Sherlock BBC Fanfic

by spinner

The Plan Goes Awry

1

“Ah.  Good.  Dr. Watson is here.”

Mycroft dangled the words carefully, like offering a favorite treat to an unmanageable child in the hopes of procuring obedience in return.  If the words sank through the fog that surrounded Sherlock, then Mycroft could stop worrying.  

The elder Holmes moved away from the hospital bed, and walked to the window, putting his back to the pair as Watson raced to Sherlock’s bedside and panicked anxiously for only a moment before pulling himself together again. 

Mycroft studied their ghostly reflections, leaning on his hands on the window sill. 

Sherlock flinched at the intrusion into his personal space when John grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position.   For a moment, it was touch and go whether Watson was going to scream at Sherlock or start shaking him violently.  Who knew which? 

“Sherlock, I was worried.  I searched everywhere for you,” Watson insisted.  He folded his arms around the younger Holmes in a brief hug that was tastefully-public but which spoke volumes.  Mycroft allowed himself a discrete smile.    

Watson cocked an eye at Mycroft’s back, and slowly released Sherlock, but not without a subtle caress to his dark locks and the hint of a stroke to his bruised cheek.  Dr. Watson was summing the patient up with a practiced eye.  It was safe for Mycroft to turn around again.

“Do you hear that?  Dr. Watson was worried too.  Three bloody days, Sherlock.  Have you nothing to say for yourself?” Mycroft boomed.  The results were beyond tremendous.  Another terrified flinch from Sherlock was enough to make Watson start oozing concern, like when a sponge is squeezed and it divests its contents everywhere.

“Let me have a look at you, yes?  Make sure you’re all right.  Remember, I am a doctor, a very good doctor,” John murmured. 

Sherlock blinked slowly, like a torpid reptile, and used one hand to push Watson away from himself before collapsing back to the bed and folding up on one side.   Even numbed to the gills, Sherlock could sulk, bless him.  Mycroft smirked.  John frowned.  The doctor took one of Sherlock’s slender wrists into his grip, checked his pulse while checking his arm for needle marks.  Then he checked the dilation of Sherlock’s pupils while judging the bruise pattern on his face. 

“No needle marks” Mycroft murmured to Watson, high above Sherlock’s head.  “I did look, you know?  Be careful of his ribs.”

Dr. Watson made the most solicitous sound of pity, one hand sliding down to Sherlock’s bandaged left side.   Sherlock yelped, out of reflex or fright but certainly not out of pain.  Watson nearly cried with sympathy. 

Mycroft stifled a smile.  Yes, everything was going to be fine now.   The doctor would fuss over the patient, and the mystery of three missing days would be solved soon enough.  He could stop worrying.  He could phone Mummy and promise her that the lost lamb was in the fold once more, safe and sound. 

“I really must be off,” the elder Holmes commented.  “Places to go, people to follow.  I will check in on you again this evening, Sherlock.  Can I expect I will find you here??”

Mycroft stole quickly from the room, but not without a backwards glance.  Sherlock centered a disorganized gaze on him, one eye slightly more forward than the other for a brief second.   The steely eyes came together in focus, and the younger brother growled under his breath.  Mycroft grinned at Sherlock, and closed the door tightly.

Sherlock’s spider-like fingers were crawling up the covers, tugging them away from his body as he sat up most unsteadily. 

“You’re going to need trousers, if a prompt escape is your plan,” John offered.   There was really no point in arguing with him, was there?

In reply, Sherlock growled again, attempting to yank off his hospital gown.  He failed miserably, merely entangled his arms above his head until Watson helped him release himself.  Long naked legs appeared, then an expanse of torso.  He was scattered with scratches and bruises, and exquisite dark body hair.   The patient wobbled to his feet, and shocked Watson with the sight of his bare backside covered with welt marks.  Was that a bite mark on his butt too? 

That he was being given a chance to study the bandaged ribs was no more than an after-thought to Watson.   He could not stop staring at all the other marks that had appeared before his very eyes, along with scars by the dozens to be catalogued.

Fundamentally, Watson knew Holmes was naked all the time under his clothes, but having never seen him without his clothes, in this sort of state of undress,  the stark realization of it all horrified him.  The sight of all that naked flesh, and those bruises, and those angular bones, they aroused his pity and his sorrow.  Simply aroused Watson too, and that realization mortified him. 

John hurriedly supported one bony elbow, put an arm around the too-slender waist of his favorite marionette.  

“You can’t just walk out of here like that.  Sit tight for five minutes.  I have a plan,” John whispered.   To his amazement, Sherlock listened and obeyed, settling uneasily back down on the bed. 

2

There was no staving off Mrs. Hudson.  She was waiting at the downstairs door, and had her arms around Sherlock before Watson could warn her.  John was surprised when she did not produce the same level of physical discomfort in Sherlock.  Maybe there was something more gentle about her approach, or maybe it was the sympathetic cooing noises that she made, much like a mother over a child?  She hugged Sherlock tight, stroked his hair with her fingers.

“Poor lamb.  We’ll get you set to rights in no time, there’s a love, watch your step.”

Once they had Sherlock inside and up the stairs, a veritable Everest in his condition, Mrs. Hudson would not take no for an answer.  Holmes was leaned precariously up against the nearest wall.  She jetted off in the direction of the bathroom.

“A nice soak in the tub, and your own clothes, that’s what you need, and a cup or two of special tea?” 

The bathroom was quick to fill with steam.  John stood in front of Sherlock, watching Mrs. Hudson zoom back and forth in their flat.  He put a tentative hand backwards, and couldn’t believe his hands when he felt Sherlock wrap long fingers within his, and inch closely against his back.  There was a sudden warmth against his body, like a cloak had been placed over his shoulders.  Sherlock put his head down against John, and heaved a soft, resigned sigh.   Watson put a hand up and cradled dark hair, resting his cheek against the warm skin next to his before gulping, and coming to his senses about what he was doing. 

Had he just nuzzled Sherlock’s cheek?  In front of Mrs. Hudson?  Had she noticed?  He pulled upright again, being careful not to dislodge Sherlock from his shoulder perch. 

Mrs. Hudson flew to the kitchen, filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and returned again to the doorway.  She paused on one foot, and stopped entirely, turning around to face them.  Then she smiled a half-smile, touching her fingertips to her chin. 

“Shall I be off?” she asked, raising a brow and waiting. 

“I’ve got it from here, thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Thank you,” John repeated softly, wishing suddenly that he could see the expression on Sherlock’s face, in order to understand what was making their hovering angel smile so.  She was gone just like that, all misty-eyed with delight. 

John shuffled towards the bathroom, pausing Sherlock long enough to remove the dove-gray trench coat from his shoulders.  As Watson was hanging the coat on the tree by the door, Holmes nearly killed himself trying to get out of the too-large loafers.   Watson eased off the loafers, tugging the rest of Holmes along by one hand.  It hadn’t taken John fifteen minutes to piece together an outfit from the thrift shop a block from the hospital.   It hadn’t been  bad work, really – he liked the idea of seeing Sherlock in a comfy sweater – if not for the sinking feeling that Sherlock would probably never wear any of those clothes again and that John might have wasted upwards of 50 pounds. 

In the bathroom, the steam was masking the merciless, gleaming  white fixtures and dodgy old wallpaper.   John shut off the tap and gaped into the frothing tub.  Sherlock reached for Watson’s shoulders, sat on the edge of the tub, and slid into the bubbly water fully-clothed.   John caught his breath in surprise, too late to prevent the unexpected move.  He reached in the water and eased the sopping-wet gray sweater off Sherlock’s torso, putting the dripping wool in the sink.  He plunged his hands back in, dexterous fingers making quick work of button and fly.  Sherlock wriggled around, but not far enough away as to break Watson’s grip. 

“Sorry to be so personal, but if you’d…..if you’d hold still a moment.  Ease up a bit.  That’s it,” Watson said in his best doctor’s voice.  He managed to remove the black trousers and cotton boxers in one go.  They slithered off like removing a layer of skin, all wet and tangled.  He put them in the sink as well.  Sherlock groped around under the six layers of foam and came up with one sock.  Another search, and he found the second.  Watson added these tokens to the rest. 

“Have a good soak.  I’ll make you tea,” he said, patting Holmes on the head and standing up. 

“I don’t want to be tea.”

Sherlock broke his silence with those mournful words, while clawing at his wrapped ribcage.  Watson snorted, and helped unwind the soaked bandages. 

“What….I….no,” John chuckled.  He bent down to whisper the reply, and found himself cheek to cheek with Sherlock, who was leaning against him willfully.

“Stay,” Sherlock pleaded, eyes closed, chin lowered.  Watson would have given in to that plea in a second, but for a loud whistling that sounded from the kitchen, like a distant alarm.  Holmes gave up too quickly, sliding back down into the watery depths. 

“I will take the kettle off and come right back,” John promised.   He returned with two cups of tea on a tray, along with a few spiced biscuits. 

Sherlock was displaying the most impressive set of scapulae that John had ever viewed.  Holmes was like a peacock with a proud tail.  He had his head down on his arms, face concealed, shoulders trembling.   He had submerged himself  at least once, because suds were trailing away down his back from his soaked head and hair. 

“Warm yourself up,” Watson ordered, putting the tray on the floor and kneeling by the tub.  He cupped Sherlock’s hands around the fine piece of china, and reached for a bottle of shampoo, working up his courage.   He soaped up Sherlock’s hair, happy there was a barrier of cold porcelain between all that alabaster nakedness and himself. 

“You had a little adventure without me, didn’t you?” John practically sang the words, worked a kind of magic with his voice in order to cajole more conversation from the mysterious Holmes.

Sherlock didn’t reply, sipped carefully from his cup, looking guilty and ashamed, and totally unlike his usual self.   There was enough of a difference that Watson’s concern redoubled itself.   Dark blue eyes welled, and a tear escaped before Sherlock could steel himself again.  Watson felt a dagger go through his heart and a chill go down his spine.

“I don’t deserve you,” Holmes murmured finally. 

“Sherlock, were you not working on a case?  Has someone hurt you?” Watson said, taking away the teacup and setting it on the floor with a clank.  “Sherlock, if you are unwell, I am taking you back to the hospital in the first cab I can hail.”

“It’s fine.  It’s fine.  I’m fine,” Holmes stammered, his teeth chattering.  Watson was not fooled for a second.   “Give me back my tea,” Sherlock pleaded.  John relented at once. 

“You’ll be yourself again once you’ve had a few hours’ sleep in your own bed,” Watson offered, putting the cup back in Sherlock’s grip and refilling it.  Holmes nodded his thanks.   “We’ll talk later,” John assured him. 

Two more cups of tea and a half-nibbled biscuit later, Watson was toweling Sherlock off in a no-nonsense manner that he hoped concealed his obvious delight in the task.  

The doctor could not have been more wrong.  But Sherlock obviously didn’t mind the attention.   Just when the smallest fraction of curiosity and hope started glowing in Watson’s heart, Holmes pulled his blue silk robe off the back of the door and burrowed into it.  Bath time was over. 

Watson walked Sherlock towards his bedroom, found the bed in the darkness.  He pushed the unmade covers aside. 

Sherlock crawled in, put his head on his pillow, balled up in his little nest, and closed his eyes.   He was half-asleep in seconds, hair drying in wild curls around his pale face. 

John could have pulled the blankets into place and run for cover.  It was but a short distance to the safety of his favorite chair in the living room.  He pulled the disheveled blankets over long, bare legs, tucked the edges around one pointy shoulder, and was going to quietly withdraw to leave Sherlock in peace.   He was already on his feet.

A soft whimper made Watson sit back down.  He scooped up one of Sherlock’s hands, a few fingers really.  His heart melted as the digits curled up around his own. 

“John?” Sherlock mumbled.  Watson sat down again. 

There was no leaving after that. 

3

 “Was it the missing ball of yarn?” Watson questioned the next day at the breakfast table.   “The blue yarn from the Twist Case.  You said whoever had the yarn was the killer.  Is that what took you away?  You were following a lead, and lost track of time, and….”

Sherlock picked up a square of toast off his plate, and took a bite.  He put down the eyeball he had been examining in close detail, and snapped his long fingers out of the rubber glove he had been wearing.   Watson had been watching and waiting, knowing at some point during the meal, those elegant hands, one gloved, the other bare, were going to get their separate tasks confused, that Sherlock was going to be nibbling eyeball while studying toast.  It hadn’t happened yet.   But now that both hands were bare, it was only a matter of time. 

“No, not the missing ball of yarn.  Afraid not,” Sherlock declared with quiet impatience.   The questioning all during breakfast had left him in a bad mood.  Watson snickered, took another bite of cereal,  and spoke to the middle of the table rather than looking into those eyes that were demanding no more questions.

“How can you make puns at a time like this?” John moaned.   “I’m off to the clinic.  Could you put away your toys before I’m back?   Please resist the temptation to put them in with the strawberry jam again.  That really, really wasn’t funny.  I promise you.  Not.  Funny.”

Sherlock offered a timid, thin smile, and John got to his feet.  Watson went to finish getting dressed—another  day, another sweater.   He peeked back into the kitchen, watching Sherlock leaning sadly on one elbow, gazing mournfully down at the toast on his plate, in the middle of which sat a hazel-brown eyeball.   One long finger poked inquisitively at the glistening orb.  He was considering the unthinkable.

Watson leapt forward and pulled the plate and toast and eyeball out of arms’ reach from Sherlock, scolding him with a slap on the wrist. 

“What’s the matter with you?”

Sherlock’s grim smirk offered no answer.   His mobile started beeping.   Watson snatched it off the table first, thumbed up the message.

“Mycroft would like to take you to lunch.”

Sherlock growled.  The elder Holmes brother had come calling quite late in the night, and here he was, intruding again first thing in the morning. He was on Sherlock’s last nerve. 

“ ‘Yes, please, thank you, that would be lovely’,” Watson said, turning his back and heading for the front door.  He hit the send button, feeling Sherlock suddenly breathing down his neck.   Holmes snatched the phone away, scanning the screen.

“You….didn’t…..” Sherlock breathed fearfully.

“Of course not.  I told him to bugger off.  But he’s sure to rise to the challenge.  Expect another text any second.  Have a wonderful day.  Try not to wander off again.”

Once down on street level, Watson glanced up at their window.  Sherlock was staring down at him, bottom lip sticking out, shoulders stooped with misery.   Guilt clouded around John as he walked to the clinic, and it hovered about his conscience, raining gloom on him all day long.

4

The unexpected proliferation of take-away containers surrounding the low coffee table answered two questions at once when John returned to 221B that evening.   No, Sherlock had not left the flat.  Yes, he had had lunch with Mycroft.   Of course, John had seen the black car pulling away as he walked up the street towards home.  He had nodded hello and continued on, not sure if it had been Mycroft until now. 

Watson was smiling as he took off his coat.  It pleased him to know Sherlock had not spent the entire day moping about and feeling sorry for himself.  Watson’s nose was lighting on one delicious scent after another, not the least of which was Sherlock, who rose from the divan and raced over to take his arm.

“You haven’t seen Mycroft, have you?” he whimpered. 

“Saw him on the way in,” Watson confirmed.  Sherlock went pale.  (Well, paler. )

“Am I too late?  What did he say to you?” Sherlock demanded, shaking Watson once or twice by the shoulders.

“Not much through a closed car window going twenty miles an hour.”

“Good.  Come sit at once.  I have to talk to you.”

Watson allowed himself to be dragged to his favorite chair.   His phone starting beeping before he could sit down.  He reached into his jacket pocket, and found he had competition.  Long fingers snaked inside, pulled his phone away from him.  Sherlock held it behind his back, sitting down cross-legged on the floor before Watson. 

“I should answer that,” John said. 

“No, you shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s Mycroft.”

“It might be important,” John said.  Sherlock pined softly as the phone beeped insistently.   He shut off the sound with a flick of his thumb. 

“He said if I didn’t tell you, that he’d tell you, that he’d make sure you knew what I’d done, and I would ask….I would request...  Please allow me to explain myself.  My logic.  The logic of what I have done, you cannot argue with it, and I would ask that you allow me to explain before you get angry, jump to rash conclusions.”

“Oh God, what have you done?” Watson worked out the words, trying to keep his heart rate down.

“I have deceived you most egregiously.”

“This is a bit more serious than eyeballs in the jam, isn’t it?”

“A bit,” Sherlock admitted, wincing.

“GBH?”

“What?  No.  I …what?”

“Please tell me you haven’t harmed anyone.”

“I have not harmed anyone but myself,” Sherlock scowled.

“Good.  No.  Bad!” John decided.  “What have you done to yourself?”   

“Nothing!” Sherlock howled.   “If you would stop interrupting me?!”

“Out with it then.  Mycroft is but a phone call away, you know, and I’m sure he won’t beat around the bush like this.”

“I lied to you.”

“Yes?” John said, watching Sherlock lower his chin, raise his eyes, shift uncomfortably up on to his knees. 

“Not in word, but in deed.”

“How?”

“Point is, I couldn’t help but notice how much you enjoy having someone to fuss over, not unlike Mrs. Hudson.”

“I suppose that’s fair,” John mumbled.

“I believe it’s why you became a doctor, to have a proper channel for your need to care about others, that need to care for others.”

“There might be some truth to that," Watson admitted uncomfortably.

“I, on the other hand, am not ashamed to admit that I like being fussed over.  It was not a giant leap to decide if I deliberately gave you reason to fuss, it would make you very happy indeed.  You wouldn’t have to leave home three times a week to fuss over strangers at the clinic.  You could stay home, fuss over me, save the cab fare?  Truth is, I love being fussed over.  Can’t get enough of it, really.”

“I see,” John mused.  “I see.  So you stayed gone three days in order to make me worry, so I would fuss over you when you returned, because you think I like being scared to death, concerned you’re drowned in the Thames, or getting buggered to death by gangs of angry hoodlums, or being kidnapped by some nameless arch-enemy I’ve never heard of who is intent on world domination once he’s torn you to bits and spread your body parts all over London?  Three days of being unable to eat or sleep.  Well, two days, really.  The first day, I thought you might have gone off on a lark and forgot to leave a note.  The first day, I was enjoying the peace and quiet.  But you put me through TWO DAYS OF SHEER MISERY because you wanted to make me happy?  Why, yes.  Now I understand.  I am so very happy.  Thank you,” John concluded dully, finally bringing his rising and falling shriek back down to a normal tone at the end.    

“I apologize profoundly, and I will never do it again, I promise.”

Watson was quiet long enough that Sherlock raised his head again to find out what was going on.  John was smiling sideways at him.

“So you slept three days under a bridge and paid a thug 20 pounds to rough you up?  So I could kiss it and make it better?”

“Well, no.”

“What did you do then?” John demanded angrily.  Sherlock flinched back from him. 

“I…..wanted……was…..went……”

John snatched his phone away from Sherlock, and turned the sound back on.  Holmes leapt forward and struggled for the device with frightfully fast-fingers and arms.   He was down-right grabby!  Watson didn’t have any qualms about wrestling him down to the floor to take it back again, at least not until his knee collided clumsily with Sherlock’s ribs, and a yelp of pain went up.   The look of agony on Sherlock’s face was not feigned.  Holmes backed away, whirled around, and sat in a huff, facing the other direction. 

John dialed the phone.

“Mycroft?  Yes?  You wanted to talk to me?”

He listened quietly for a few seconds, nodded once, then spoke again, his voice rough and his tone most mischievous.

“Thank you.  You’ve been most helpful.  I will.”

He hung up, and tossed the phone up into the chair, then moved across the floor to stand behind Holmes. 

“Mycroft sends his love.”

“Fuck him,” Sherlock snapped.

“Sherlock.”

“I won’t do it again, I swear.”

Watson slid his hands over Sherlock’s shoulders, and nosed the nape of his neck, rested his forehead against ebony locks.

“Sherlock, how clear can I make this?  You do not have to get yourself hurt by anonymous prostitutes in order to make me feel sorry for you.  That’s dangerous and unhealthy, in more ways than one.”

Sherlock gasped out loud, and to John’s surprise, he startled to seethe with anger.

“Is that what Mycroft told you?!”

“Is it not true?”

“It wasn’t an anonymous prostitute.  I know him quite well.”

“How well?” John’s brow furrowed. 

“Don't be stupid! I wasn’t going to ask a perfect stranger to hurt me.  I just didn’t realize how deeply Sean would sink his teeth into the task.  How much he would enjoy it.  It took two days of begging to get him to untie me from his bed.  You’re frowning at me.  I can feel your mouth moving.”

It took John a moment to process the thought.  And the thought behind the thought.  And the thought that followed the thought.  Sherlock was bored by the time John was done processing.

“You paid a prostitute to hurt you, to make me feel sorry for you, so I would fuss over you, in order that I would be happy, because you have cleverly discerned that it makes me happy to help people who are hurt, and thus the job at the clinic which takes me away from you three days a week.  Does that sum this up?”

“Yes," Sherlock said meekly.

“Are you that jealous of the time I have away from you?”

“Jealous is a strong word.”

“Is it?  Really?”

“Fuck you,” Sherlock growled again.  Watson laughed. 

“I have no doubt that man enjoyed hurting you.  Given half a chance, I’m positive I’d enjoy hurting you too,” he tormented.

Sherlock whirled around, eyes keen and face bright. 

“Would you really?” he whispered, biting his bottom lip.

John groaned and covered his face with both hands.

“Sherlock?!  No.  Oh, you….you are…..you are so…..”

“If I said please?” Holmes offered.  

“Jesus Christ, you are so messed up.   NO, I WILL NOT HURT YOU!” Watson exclaimed, clutching Sherlock’s shoulders and giving him a good shake.   “Bad Sherlock.  Very bad.  Do you understand what I’m telling you?  No.  Bad.  Don’t ever do it again.”

Sherlock scrambled out of reach, folded up his legs, dropped his knees to the floor.  There was no containing his disappointment.  He leaned backwards on his hands and frowned most angrily.

“What?” John laughed.  Was this now going to somehow be his own fault?

“I knew I should have gone with a nice virus instead,” Sherlock sulked.

 the end 

(yeah, sorry.  this is the only sherlock one so far.)