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. Sarah Sawyer, he would have answered that it passed the time. Lots of ‘Flu, lots of sniffles—the usual. And that would be that. Had one asked Dr. John would huff and puff, and swear and mutter, and delight in telling anyone who listened what a horrible patient the world’s only consulting detective was. “I told you to stay off of that ankle last week, Sherlock,” he would say. And Sherlock, high and mighty Sherlock, taker of nothing from anyone, would have the decency to look the tiniest bit abashed at that. Those were the good times--the peaceful lulls, where John could inspect his handiwork in the health of his patient’s body. There are other times, though.
The War Doctor, Sherlock once called him, after sulking his way through a Doctor Who session. This is the War Doctor of legend throughout New Scotland Yard, and much of St. But there is another facet to John H. 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. He didn't have anywhere to go, really, so he would run just to run, stretch his muscles, feel the wind on his face. John had never told his therapist about that particular dream, thank god. And something... clicks. 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. Enough to realize, after several minutes of bleary examinations of his surroundings, that he’s in hospital, and that John is not next to him, where he belongs.
Sherlock feels as though something is missing. He can feel his toes as well, but he doesn’t trust that sensation. Relief floods through him. The sense that something is missing doesn’t abate, though, and he slips back into the darkness still wondering what it is that’s gone, and grieving its loss because he knows it is vitally important. The next time he comes to, John's name is on his lips and Mycroft is sat in a chair next to his bed, directly in Sherlock’s line of sight. The oxygen mask probably ruins the glare a bit. Sherlock is still in a lot of pain, but he’s aware enough this time to begin to notice things.
Sherlock sighs. 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. He doesn't think John's even aware of them. He doesn’t think John has noticed the way Sherlock reacts every time it happens, with barely muffled sounds of pain and wincing, and that worries him. John doesn’t have his powers of observation, but he does notice things. He always notices things about Sherlock. He doesn’t even seem to notice Sherlock’s worry about all this, and that’s the strangest thing of all, considering how deep in each other’s heads they are.
The next day finds them at Scotland Yard doing paperwork, in Lestrade's office despite the DI's protests. "John, you all right? " "Hmm? "Right. " "John. " It hurts. 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. Even once he’s realized he’s dreaming he has a hard time letting go of it, has a hard time waking himself up. 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. John doesn’t move or acknowledge him. “John?” John’s skin is cool to the touch, like he’s been sat on the side of the bed in just his pants, in the chill air--christ, it’s gone three in the morning--of their room for hours. “John, please,” he murmurs, close to John’s ear, chin over his shoulder, stroking his hand down John’s back. “What’s wrong?” 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. Sherlock wraps his other arm around John’s waist, holding him up, keeping him standing, keeping him anchored while stuck in the maelstrom of pain and confusion that swirls around them both.
He doesn’t speak, there’s no need, no use to it right now. “Shh,” Sherlock soothes. 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. They stretch down to his knees and Mycroft assures him that they will continue to grow until he is an adult, until he is ready to fly. His wings are special, one of the few that are completely coloured. The Carl Powers case happens. What happened? 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.
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