My first slash/ slash – implied (is there such a thing?) fan fiction. I stumbled into Sherlock by accident, a delightful one, I might add. And once again, I believe the British are so lucky when it comes to their television shows.
Slash is tiring to assume and pursue something so passionately, only to see it unfold in the opposite of everything we have imagined. But with Sherlock, it is hard not to imagine that one day, we might actually get to see Sherlock and John together.
Or they might not…as TV shows have a way of cruelly slashing fangirls' slashy imaginings.
Reviews also make my day. I do not own Sherlock because it just way to brilliant.
As an army doctor in the midst of war, John was faced with the worst of the violence and bloodshed. At those moments, nothing of who John Watson was existed; he was soldier, fighting for an ambiguous cause. He was also a doctor; standing at the frontlines, seeing the horrors that can be inflicted on the human body and mind. As a soldier, he fought, regardless of how he felt about it because he had still believed that there nothing more noble than serving his country. As a doctor, he healed, or at least tried healing, the men and women who had been hurt in the conflict. Army doctor seemed to have summed John Watson and despite the seemingly narrow definition of himself, John had not minded, because the two words gave him a purpose.
Then, he became a victim of the horrors himself and in the time it took for him to not just overcome his physical hurt, he felt the remnants of who he was slipping away until he was sure he was nothing more than a scratch in the whole of existence. The wound on his shoulder had been treated; he had been given the most excellent medical attention by the government who might as well have shot him themselves without the bother of sending him abroad for it. These bitter thoughts had been an antithesis of the supposedly delightful morphine – induced post-surgery treatments. He hated the fact he felt that way, as much as he hated being treated like a retard during his physiotherapy; but felt that after all that he had gone through, he had earned the right to gripe. But he hated it because at the end of the day, he knew it was nothing more than him feeling sorry for himself and looking for someone to blame for the hazards of his own choice of becoming an army doctor.
From an army doctor, he became the shelf of a man he previously was, filled with the traumas of war and bitter thoughts. The icing on the irony-laced cake was his limp, probably gratitude sent to him by the Higher Powers, for his efforts in participating in the war.
John Watson ceased to exist the moment he was shot.
And for one fleeting moment, he wondered if it would have better if the bullet had dived a foot lower, to where his heart was. Of course he would not share this thought with his therapist, who already thought of him as a bit of an odd one with his psychosomatic limp and all. But it was John who got shot in a dry, dusty desert that had been seemingly abandoned by God and humanity alike and had sand grinding into his bullet wound as he was thrown on the shoulders of another soldier who carried him to safety. Some thoughts, John had realized a long time ago, were best kept to oneself, because it was just that once he had thought of it. If he had spoken about it to his therapist, he did not doubt that it would have taken them another six or seven sessions until the therapist felt he was thoroughly sorted out. And he would have had to live with her looking at him as if he was going to blow his brains out any time before tea.
It was not until he met Sherlock Holmes that he realized he had been supressing himself. And it was not until Sherlock had introduced himself, with a flair that only Sherlock is capable of, that John had a sensation akin to having fresh oxygen pumped directly into his lungs; he had not known he had been, literally, holding his breath all that while. There was euphoria, well, as much euphoria as he could manage with his PTSD. But, in the few moments he had been in the presence of Sherlock, John felt singularly alive and much more of himself than he had ever felt in his entire life.
A run through the back alleys and over rooftops and John decided that Sherlock was not a breath of fresh air, as he had thought the younger man was because Sherlock was his particular brand of medication…drug… he had sorely longed for all this while. What type of medication, that John was not entirely sure. Must be some hard – hitting, psychedelic type that would make a quick addict out of him with confirmed torturous withdrawal symptoms.
It was unnerving that John would think of Sherlock as a drug. But then again, how else is he supposed to describe Sherlock and the Sherlock – effect in his life? The first meeting with the self – styled consultant detective had been like a shot to the arm, a strike of lightning from his head to his…extremities.
John had been shot. And he had not liked it one bit.
A lightning singes the objects it passes through, rendering it useless. Unless, he was Frankenstein, of course. But those are fictional characters…highly implausible. Whereas Sherlock was more like a defibrillator, bringing John back from the dead. But describing Sherlock as a defibrillator was about as unjust as calling him merely brilliant. Sherlock was something more…exotic.
Hence, the drug reference. It was most unhealthy, not to mention uncomfortable, but these are all the things Sherlock was as well. The man was a walking health hazard for the mental stability of many (Anderson is prime example)and Sherlock has made people squirming in their seats an art form…at least, those who do not realize they are in the presence of quite possibly the most brilliant man they have ever met in their lives.
John, however, was most comfortable with Sherlock. He finds it amusing that others are appalled by Sherlock having a flatmate who is a normal, functioning human being. They have decided that John must be the crazier of the duo, for who in their right mind would live and work with Sherlock voluntarily? Some assume John has a death wish, walking around with potential psychopath like he was his best friend or something. John wondered, as Sherlock once did, how boring it must be in their minds when they have fixed presumptions about something.
Besides, referring Sherlock as a drug would be the kind of comparison the younger man himself would appreciate. It certainly was not mundane, run of the mill description of someone. Besides, John has had enough of mundane. Meeting Sherlock was a rebirth of a sort for John. And it was not just for the return of the excitement (how so ordinary the word seems when describing the euphoria he feels every time Sherlock and he work on a case) in his life. It was for the reawakening of other…feelings as well.
Gay is a word John would use to describe Harrods' during Christmas season. It was hardly a description he would use for himself, not because he was in the military or anything like that…simply because that just was not him. Or so he thought. He had a steady girlfriend when he was high school, but it became more of a chore than an actual delight the closer they got to graduating. Military gave him an excuse to break it off and he has been single ever since, though not necessarily celibate. Another doctor who worked alongside in his medical camp deep in the Kurdish valley showed some interest in him and John had found himself reciprocating the attention in an almost natural manner. Perhaps it was the fact they were stationed together in what amounted as hell on Earth. Or perhaps it was just human nature; seeking for affection in a hostile environment. Whatever it was John ended it when he saw a picture of the doctor's family in the barracks. Dr. Christopher Rahm never knew why John asked for a transfer to a different medical camp. And John did not have any time to have a retrospect on his sexuality, as he was thrown into battle almost immediately after that. And afterwards, it had been a struggle to live and later, it had been about trying to fit back into society. Whether or not John could be attracted to men simply remained unexplored, though looking back, John decided that the matter hardly deserved any pondering. Whatever he is supposed to feel in the presence of women, or men, was fine.
At that time, he simply was not interested in anything or anyone. It always made him smile when he recalls the chat he had with Sherlock at the restaurant; John had broached the topic of boyfriends and girlfriends, much to his own surprise, because John had never been the prying type. Perhaps at that moment, he would have argued that as a flatmate, he was required to know such things, but John knew that he just had to ask…he had to know.
He should have known better. Sherlock gave him an ambiguous answer that he would spent weeks trying to make sense of, if they had not gone for their run in the back alleys and rooftops of London. A shared breathless moment at the bottom of the stairs to their flat and John felt he had finally returned home. He just never realized he was lost. At that moment, whatever Sherlock would happen to be in his life; friend, flatmate, John was simply glad for the fact Sherlock was in his life.
But that did not make living with the man any easier. A saint would have been driven to murder for all the things Sherlock did and say. But John did not want to change anything about Sherlock; maybe teach him basic astronomy, but on the whole, he prefers Sherlock the way he is. Harry would have called it love. John decided he is not one for labelling and accepted it as it is, as Sherlock had accepted him. It was much easier that way.
But, as he thought about it now, maybe Harry would have been right. It could have been love. Because here he was, lying on a pool of blood, without knowing if it was his own or Sherlock's and all he could think about at that moment was walking into the lab at St. Bart's and seeing Sherlock for the first time. He remembered how alive he had felt, how much his senses had reawakened and how unaware he was of anything else.
Perhaps it was a good thing he was thinking of it, because John knew he was dying. He was lying on his side, and could feel the chill seeping into to him. His eyes were transfixed on the dazzling starkness of the white tiles and human blood. He could not move; he could not even fathom if he was aching or pain – free, but he knew the former had to be true because he knew he was thrown some distance away from where he had been when the bomb went off. He almost laughed when the thought of how the bomb had went off…he had given his approval for Sherlock to shoot at it.
His eyes travelled along the blood, trying to find Sherlock. He could not hear anything, the blast must have ripped into his eardrums, but he did not care…or did not realize. He was almost, he reckoned, it would not matter if he was deaf. But before the darkness claimed him, he had to make sure…he has to know how Sherlock was.
John's fading vision locked on to a patch of black…Sherlock's coat. He was not too far away from John, an arm's length at the most. Sherlock too was lying on his side, a trail of blood seeping down from his scalp. He was looking at John, his blue cerulean eyes brilliant as John had always remembered. John tried to lift his hand in front of him but only succeeded in moving his index finger. He lifted it from the blood already thickening around him. He wanted to say Sherlock's name but he could not. The darkness was too close now.
He supposed he should be afraid. But he was not. He even managed a smile. Just before the darkness claimed him, he saw Sherlock reaching out his hand for his.
In the darkness, he felt warmth that could have only been Sherlock.
-THE END-