First Do No Harm - kcsakura - Sherlock. Had one asked Dr.
John H. Watson about his work as a G.P. Locum in a small clinic run by one Dr. The Doctor Is Out - violet tinted pencil (violet_pencil) - Sherlock (TV. It started with a dream that John had one night, after his return to England but before he'd met Sherlock Holmes.
When John was a kid he'd had a dog, an English bulldog named (for some mysterious reason that no one in John's family was ever really able to recall) Gladstone. And in the dream John was a dog, and somehow he knew that he was Gladstone, curled up on the old red rug in front of the heater, in the living room of the house that John had grown up in.
Occasionally he would hear footsteps, or voices in distant rooms, but he couldn't make out words; it was just soothing noise. It didn't really matter, wasn't worrisome or urgent. He was hungry, a little, but he knew that eventually there would be food, and then maybe he would go out outside and run in the soft grass. The dream was calm and unhurried, the world was small and manageable, and the best part was that it seemed to go on and on for absolutely ages. That dreadful overflowing sound - Chapter 1 - belovedmuerto - Sherlock. Chapter Text Chapter 1: Sherlock He doesn’t so much wake up as regain some semblance of consciousness.
Enough, anyway, to know that he’s not fully cognizant and that something is very, very wrong. In sickness and in health - belovedmuerto - Sherlock. John waves it off as 'just a headache' for two days.
Sherlock allows him the deception; he doesn't voice the things he observes in his bond-mate during that time: the slightly glassy eyes, the way he sweats in his sleep as the fever he won’t admit to spikes, the periods of vacant staring, and most important, the spikes of emotion that stab into him at random intervals. H(a)unted - belovedmuerto - Sherlock. His dreams are dark and confused.
He is running from something, being hunted, but he doesn’t know what or why. He is angry and afraid, but he doesn’t know why or of what. The dreams are dark, he cannot see anything. Yet he keeps running, blind and panicked. Sherlock is slow to extricate himself from the dream pulling at him. There’s no answer. “John?” The room is dark, no light seeping in around the curtains or from the bathroom or hallway, so it’s hard to make out the shape of John, sat on the edge of the bed. Swamped - belovedmuerto - Sherlock. Sherlock pulls John further into the alley, stumbling with the force of the painterrorpain that floods through him.
He pulls John into the shadowed recess of a doorway, tugs him close, closer, until they’re pressed together from knee to shoulder. John is panting against his collarbone, making tiny noises of pain that he doesn’t seem aware of; Sherlock can feel each humid exhalation through his shirt, a small link to reality. He clamps a hand tight around John’s nape, to hold him close, to strengthen their link, to try and let John know that he’s here. This has never happened before. John has never had this strong a reaction to a crime scene. “John?” Those small sounds of pain are still escaping John’s throat. An Experiment in Apathy - belovedmuerto - Sherlock.
An Experiment in Empathy - belovedmuerto - Sherlock. Blood Brothers - 221b_hound - Sherlock. Not The Hands That Kill - You_Light_The_Sky - Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms. To be wingless is to be nobody.
Even Sherlock knows this when he is six years old, staring out of the window of their family’s limo, looking at the grubby looking, (naked, that’s what the slang dictates them to be) homeless that blend into the pavement and backdrop of street corners that they pass. They are the failures of society, Mycroft (wings the deepest black, lined with blue, that he’s ever seen) often tells him, and they are the ones who allowed their mental health and aspirations to dwindle into nothing, until their wings moulted and fell apart, leaving behind (disgusting) bare backs.
Sherlock shivers in the backseat when he thinks of this fate. He never wants it. His wings are beautiful, pure black like the shine of a raven’s feathers. Into Oblivion - clarinetchica - Sherlock. Flashback - Besina - Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms. “John?”
Sherlock's voice came from very far off. John was dimly aware that he was sitting in the far corner of the sitting room, shaking, but that isn't what he saw. He was very clearly in the middle of a combat zone, explosions hitting about every ten feet. A strangely familiar-looking enemy was approaching. John's gun was out and directed at him within seconds. John squeezed his eyes shut for a fraction of a second and shook his head sharply. John twitched the barrel of the gun, lifting his chin in a sharp gesture, “Back off. The insurgent/Sherlock backed across the room/compound. John raised his other grimy arm to swipe the sweat and blood from his forehead. “John? A faint outline of the apartment briefly overlaid that of the desert, disappearing as quickly as it had come.
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