I Need a Doctor - Chapter 1
Heyy everybody. I am trying something different.
Sherlock fic.
This is a bit out of my comfort zone, mainly because I've never written anything like this before, so please bear with me here.
I've been toying with ideas for a Sherlock fic for a long time, but I didn't know what to do. Then I saw a Tumblr post the other day that really inspired me and... this was born.
WARNING: THIS IS A JOHNLOCK FANFIC. While I will not be writing love scenes (mainly because I do not think I would do them justice) they will be implied and I feel like the idea of two men making love is a bit of a mature topic, so I am rating this M for the implication of sex, as well as violence and swearing. If anyone feels that the rating should be changed, let me know.
I do not own anything Sherlock-related.
Chapter One
He stood in his flat with his hands in his pockets. He wore his coat and scarf, and looked prepared to venture out into the frigid London winter. From the position of the sun, he estimated that it was approximately noon. He had hoped that while the sun was at its highest point, the world would be warmer. It was a foolish ambition.
If he delayed any longer, it could potentially prove to be disastrous, yet he wasn't quite ready to leave. This seemed to be one of the very few, very rare moments that Sherlock Holmes felt unprepared. He feared that more meditation was in order, or that he should wait a few more hours—maybe even days. The man shook his head at himself as his lips twitched upwards in the beginnings of a weak smile. He knew better than to even entertain the notion of waiting. He had waited long enough; too long, in fact.
His hands, still in his pockets, were now clenched into fists, as he left his post at the window. Upon exiting his flat, he heard the shuffling of Mrs. Hudson downstairs in her kitchen. She was a kind old lady that meant well, but she occasionally got on Sherlock's nerves. There was just something about her mannerisms, and her… less than intelligent tendencies that just seemed to make him tick. But, truthfully, none of that mattered. Mrs. Hudson was always there—always looking out for, and after him—and it was because of that fact that he was more than willing to put up with her. Plus, he had put her, and most of his companions through enough in the past few months.
He descended the stairs and glanced into the kitchen. He saw the older woman standing in front of the sink. She held a plate in her hand, and was washing it absentmindedly, humming a tune. Sherlock shook his head. He knew that most people enjoyed to sing, or hum under their breath, but he saw no point in it. What was the purpose? To make them feel better? More often than not, it made others—himself particularly—annoyed by their tone-deafness. Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around him and pushed open the front door.
The cold, winter air slapped him in the face, and making his scarf billow behind his head. Sherlock braced himself, shivering slightly, and stepped out into the cold. There were few cars on the street, and even fewer people. He walked to the curb and flagged down a cab. As the cab pulled over, Sherlock slid into the back, adjusting his scarf as he did so. He quietly, seeming nervous and embarrassed at the same time, told the driver the address he needed to go to.
Without another word, the driver took off, leaving Sherlock time to think. The private detective honestly had no idea what to say to the man he was going to meet. They had been through so much together, suffered so much together. Sherlock knew the man better than anyone, and the man knew Sherlock just as well. And yet, Sherlock still felt somewhat awkward around his one and only friend. Perhaps it was the fact that they had been apart for so long after Sherlock faked his suicide. Or maybe it was because of Mary—the one person that Sherlock knew would end up tearing them apart.
Either way, he couldn't help but feel uneasy around John Watson.
The ride to John and Mary's flat was entirely too short. By the time the driver had stopped and announced that they were at their destination, Sherlock had yet to plan out what he was even going to tell his dear friend. He got out of the cab, and watched as it sped off back into London traffic. The detective's body felt oddly stiff and cold, and he knew it was not from the winter air. It was from something different – an emotion he usually forbade himself from feeling: fear. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to cast it out of his system, it remained, as if it had interwoven itself into his flesh.
As he made his way up to the flat, his mind was oddly blank. It was an extremely rare occurrence for Sherlock Holmes's mind to be unable to function, but it became increasingly common around a certain doctor. His normal wit was lost, and his ability to scrutinize every little detail – every flaw – was abandoned when he looked at John Watson. For, in reality, when he looked at John, he felt like a human. There was something about John that grounded him, and allowed him to actually feel something. He always tried to block out his emotions – he considered them useless and potentially dangerous. But around John, he couldn't help himself. Around John, they came in tidal waves – he couldn't identify them singularly, but they all morphed together in a flood of heat that made Sherlock feel . . . good.
Sherlock didn't want to lose that feeling.
He didn't want to lose the one man that let him feel.
He needed John Watson, probably more than that silly doctor would ever know.
Sherlock had been back in London for about a week now. He had already met up with John once and told him the truth about where he had been, and what had happened. He met Mary – the beautiful woman who stole his best friend's heart, and had learned to accept her. A part of him felt jealous of her hold on John – she could make him happy in ways that Sherlock never could. She was a woman. She could give him pleasure. The only thing Sherlock had brought him was heartbreak and agony. What kind of friend did that?
Sherlock might not have been good at the whole "friend" thing, but he knew damn well that friends did not do what he did. I had no choice, he tried to tell himself. He had to repeat that to himself often. I did it to protect John. I did it to keep him safe.
As he stood in front of the door to John's flat, he took a deep breath and balled his right hand into a fist. He needed to make things right. He needed to work them out with John, or else . . . He didn't know what would happen to him.
Just as he raised his hand to knock, the door swung open. There, standing on the verge of the threshold was a grim-faced, clean-shaved John Watson. The shorter man appraised his friend silently. Sherlock could see the pain in his eyes – he wondered how John felt seeing him alive again after so long. He wondered if John felt the same if John felt the same relief and gladness that he felt. He wondered if John's heart fluttered when he laid eyes on him. He wondered if John had missed him too. He wondered if John needed him the same way he needed John.
John took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes. Sherlock knew that his friend was trying to conceal his emotions. He looked tired – Sherlock deduced he hadn't slept all night, and might have even been drinking although he smelt no alcohol on his breath. Finally, John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's impassive gaze.
"You're here."
"I said I was coming," Sherlock replied stiffly. A part of him wished he could show John his emotions. A part of him wished that he wasn't so afraid to let him in. And yet there he stood, as cold and as stone-faced as ever. Why couldn't he just tell John how he felt? Why was that so difficult? It was frustrating, and yet safe; at least this way he would not have to worry about John rejecting the way he felt.
"You did," John murmured. "So . . . You said you needed me for a case?"
John's mention of Sherlock's real reason for coming to his doorstep seemed to snap the detective back into his usual no-nonsense self. "Right," he said. "Lestrade called this morning – they found a body dumped in an alley a couple blocks over . . . They said that they had no leads and wanted me to look into it. Since there is a corpse involved I figured that I'd need . . . Well, that I'd need a doctor to go with me."
"You know . . . I'll admit, I have missed this," John said suddenly, earning all of Sherlock's attention. "I missed . . . working the cases." It was as if the doctor quickly amended his statement. Was he trying to cover something up? Sherlock couldn't be sure. "Shall we go?"
Sherlock felt himself smile ever-so-slightly. "We shall."
A/N: Please review and let me know what you thought!