Fic for arthurjraffles: Punch Drunk
Jun. 3rd, 2013 10:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle: Punch Drunk
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
arthurjraffles
Author:jcporter1
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John BBC
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nothing shocking, off stage violence.
Summary: After the Fall. "Love is a much more vicious motivator."
John Watson had been punching a lot of people lately. He couldn't precisely say how many, some of them were more memorable than others. Less than a dozen he was sure of that. He winced as he shoved his hand into his pants pocket to fish out his house keys; the hanging skin from his busted knuckles caught on the rough material of his jeans. Luckily the four pints of bitters and the two shots of scotch sloshing in his belly made his extremities somewhat numb. He couldn't, for instance, really feel the gash on his cheek given to him by an enthusiastic bouncer shoving his face into a brick wall, though the warmth of the blood trickling down his jaw was a nice contrast to the biting sleet that was slashing down the street.
He smiled ruefully. He had seen the last of that pub. Check another one off the London A to Z /Westminster list of “Local Pubs and Eateries”. He jabbed his key at the lock and missed the keyhole by a half inch, scoring the brass plating. John felt a spike of anger at the thought of that tall wanker that had sat next to him at the bar. Shaved head, crooked nose, fancied himself a Jason Statham look-a-like no doubt. He had a rasping voice that grated on the ears and drowned out the song from the jukebox: One Republic’s “Marching On”, a particular favourite of John’s.
“Here now! That’s you in’it?”
“Sorry, what?” John looked up, his eye’s following the other fellow’s nod.
Oh Christ.
An entertainment/news show streamed from the television over the bar. It must have been a slow news day because three months after Sherlock’s fall, they were rehashing the account of Sherlock and the monstrous muck up caused by reviewing all his cases. A still photo of John and Sherlock, wearing those ridiculous hats remained on the TV screen long enough for even the moron sitting to John’s left to notice.
“That is you!”
That was John’s cue to leave and he stood up, swaying a bit as he shrugged his coat on. The prat grabbed his arm.
“That’s your mate, that Sherlock Holmes that killed hisself? Right? Telling that whopping pack of lies. Well good riddance I …” That was as much as John would allow. Lies. That is what killed Sherlock. John couldn't stand one more word hanging in the air, pulling his friend faster to the ground. He slammed his fist square in the big, braying arse’s mouth. Split his lip. Blood was everywhere. The last John saw as the bouncer dragged him backwards toward the exit, was the great git spitting a tooth out into his palm. It gave him a warm feeling. Lies hurt people. Lies have a price.
John turned his attention back to the stubborn lock of 221b Baker Street. The chicken scratches his house key had left on the brass plate of the lock would have given him away to Sherlock with embarrassing speed.
“Hmmmm,” the deep voice practically vibrated in his ears. “Came home drunk ten times…oh…wait…twelve times. Oh, and not just drunk. Drunk and fighting. Look, John. Notice how the lock has been opened clumsily, with the left hand, and you always punch with your right hand, John. Clearly, you have damaged your dominant hand too severely to grasp your key. Tch …sentiment John.”
John’s head slammed into the ebony door of the flat, trying to dislodge the voice that was so firmly ensconced in his mind.
“Not much cop, this caring lark.” The voice was closer, if that was possible, and John fancied he could feel the wind break caused by the man standing behind him.
“No. No! Don’t you dare deduce me…” John spoke through clenched teeth, and then the door swung open and he nearly tumbled in.
Mrs. Hudson, wrapped in a pink house coat, hooked John's shoulder with her thin fingers and guided him in, letting him fall away and lean against the wall while she shut the door against the insinuating voice and turned the key in the lock. She was not afraid of John. She was the one person he never felt like punching.
"Did you lose your keys, Doctor?" Her voice was long suffering but kind, and as tired as she was from once again being awakened at midnight, she could see plainly the pain in John's sagging shoulders, and the tightness around his eyes. "Oh my, look at your hand. Come in for tea and I'll clean that up for you."
"No." Her kindness made him feel wretched. He was a drunk, ex-soldier losing his mind; fighting down impulses that would land him in prison if he succumbed to them. And now it seems, in the very real danger of vomiting all over her foyer.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. No. I shall just turn in. Sorry to wake you." He smiled without making eye contact and scrambled, nearly crawling, up the stairs to reach the loo.
“Emergency averted.”
He laughed at himself as he rested on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. After the panicked race to the toilet, nothing had come up. It was only four pints after all, and two ill-advised shots of scotch. He certainly should be able to keep that down. It was just the mixture, wasn't it, of rage, and that voice in his head. His voice.
"I always hear punch me in the face when I look at you. Only it’s usually subtext.” John said the words out loud. They echoed softly in the drain pipes, and for a cherished minute, he felt His company and they were both standing outside of Irene Adler’s house on a grey chilly afternoon. John touched the fresh cut on his cheek triggering a rush of memories. That shock from Sherlock's sucker punch, the stagger backward and the quick hot anger surging through his body as he flung himself with abandon around the slender neck of his aggravating...flatmate?...colleague?
John recalled that exhilarating sense of boundaries as his muscles twisted and flexed against Sherlock's. He could tell to the centimetre where he ended and Sherlock began. Bringing the tall, willowy bugger to his knees, making him gasp for breath as he clutched John’s forearm with strong fingers, God it had been so...
Freeing.
That's what it had been. To give voice to his emotions through action. Contact. That must be what brothers feel, when they fight, tumbling like pups. And just like two tangled adolescent hounds, they broke apart with a certain turgidity. John had let go of Sherlock’s neck when he felt his cock stirring against the ropey muscles of Sherlock's back. Sherlock had missed that. Right? Though there had been the tiniest flicker of a smile, and a flash of phosphorus in his friend's eyes as he straightened his coat and shoved the starched white priest’s collar into his open black shirt; covering that long, expanse of neck and the red rash John's coat sleeve had left.
John's busted right hand brushed comfortingly against the crotch of his pants. He didn't notice through the fog of booze. He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Of course he didn't really “always” feel like punching Sherlock. It was just a funny line to throw into an awkward situation.
There were people he felt like punching. Everyday. Sally Donovan for instance.
"I told you. Didn't I say? One day it wouldn't be enough just to solve the crimes. "
Standing right here in their flat, she had said that rubbish. To his face. His fists curled even now just to think on it. But he had never punched any girl, even Harry. That terrible night his body had been a ridged tower of rage, but he couldn't swing at her. He could only watch her smug, self-satisfied face, as she congratulated herself for bringing down the only real crime fighter in London. Then the Chief Inspector walked in, and he caught the brunt of all John's impotent frustration.
At the time John had tried to act as if that put paid to the actions of Sally Donovan, but it hadn't. He would still very much love to strike her. After what her actions caused -her suspicious, envious mind trying to pin her own inept police-work on Sherlock's reputation - John didn't trust himself to stop with just a punch to Sally's face. She had murdered Sherlock as much as Moriarty. He didn't trust himself to go anywhere near Scotland Yard for that reason. He wasn't sure what would happen if he saw that mop of hair and that turned up nose swinging down the street. He might not be able to stop himself.
Lestrade. No longer on his list. He had taken care of that a week ago. John had turned into a pub, just on a whim. Passing by on a cold grey day, the sound of a football game and shouts of the crowd lured him in. He walked into the cheerful warmth of comrades gathered for sport, and there he was. Tall, silver haired, dark eyes shining, a shout just leaving his mouth as up on a big screen TV a soccer ball was headed into a goal. John's body acted quite on its’ own. He watched numbly as his legs carried him up to the bar. His left hand crossed and rested on Lestrade's right shoulder. John turned him around. Greg had been happy to see him. His mouth formed the word "John..." and there was sincere good will in the Inspector's eyes. Then John saw something fly into his view, his own right hand, balled into a fist, landing without hesitation square on Lestrade's nose. He felt cartilage give way. The silver fox would not be as perfect after this.
Lestrade hadn't hit back. He didn't even try to block the blow. His hand covered his bleeding nose and sadness flooded his dark eyes. His free hand restrained the man next to him who was moving to grab John. Lestrade nodded once to John. John performed a perfect "about face" and walked away. The numbness gone, He could hear the roar of outrage as the crowd absorbed the shock of the attack. Greg's voice followed him out the door as the Detective Inspector calmed the mob with an excuse.
"It’s alright. I had it coming. I slept with his wife."
That punch did not bring satisfaction. As soon as John cleared the pub door, his soldier’s carriage left him and he burst into ridiculous sobs, like a five year old boy, and tears and snot had streamed down his face the whole walk home. At least he didn't hate Lestrade any more.
John staggered to his feet. He needed some water, maybe some tea. Sleep is what he should be doing, but he recoiled from the thought of staring at the ceiling for hours. He needed to be exhausted before he turned in. He padded down the hall and through the sitting room, ignoring the watchful presence that he always felt emanating from the sofa, and switched on the kitchen lights.
With the experiments gone, the kitchen seemed bigger and brighter. John had scrubbed for a full day with hospital grade disinfectant and you could safely rest your sandwich on any surface and pick it back up and eat it. He filled the kettle, pulled out two mugs from the cupboard, and was dropping a tea bag in the second mug before he noticed his mistake.
The flat felt instantly desolate until he heard the voice from the other room:
"Just tea for me."
John stared at the mug and tried to remember… Right. Because the “severed head”.
His buzz was fast becoming a headache. He needed sleep. He needed to be sleepy first.
"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.”
“John." His "stop" voice. John stopped. Of course, there were drugs. John had found them when he cleaned the kitchen. Tucked into a leather case that held some ornamental chopsticks, in the all-sorts drawer that was two down from the silverware drawer.
He put the second mug back, then opened the drawer and pulled out the chopsticks. He shook everything out on the counter. Two chopsticks, a syringe, and a little glass vial of morphine. John plucked up the syringe and looked at the tip. Last thing this had touched was Sherlock's blood, as it had mixed in its payload of peace and quiet to his racing brain. John felt reverence for its’ wicked sharpness…and something of a kinship. They had both served the same purpose, had they not? Once John had moved in, he had mostly taken the morphine’s place as pacifier of Sherlock's rocket fuelled mind.
It really was so much neater, wasn't it? A few milliliters of liquid and a nod off on the sofa in contrast to John's manic night-on-the-town; drowning himself in legal drugs and fighting the first man to set him off. Maybe Sherlock had been on to something. A simple injection and John could have the first good night’s sleep in months. (Three months and six days if you wanted to be precise.) God he needed it. Even the people at work had been complaining about his slipping performance and sudden temper. Really. This was a god send. His vision blurred as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on the tiny black numbers of the syringe. He shook his head and blinked his eyes to clear his sight and considered what would be the right amount to get him to sleep and yet still let him wake before his shift tomorrow.
The house phone rang.
John's heart thudded. Late night calls on the house phone were emergency only. He was Harry's emergency contact and he tried to convince himself that her name was the first to spring to mind when the phone rang.
He rushed across the sitting room to their...his desk, and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"John Watson."
John's hand curled around the syringe in his hand. That voice. Critical. Judgemental. Superior. Speaking his name as if identifying a chemical compound. Never John, or Doctor. Always 'John Watson'.
"Mycroft. What the fuu..." John knew if he slipped to vulgarity Mycroft would smile audibly over the phone lines. He didn't want to amuse Mycroft. He took a breath and tried again. "It's been so long, the Diogenes Club was the last time we met, wasn't it? When you asked me to save your baby brother? I couldn't help but notice that you missed the funeral."
Coward that Mycroft was, he hadn't come to the cemetery. John suspected Mycroft knew what he had in store for him. The last nose in need of realignment was Mycroft's. Even more than Sally, just as much as Jim Moriarty himself, was Mycroft's part in all this. He had given Jim all he needed to destroy Sherlock, and then stood by and let it happen. And now here he was, sneering at him through the phone lines. John's stomach knotted endangering the delicate balance his body was maintaining with the bucket of booze sloshing in his belly. John rested his thumb on the tip of the needle, just pricking skin, to focus his thoughts, and waited.
"John Watson. I'm glad I found you safe at home. I've been informed you have been trying your level best to land in goal."
"Goal? You mean jail, don't you? It’s not 1880 Mycroft. Believe me, I wish it was. Duels were legal back then, and I'm a damn fine shot."
Mycroft cleared his throat, John heard a small scrape of nervousness and he cherished it for the tiny victory that it was.
"John."
"Mycroft?" Suddenly John was close to tears and he jammed the needle in to his thumb till his breath caught from the pain.
"I have used up all my favours with the local constabulary. They have been letting you walk on these assault charges. But tonight was the last straw as it were."
"He laid hands on me first Mycroft. That was self-defence on my part. And besides, who the hell asked you to interfere? I'm a big boy Mycroft."
"I am only looking out for you John..." Mycroft realized his mistake as the words came out and he stopped.
"Oh. Yes? Right. Because that’s what your good at isn't it. I suppose I'm lucky Jim Moriarty is dead or I might be in real danger from all your help." John wanted to go on, but he had shifted the needle so sharply in the meat of his thumb that he had to stop and extract it, hissing softly from the pain.
"Yes. Well." Mycroft sounded as tired as John wished he were.
"Mycroft." John licked his lips.
"Yes, John?"
"Come and get it."
"I'm sorry? What?"
"Sher... His… violin. The Stradivarius. You said you wanted it. I'm ready to give it up now."
"Oh." Surprised silence. "Well, Yes. Fine. Thank you John. I will send a car..."
“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” The indolent voice wrapped around John. “Did you take it? We could have split the fee.”
"Nope.” John barked into the phone. “I'm not handing a priceless object over to your henchmen. You come.” John held his breath.
"Very well, then. I will stop by early, before the office. Will someone be there?" John could hear the suspicion in Mycroft's voice.
“We could have split the fee.” The voice- smelling of black coffee and cigarettes- was so close John could breath him in. “Think it through next time.”
John coughed to cover a giggle. "Well, I won't be. Here that is. I have an early shift at the clinic. But Mrs. Hudson will be, I will leave it with her."
The relief in Mycroft's voice was palpable, as would soon be his great beak of a nose. "I will say goodnight then, John. Do mind what I said, another altercation and I can't save you."
"Right. Yes. Of course. I will give the pubs a miss for a while. Goodbye Mycroft." John hung up before the glee in his voice gave him away.
This was going to be great. Oh yes! Oh yes! He punched the air three short jabs, right left right, and imagined the surprise on Mycroft's face; the sudden alarm in his beady eyes as the door opens and John is there, two steps up, grinning at him from eye level, arm cocked back for the mother and father of all punches. Oh yes. John visualized stepping forward to get momentum and swivelling his hips at the last second for extension as he threw the hardest punch in his life. Finally, all would be put paid to.
"He fell for it!" John turned to share his success with the now empty couch. The cold of the room gripped him by the ears and throat, he took two sharp breaths, and the night's ration of beer and scotch emptied out of him onto the rug. He sank to his knees and gulped air around the sudden choking lump in his throat.
Oh, yes. Mycroft would pay for all of this.
Recipient:
arthurjrafflesAuthor:
jcporter1Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John BBC
Rating: PG
Warnings: Nothing shocking, off stage violence.
Summary: After the Fall. "Love is a much more vicious motivator."
John Watson had been punching a lot of people lately. He couldn't precisely say how many, some of them were more memorable than others. Less than a dozen he was sure of that. He winced as he shoved his hand into his pants pocket to fish out his house keys; the hanging skin from his busted knuckles caught on the rough material of his jeans. Luckily the four pints of bitters and the two shots of scotch sloshing in his belly made his extremities somewhat numb. He couldn't, for instance, really feel the gash on his cheek given to him by an enthusiastic bouncer shoving his face into a brick wall, though the warmth of the blood trickling down his jaw was a nice contrast to the biting sleet that was slashing down the street.
He smiled ruefully. He had seen the last of that pub. Check another one off the London A to Z /Westminster list of “Local Pubs and Eateries”. He jabbed his key at the lock and missed the keyhole by a half inch, scoring the brass plating. John felt a spike of anger at the thought of that tall wanker that had sat next to him at the bar. Shaved head, crooked nose, fancied himself a Jason Statham look-a-like no doubt. He had a rasping voice that grated on the ears and drowned out the song from the jukebox: One Republic’s “Marching On”, a particular favourite of John’s.
“Here now! That’s you in’it?”
“Sorry, what?” John looked up, his eye’s following the other fellow’s nod.
Oh Christ.
An entertainment/news show streamed from the television over the bar. It must have been a slow news day because three months after Sherlock’s fall, they were rehashing the account of Sherlock and the monstrous muck up caused by reviewing all his cases. A still photo of John and Sherlock, wearing those ridiculous hats remained on the TV screen long enough for even the moron sitting to John’s left to notice.
“That is you!”
That was John’s cue to leave and he stood up, swaying a bit as he shrugged his coat on. The prat grabbed his arm.
“That’s your mate, that Sherlock Holmes that killed hisself? Right? Telling that whopping pack of lies. Well good riddance I …” That was as much as John would allow. Lies. That is what killed Sherlock. John couldn't stand one more word hanging in the air, pulling his friend faster to the ground. He slammed his fist square in the big, braying arse’s mouth. Split his lip. Blood was everywhere. The last John saw as the bouncer dragged him backwards toward the exit, was the great git spitting a tooth out into his palm. It gave him a warm feeling. Lies hurt people. Lies have a price.
John turned his attention back to the stubborn lock of 221b Baker Street. The chicken scratches his house key had left on the brass plate of the lock would have given him away to Sherlock with embarrassing speed.
“Hmmmm,” the deep voice practically vibrated in his ears. “Came home drunk ten times…oh…wait…twelve times. Oh, and not just drunk. Drunk and fighting. Look, John. Notice how the lock has been opened clumsily, with the left hand, and you always punch with your right hand, John. Clearly, you have damaged your dominant hand too severely to grasp your key. Tch …sentiment John.”
John’s head slammed into the ebony door of the flat, trying to dislodge the voice that was so firmly ensconced in his mind.
“Not much cop, this caring lark.” The voice was closer, if that was possible, and John fancied he could feel the wind break caused by the man standing behind him.
“No. No! Don’t you dare deduce me…” John spoke through clenched teeth, and then the door swung open and he nearly tumbled in.
Mrs. Hudson, wrapped in a pink house coat, hooked John's shoulder with her thin fingers and guided him in, letting him fall away and lean against the wall while she shut the door against the insinuating voice and turned the key in the lock. She was not afraid of John. She was the one person he never felt like punching.
"Did you lose your keys, Doctor?" Her voice was long suffering but kind, and as tired as she was from once again being awakened at midnight, she could see plainly the pain in John's sagging shoulders, and the tightness around his eyes. "Oh my, look at your hand. Come in for tea and I'll clean that up for you."
"No." Her kindness made him feel wretched. He was a drunk, ex-soldier losing his mind; fighting down impulses that would land him in prison if he succumbed to them. And now it seems, in the very real danger of vomiting all over her foyer.
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. No. I shall just turn in. Sorry to wake you." He smiled without making eye contact and scrambled, nearly crawling, up the stairs to reach the loo.
“Emergency averted.”
He laughed at himself as he rested on the cold tile of the bathroom floor. After the panicked race to the toilet, nothing had come up. It was only four pints after all, and two ill-advised shots of scotch. He certainly should be able to keep that down. It was just the mixture, wasn't it, of rage, and that voice in his head. His voice.
"I always hear punch me in the face when I look at you. Only it’s usually subtext.” John said the words out loud. They echoed softly in the drain pipes, and for a cherished minute, he felt His company and they were both standing outside of Irene Adler’s house on a grey chilly afternoon. John touched the fresh cut on his cheek triggering a rush of memories. That shock from Sherlock's sucker punch, the stagger backward and the quick hot anger surging through his body as he flung himself with abandon around the slender neck of his aggravating...flatmate?...colleague?
John recalled that exhilarating sense of boundaries as his muscles twisted and flexed against Sherlock's. He could tell to the centimetre where he ended and Sherlock began. Bringing the tall, willowy bugger to his knees, making him gasp for breath as he clutched John’s forearm with strong fingers, God it had been so...
Freeing.
That's what it had been. To give voice to his emotions through action. Contact. That must be what brothers feel, when they fight, tumbling like pups. And just like two tangled adolescent hounds, they broke apart with a certain turgidity. John had let go of Sherlock’s neck when he felt his cock stirring against the ropey muscles of Sherlock's back. Sherlock had missed that. Right? Though there had been the tiniest flicker of a smile, and a flash of phosphorus in his friend's eyes as he straightened his coat and shoved the starched white priest’s collar into his open black shirt; covering that long, expanse of neck and the red rash John's coat sleeve had left.
John's busted right hand brushed comfortingly against the crotch of his pants. He didn't notice through the fog of booze. He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes.
Of course he didn't really “always” feel like punching Sherlock. It was just a funny line to throw into an awkward situation.
There were people he felt like punching. Everyday. Sally Donovan for instance.
"I told you. Didn't I say? One day it wouldn't be enough just to solve the crimes. "
Standing right here in their flat, she had said that rubbish. To his face. His fists curled even now just to think on it. But he had never punched any girl, even Harry. That terrible night his body had been a ridged tower of rage, but he couldn't swing at her. He could only watch her smug, self-satisfied face, as she congratulated herself for bringing down the only real crime fighter in London. Then the Chief Inspector walked in, and he caught the brunt of all John's impotent frustration.
At the time John had tried to act as if that put paid to the actions of Sally Donovan, but it hadn't. He would still very much love to strike her. After what her actions caused -her suspicious, envious mind trying to pin her own inept police-work on Sherlock's reputation - John didn't trust himself to stop with just a punch to Sally's face. She had murdered Sherlock as much as Moriarty. He didn't trust himself to go anywhere near Scotland Yard for that reason. He wasn't sure what would happen if he saw that mop of hair and that turned up nose swinging down the street. He might not be able to stop himself.
Lestrade. No longer on his list. He had taken care of that a week ago. John had turned into a pub, just on a whim. Passing by on a cold grey day, the sound of a football game and shouts of the crowd lured him in. He walked into the cheerful warmth of comrades gathered for sport, and there he was. Tall, silver haired, dark eyes shining, a shout just leaving his mouth as up on a big screen TV a soccer ball was headed into a goal. John's body acted quite on its’ own. He watched numbly as his legs carried him up to the bar. His left hand crossed and rested on Lestrade's right shoulder. John turned him around. Greg had been happy to see him. His mouth formed the word "John..." and there was sincere good will in the Inspector's eyes. Then John saw something fly into his view, his own right hand, balled into a fist, landing without hesitation square on Lestrade's nose. He felt cartilage give way. The silver fox would not be as perfect after this.
Lestrade hadn't hit back. He didn't even try to block the blow. His hand covered his bleeding nose and sadness flooded his dark eyes. His free hand restrained the man next to him who was moving to grab John. Lestrade nodded once to John. John performed a perfect "about face" and walked away. The numbness gone, He could hear the roar of outrage as the crowd absorbed the shock of the attack. Greg's voice followed him out the door as the Detective Inspector calmed the mob with an excuse.
"It’s alright. I had it coming. I slept with his wife."
That punch did not bring satisfaction. As soon as John cleared the pub door, his soldier’s carriage left him and he burst into ridiculous sobs, like a five year old boy, and tears and snot had streamed down his face the whole walk home. At least he didn't hate Lestrade any more.
John staggered to his feet. He needed some water, maybe some tea. Sleep is what he should be doing, but he recoiled from the thought of staring at the ceiling for hours. He needed to be exhausted before he turned in. He padded down the hall and through the sitting room, ignoring the watchful presence that he always felt emanating from the sofa, and switched on the kitchen lights.
With the experiments gone, the kitchen seemed bigger and brighter. John had scrubbed for a full day with hospital grade disinfectant and you could safely rest your sandwich on any surface and pick it back up and eat it. He filled the kettle, pulled out two mugs from the cupboard, and was dropping a tea bag in the second mug before he noticed his mistake.
The flat felt instantly desolate until he heard the voice from the other room:
"Just tea for me."
John stared at the mug and tried to remember… Right. Because the “severed head”.
His buzz was fast becoming a headache. He needed sleep. He needed to be sleepy first.
"I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational.”
“John." His "stop" voice. John stopped. Of course, there were drugs. John had found them when he cleaned the kitchen. Tucked into a leather case that held some ornamental chopsticks, in the all-sorts drawer that was two down from the silverware drawer.
He put the second mug back, then opened the drawer and pulled out the chopsticks. He shook everything out on the counter. Two chopsticks, a syringe, and a little glass vial of morphine. John plucked up the syringe and looked at the tip. Last thing this had touched was Sherlock's blood, as it had mixed in its payload of peace and quiet to his racing brain. John felt reverence for its’ wicked sharpness…and something of a kinship. They had both served the same purpose, had they not? Once John had moved in, he had mostly taken the morphine’s place as pacifier of Sherlock's rocket fuelled mind.
It really was so much neater, wasn't it? A few milliliters of liquid and a nod off on the sofa in contrast to John's manic night-on-the-town; drowning himself in legal drugs and fighting the first man to set him off. Maybe Sherlock had been on to something. A simple injection and John could have the first good night’s sleep in months. (Three months and six days if you wanted to be precise.) God he needed it. Even the people at work had been complaining about his slipping performance and sudden temper. Really. This was a god send. His vision blurred as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on the tiny black numbers of the syringe. He shook his head and blinked his eyes to clear his sight and considered what would be the right amount to get him to sleep and yet still let him wake before his shift tomorrow.
The house phone rang.
John's heart thudded. Late night calls on the house phone were emergency only. He was Harry's emergency contact and he tried to convince himself that her name was the first to spring to mind when the phone rang.
He rushed across the sitting room to their...his desk, and picked up the receiver.
"Hello?"
"John Watson."
John's hand curled around the syringe in his hand. That voice. Critical. Judgemental. Superior. Speaking his name as if identifying a chemical compound. Never John, or Doctor. Always 'John Watson'.
"Mycroft. What the fuu..." John knew if he slipped to vulgarity Mycroft would smile audibly over the phone lines. He didn't want to amuse Mycroft. He took a breath and tried again. "It's been so long, the Diogenes Club was the last time we met, wasn't it? When you asked me to save your baby brother? I couldn't help but notice that you missed the funeral."
Coward that Mycroft was, he hadn't come to the cemetery. John suspected Mycroft knew what he had in store for him. The last nose in need of realignment was Mycroft's. Even more than Sally, just as much as Jim Moriarty himself, was Mycroft's part in all this. He had given Jim all he needed to destroy Sherlock, and then stood by and let it happen. And now here he was, sneering at him through the phone lines. John's stomach knotted endangering the delicate balance his body was maintaining with the bucket of booze sloshing in his belly. John rested his thumb on the tip of the needle, just pricking skin, to focus his thoughts, and waited.
"John Watson. I'm glad I found you safe at home. I've been informed you have been trying your level best to land in goal."
"Goal? You mean jail, don't you? It’s not 1880 Mycroft. Believe me, I wish it was. Duels were legal back then, and I'm a damn fine shot."
Mycroft cleared his throat, John heard a small scrape of nervousness and he cherished it for the tiny victory that it was.
"John."
"Mycroft?" Suddenly John was close to tears and he jammed the needle in to his thumb till his breath caught from the pain.
"I have used up all my favours with the local constabulary. They have been letting you walk on these assault charges. But tonight was the last straw as it were."
"He laid hands on me first Mycroft. That was self-defence on my part. And besides, who the hell asked you to interfere? I'm a big boy Mycroft."
"I am only looking out for you John..." Mycroft realized his mistake as the words came out and he stopped.
"Oh. Yes? Right. Because that’s what your good at isn't it. I suppose I'm lucky Jim Moriarty is dead or I might be in real danger from all your help." John wanted to go on, but he had shifted the needle so sharply in the meat of his thumb that he had to stop and extract it, hissing softly from the pain.
"Yes. Well." Mycroft sounded as tired as John wished he were.
"Mycroft." John licked his lips.
"Yes, John?"
"Come and get it."
"I'm sorry? What?"
"Sher... His… violin. The Stradivarius. You said you wanted it. I'm ready to give it up now."
"Oh." Surprised silence. "Well, Yes. Fine. Thank you John. I will send a car..."
“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” The indolent voice wrapped around John. “Did you take it? We could have split the fee.”
"Nope.” John barked into the phone. “I'm not handing a priceless object over to your henchmen. You come.” John held his breath.
"Very well, then. I will stop by early, before the office. Will someone be there?" John could hear the suspicion in Mycroft's voice.
“We could have split the fee.” The voice- smelling of black coffee and cigarettes- was so close John could breath him in. “Think it through next time.”
John coughed to cover a giggle. "Well, I won't be. Here that is. I have an early shift at the clinic. But Mrs. Hudson will be, I will leave it with her."
The relief in Mycroft's voice was palpable, as would soon be his great beak of a nose. "I will say goodnight then, John. Do mind what I said, another altercation and I can't save you."
"Right. Yes. Of course. I will give the pubs a miss for a while. Goodbye Mycroft." John hung up before the glee in his voice gave him away.
This was going to be great. Oh yes! Oh yes! He punched the air three short jabs, right left right, and imagined the surprise on Mycroft's face; the sudden alarm in his beady eyes as the door opens and John is there, two steps up, grinning at him from eye level, arm cocked back for the mother and father of all punches. Oh yes. John visualized stepping forward to get momentum and swivelling his hips at the last second for extension as he threw the hardest punch in his life. Finally, all would be put paid to.
"He fell for it!" John turned to share his success with the now empty couch. The cold of the room gripped him by the ears and throat, he took two sharp breaths, and the night's ration of beer and scotch emptied out of him onto the rug. He sank to his knees and gulped air around the sudden choking lump in his throat.
Oh, yes. Mycroft would pay for all of this.
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Date: 2013-06-05 03:39 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-07-11 03:23 pm (UTC)DOUGLAS: Little flashing warning light, Captain. Anti-icing the starboard wing. Declaring itself rabbit of negative euphoria.
MARTIN: What?
DOUGLAS: Not a happy bunny.
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Date: 2013-06-07 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-07-02 09:30 pm (UTC)...the watchful presence that he always felt emanating from the sofa...
This is such a wonderful description. One of so many lines that put us inside John's head and let us feel the battle going on in there to not succumb completely to the intense grief and rage.
A powerful story. Thank you.
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Date: 2013-07-11 11:25 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-07-11 07:31 pm (UTC)This sums up one of the major differences between Sherlock and other interpretations of the ACD stories. Sherlock is much darker and puts all the characters in much more emotionally intense and conflicting situations and John is the most severely tested of all. Being a doctor and surviving war and its injuries were appropriate training for what he had to face essentially alone.