mrs Hudson." He lifts the cup to the air slightly. "Thank you."
"I'll bring some food up for your lunch later."
He waited for the tapping of her fragile steps making their way down the stairs before he rummaged around in the drawers of the bookcase. As much as he loved the sweet twist of the tea, his current situation called for something a little punchier. He dribbled a healthy dose of booze into the mug and popped the bottle back into its darkened hiding place. Drinking while on pain medication wasn't recommended by either his General Practitioner nor his therapist, but in the three months since Sherlock had disappeared off the face of the earth, it was the only thing that seemed to help.
He cleans out the mug and settles on the sofa to sleep.
***********************************************************************************************************************
The council were planning to raise the tax, so the letter said. An extra £15 pounds on the yearly bills for a Mr J. H. Watson and a Mr S. Holmes.
John calculates how much he needs to put aside. On his current wage it will be a tad on the tight side, but he has a comfortable sum of savings stored away. He could plunder those when necessary.
He'll keep paying until Sherlock returns.
Because there is no conceivable notion in his mind where Sherlock won't return.
***********************************************************************************************************************
He can't seem to escape the noise, the pollution, the unbearable snaking fumes of gunpowder in his nostrils. It's in his hair, on his clothes, absorbed into his skin.
He scrubs his clothes until every thread is heavy with water and foam. He scrapes his scalp until it's raw and fresh. He cleanses his body until his skin is red and angry.
But it returns with crushing inevitability.
Tonight, John sits wearily in the bath, pouring bath gel on his flannel for what is probably the fifth time. His clothes are whizzing around in the washing machine for the second time today. He barely notices the almost pneumatic whirring of the machine any more. It's blended into a background fuzz, a distant soundtrack for his apartment living. It's only when Mrs Hudson pokes the ceiling with her broom and, in her pleasingly sympathetic tone, asks him, if he could be so kind, to turn it off, that he notices how much the thing actually vibrates along the floor.
But there is no timid thud on the floor this evening.
So he lets it run its merry dance along the floorboards and pours another stinging jug of hot water over his back, squeezing another dollop of shampoo into his reddened, trembling hands.
**********************************************************************************************************************
His therapist claims she can see the signs that he is starting to limp again.
"I'm not."
She shoots him that look. That 'come-on-John-don't-bullshit-you're-not-fooling-anyone" look. It's been a regulation look for her since he got back from service, more so since the explosion at the pool.
"I'm not."
"John."
"Are you a physiotherapist now?"
"You're being defensive."
He clamps his palms together, the sweat on one bodes with the sweat on the other. "I'm not being defensive. I'm stating a fact." He gestures around his chair. "I haven't use my stick in months." A lie. Three nights ago, a particularly shoddy night's sleep followed by the overwhelming urge to use the facilities. His leg didn't cooperate.
"That doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt."
"So I declare I don't use my stick, I limp. I use my stick, I limp. Is there any option where I don't?"
"If that's the truth, then yes."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me what you're feeling right now."
He begins to speak, but his breath falters in his throat. It's a basic question with plenty of simple answers. He could say he was cold. The air conditioning within the office was clearly broken. He could say he was in desperate need of a drink, but that would probably throw up more questions than help his cause.
Then he thinks of Sherlock, or the distinct lack of. Then he thinks about what he felt when Sherlock was around. Elation, intrigue, exasperation, frustration, amazement, beguilement, respect, anger, fear, danger.....something. Positive or negative, it was something. Even after all the human heads in the fridge, the chemically stained clothing, the lack of sleep, the lack of proper food, the bizarre moods swings....it was something.
Now, as he sits in a grotesquely uncomfortable plastic chair, his left hand grabbing his thigh to keep from trembling, he realises that, without Sherlock, he feels nothing.
"Cold." He blurts out dryly.
***************************************************************************************************************************
He remembers carving out a rugged path with his hands. The crumbling stone sticking to his bloodied fingers, his fingernails crammed with dirt and bits of dust. He doesn't know what happened to Moriarty, nor does he care. It's Sherlock he wants to find.
He staggered upwards onto his wobbly feet, his stance buckling through a combination of fear and pure adrenaline. To his left, three flopping bodies hung lifelessly over a crest of rubble, their faces hanging in odd angles, their legs akimbo over what used to be the pool roof. To his right were another two, one undeniably crushed under a section of wall with a hand poking out from beneath the brickwork. There was a hole where Moriarty should have been. John, using his recently under used well of cautious optimism, hoped that Moriarty had been blown to smithereens. The bastard had deserved it.
He peeled back some smaller debris, his shoulder protesting wildly as he did so, trying in vain to locate Sherlock, hoping for a flash of that curly, dark mane. All he was faced with was chipped tiles and more rubble.
"Sherlock!" He kicked a brick from beneath his feet. "Sherlock!"
Brick by brick by brick by brick by brick.
He looked.
Brick by brick by brick by brick by brick.
It was only after Lestrade pulled him back, insisting he got into an ambulance after pointing out there was blood all over his shirt, that did he even consider to stop.
It's when he stops looking that it stops, and he bolts awake in his bed.
Just another repetition, another cycle, another nightmare. The ones that make his sheets stick to him like tissue paper and his body tremble like a withered leaf.
John curls a hand over his face and takes a deep breath.
He wonders how much more of this not knowing he can take.
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,316
Summary: A somewhat depressing aftermath of the ending of The Great Game. Mostly Watson focussed but Watson only ever focusses on Sherlock.
Warning: Spoilers from The Great Game
Mrs Hudson padded into the kitchen, a gleaming silver try clasped in her delicate hands.
He would hasten a guess that it was Victorian, judging by the curving, ornate styling of the handles. Possibly solid silver, judging by the way Mrs Hudson's hands were trembling under the strain of its weight, even with only one mug of tea placed upon it. And definitely not overly used, judging by the cleanliness, the lack of wear on the underside, and the lack of cup rings on the surface.
It was these sorts of things that John never used to notice. There was never much call for knowing your antiques in Afghanistan.
It's the sympathy silverware, he deduces, using Mrs Hudson's kindly old smile on her face when she settles the tray onto the mucky table and pops the cup onto the coaster as firm evidence. The extra digestive she has slid onto a plate also helps to re-affirm his suspicions.
"Fresh from the shop this morning." She grins vividly, and pats him on the shoulder.
He can only muster a half-hearted 'thank you', which only makes him more disappointed with himself in not being able to even appreciate the simple yet kind offering. He sips his tea, the strength just right, the amount of sugar making the whole concoction deliciously sweet, but he can't really concentrate, not with Mrs Hudson standing, almost leering, in the doorway.
"It's lovely Mrs Hudson." He lifts the cup to the air slightly. "Thank you."
"I'll bring some food up for your lunch later."
He waited for the tapping of her fragile steps making their way down the stairs before he rummaged around in the drawers of the bookcase. As much as he loved the sweet twist of the tea, his current situation called for something a little punchier. He dribbled a healthy dose of booze into the mug and popped the bottle back into its darkened hiding place. Drinking while on pain medication wasn't recommended by either his General Practitioner nor his therapist, but in the three months since Sherlock had disappeared off the face of the earth, it was the only thing that seemed to help.
He cleans out the mug and settles on the sofa to sleep.
***********************************************************************************************************************
The council were planning to raise the tax, so the letter said. An extra £15 pounds on the yearly bills for a Mr J. H. Watson and a Mr S. Holmes.
John calculates how much he needs to put aside. On his current wage it will be a tad on the tight side, but he has a comfortable sum of savings stored away. He could plunder those when necessary.
He'll keep paying until Sherlock returns.
Because there is no conceivable notion in his mind where Sherlock won't return.
***********************************************************************************************************************
He can't seem to escape the noise, the pollution, the unbearable snaking fumes of gunpowder in his nostrils. It's in his hair, on his clothes, absorbed into his skin.
He scrubs his clothes until every thread is heavy with water and foam. He scrapes his scalp until it's raw and fresh. He cleanses his body until his skin is red and angry.
But it returns with crushing inevitability.
Tonight, John sits wearily in the bath, pouring bath gel on his flannel for what is probably the fifth time. His clothes are whizzing around in the washing machine for the second time today. He barely notices the almost pneumatic whirring of the machine any more. It's blended into a background fuzz, a distant soundtrack for his apartment living. It's only when Mrs Hudson pokes the ceiling with her broom and, in her pleasingly sympathetic tone, asks him, if he could be so kind, to turn it off, that he notices how much the thing actually vibrates along the floor.
But there is no timid thud on the floor this evening.
So he lets it run its merry dance along the floorboards and pours another stinging jug of hot water over his back, squeezing another dollop of shampoo into his reddened, trembling hands.
**********************************************************************************************************************
His therapist claims she can see the signs that he is starting to limp again.
"I'm not."
She shoots him that look. That 'come-on-John-don't-bullshit-you're-not-fooling-anyone" look. It's been a regulation look for her since he got back from service, more so since the explosion at the pool.
"I'm not."
"John."
"Are you a physiotherapist now?"
"You're being defensive."
He clamps his palms together, the sweat on one bodes with the sweat on the other. "I'm not being defensive. I'm stating a fact." He gestures around his chair. "I haven't use my stick in months." A lie. Three nights ago, a particularly shoddy night's sleep followed by the overwhelming urge to use the facilities. His leg didn't cooperate.
"That doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt."
"So I declare I don't use my stick, I limp. I use my stick, I limp. Is there any option where I don't?"
"If that's the truth, then yes."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me what you're feeling right now."
He begins to speak, but his breath falters in his throat. It's a basic question with plenty of simple answers. He could say he was cold. The air conditioning within the office was clearly broken. He could say he was in desperate need of a drink, but that would probably throw up more questions than help his cause.
Then he thinks of Sherlock, or the distinct lack of. Then he thinks about what he felt when Sherlock was around. Elation, intrigue, exasperation, frustration, amazement, beguilement, respect, anger, fear, danger.....something. Positive or negative, it was something. Even after all the human heads in the fridge, the chemically stained clothing, the lack of sleep, the lack of proper food, the bizarre moods swings....it was something.
Now, as he sits in a grotesquely uncomfortable plastic chair, his left hand grabbing his thigh to keep from trembling, he realises that, without Sherlock, he feels nothing.
"Cold." He blurts out dryly.
***************************************************************************************************************************
He remembers carving out a rugged path with his hands. The crumbling stone sticking to his bloodied fingers, his fingernails crammed with dirt and bits of dust. He doesn't know what happened to Moriarty, nor does he care. It's Sherlock he wants to find.
He staggered upwards onto his wobbly feet, his stance buckling through a combination of fear and pure adrenaline. To his left, three flopping bodies hung lifelessly over a crest of rubble, their faces hanging in odd angles, their legs akimbo over what used to be the pool roof. To his right were another two, one undeniably crushed under a section of wall with a hand poking out from beneath the brickwork. There was a hole where Moriarty should have been. John, using his recently under used well of cautious optimism, hoped that Moriarty had been blown to smithereens. The bastard had deserved it.
He peeled back some smaller debris, his shoulder protesting wildly as he did so, trying in vain to locate Sherlock, hoping for a flash of that curly, dark mane. All he was faced with was chipped tiles and more rubble.
"Sherlock!" He kicked a brick from beneath his feet. "Sherlock!"
Brick by brick by brick by brick by brick.
He looked.
Brick by brick by brick by brick by brick.
It was only after Lestrade pulled him back, insisting he got into an ambulance after pointing out there was blood all over his shirt, that did he even consider to stop.
It's when he stops looking that it stops, and he bolts awake in his bed.
Just another repetition, another cycle, another nightmare. The ones that make his sheets stick to him like tissue paper and his body tremble like a withered leaf.
John curls a hand over his face and takes a deep breath.
He wonders how much more of this not knowing he can take.
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no subject
Date: 09/08/2010 10:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 10/08/2010 12:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 10/08/2010 12:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 10/08/2010 12:31 pm (UTC)I'm not sure how much more of it I an take either!
no subject
Date: 26/08/2010 01:41 pm (UTC)Laura.
Sherlock Fic Recs!
Date: 01/09/2010 12:11 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 17/09/2010 10:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 17/09/2010 10:17 pm (UTC)Thanks for the lovely comment. Makes up for the pointless, derpy, pingback bot above. Grrrrumbles.
no subject
Date: 25/09/2010 01:04 pm (UTC)