He is on a cloud, and the damp pavement below him is a cotton swab stroking his ear drums. It itches and burns, and several pinches are delivered to his temple and chin. A chorus of moans and swearing surrounds him. The smell of gasoline and fresh rainfall is in the atmosphere, and he wants nothing more than to go home.
Becoming numb and losing consciousness is not on his list of situations he'd like to ever be in again, but they are demons pulling him off the cloud, tugging at his clothes, demanding him to keep his eyes open.
"No," he pleads.
"This will only hurt a bit, but it shouldn't matter," one creature whispers, as it runs a long claw down his cheek. "Only want a blood sample."
The voice of the monster is deep, and it forces images of fire-breathing dragons and aquatic humanoids under the sea into the crevices of his mind. His head is pounding like a hammer against a set of nails, and he's groaning and groaning, and the cold concrete he's lain homage to disappears, and he doesn't like it.
He doesn't like it.
Bright, bright light blows his pupils. The nasal cannula uncomfortably fits. In an attempt to console the urge to detach from his person, he grips the starchy blankets. His sister's small hand overlaps his left one. She's crying, her face stained salmon from countless hours of worry. He gives her a reassuring smile, but his muscles are sore, and she squeaks and holds a tissue to her mouth.
"Do you remember what happened, sir?" a new sound asks. It's a doctor, and she's holding a clipboard and staring at the one on the bed with careful eyes. "What about your name? Do you know that?"
His sister shuts her eyes and murmurs prayer to the ground, and he says, "My name is John Watson." It comes out weak and frightful, and the doctor rests a hand on his foot.
"You're going to be okay, John." She smiles, and John isn't relieved. "You were in a car accident. A pretty bad one, if I would say so myself. No one else was involved, just the cab you were in—a bit strange as to the cause. We tried to get some information from the cabbie, but he died from his injuries."
John swallows hard and wishes for a juice box and a Jammie Dodger.
"You've a minor concussion and a few scrapes and bruises here and there, but overall, you're a lucky man, John Watson."
His flat is cold, and he doesn't have enough blankets.
"I've bought you I-don't-know-how-many jumpers, John. You can bundle up with those!" his sister fusses when he calls her late on Friday night.
John sighs and rubs his eye with bandaged fingers. "I want blankets, Harry."
"You're such a nuisance. I'm not coming over there just to supply you with—"
He hangs up and tosses the mobile onto his bedside table. It glows a few seconds later to alert him of an incoming call, but he doesn't answer, and Harry doesn't call him back.
Periodically, John acquires headaches. It's normal with the concussion he had obtained, and the pain can be fixed with a few paracetamol spread throughout the day. The constant string of patients at the clinic complaining of "flu-like symptoms" busies him as well. He's never hated mundane this much before, and he can't seem to figure out why his left hand always trembles. Writing exercises and a couple wrist stretches put the shake on queue for a while, but it returns—it always returns—and John's beginning to contemplate amputation.
Harry frequently checks on him. She visits during his lunch breaks, and he is consistently badgered by the bombard of "are you okay?" and "do you want me to do anything?" and "you're so dumb". John gives her a riot of "yes, I'm fine" and "no, I'm fine" and "okay, all right, thank you". Despite the arguments they participate in, he manages to eat his lunch and survive until the end of work.
Whenever his shift ceases, his day-to-day plans are going home, watching telly, eating his body weight in sweets, and sleeping forever. It's routine and redundant, but it's good. A sense of security does John well; so as one of his old friends from medical school spies him on the street, it's only expected for him to become dreadful.
"It's Mike! Mike Stamford!"
"Ah, yes, hello."
John doesn't feel welcome. Instead of exchanging pleasantries and false promises of seeing each other again, Mike (he's gotten fat) lures John to a pub to catch up, reminisce over memories, and discuss what was in the paper that morning.
"Heard about those serial suicides?"
John hasn't, but he still nods and says vague words of recognition that neither confirms nor denies his knowledge of the events. Some sort of scratching sensation digs at his back. He tries to fix his posture, sliding to the back of the chair. The wood groans underneath him. John coughs to cover the sound.
"What about those organ thefts across London?" Mike continues to ask, even though it's clear to everyone and their mother that John doesn't care.
But he's actually slightly intrigued (and too fatigued to think about what time he'll get home). John studies the man before him, the pain in his back still very present. "Organ thefts?" he questions, eyebrow rising. Mike laughs, and John stares at him like someone who doesn't understand the joke. "I'm sorry," he says, brow furrowed. "Did I miss something here?"
"Oh, no, John, it's just—organ theft! Can you believe it?" And Mike chuckles some more, and John cracks a small smile. He knows he's not going to get anywhere with this conversation, so he mumbles a "no, that's crazy" and gazes longingly at the door.
They depart an hour or two later. John is angry, but tries not to show it when Mike tells him to watch out for someone named "Doctor Organ" as a form of goodbye. Not bothering to hail a cab, John walks home.
His flat is cold again. Instead of wrapping layers around himself, he shoves two pain pills down his throat to hopefully quell the annoying backache he unfortunately attracted upon his meeting with Mike and falls asleep atop the covers. The fabric grows warm against his cheek, and he peacefully sleeps.
He doesn't dream, but he wakes up sweating and running a low-grade fever as if he had. Afghanistan heat smashes against his shoulders. Removing his jumper helps the hot flash, and fanning himself with uncoordinated hands push the invisible nightmare away even further. The blankets are wet, as well as his pillow. Scooting his bed clothes to the floor with haste is the only option right now (other than get new sheets and take a shower, but—Goddamnit—he's tired). Once the bed is stripped, he touches the mattress and sighs at the slight chill. Upon glancing up the surface, he furrows his brow and parts his lips and wonders where the blood stains came from, if not from his bad dream.
"That doesn't make any sense," he whispers to the furniture, as a sharp snap of a plastic mask covers his nose and mouth.
"My name is John Watson," says John, as his fingers curl and lips crack from the alarming cold. He has a headache (but that isn't surprising), and everything is blurred, and he struggles to sit upright in—in—a bathtub—okay, a bathtub. Confused and a bit frightened, he smacks his useless hands against the siding; the sound is ear-splitting, and it forces several groans to roll off his tongue. "I," he starts. "I, I." His teeth chatter and muscles quiver. He rolls around in the tub, his hands becoming fins as he tries to swim in a sea of ice water.
"Shit," a low curse slides into the room. "Fuck." John swiftly turns his head, hitting his left temple against the dials in the process. He tries to find the prior speaker, but a pair of gloved hands presses to his eyes, forcing his eyelids to close. "You shouldn't have woken," the voice murmurs in his ear.
"I, I think the cold woke me up," John replies, hardly feeling his lips move. "I don't know where I am."
"Don't be daft. You know exactly where you are." The hands are removed from his face, but he doesn't open his eyes; he has acquired the expression of deep slumber and confusion for the next matter of minutes. He slumps against the wall, a small trail of blood rolling down his cheek from the bump on his temple. The strange voice continues. "You've not moved residence since the last time you were aware of your surroundings. If you took the time to just observe, you'd know." A rattle of items hits John's ears, and he struggles to breathe.
"I, I don't know," he whispers. He opens an eye and sees nothing but an odd stick with a black mop atop their head. He closes his eyes again.
"Shut up. You can smell the fragrance of mint and coconut—what I can only guess is your hygienic items. They could belong to someone else—perhaps a female—but I am rarely wrong. " The thin man makes more noise, and it resembles that of a dozen trains thundering across the front of a building. John groans some more. Showing no sympathy, the man dumps the bag of objects onto John; and the newly-added weight doesn't bother him, no matter the frozen texture clinging onto his body hair and the sides of the tub. "I would advise you to not attempt in getting up, but I see you have it covered."
John can't move.
"I'll inform your sibling—sister, brother? I'm leaning towards brother—of your current condition. They'll help you live, but that is most likely not going to occur."
"My name is John Watson," says John, as consciousness fails to hold onto him.
Being in the hospital with a set of pulsing temples is John's forte. This time, his lower back joins the party of unnecessary pain. To be honest, John wishes he had died. Death would be greater (and more painless) than having to sit through Harry's continuous wailing and bone-smashing hand holding.
"Back again, John?" the doctor teases. John wants to push the assistance button off to his side in order to ask for a new physician. "Now," the doctor starts, drumming her fingers against the footboard of the bed, "it appears that you've had your kidney stolen."
It appears that John's voice box has been stolen, too.
"But," Harry pipes, rubbing her thumb along John's knuckles, "that's not possible. That doesn't just happen. I thought all those stories about waking up in a tub of ice were myths." Her face turns scarlet, and John sinks down in the bed.
"We were confused as well, Ms. Watson. We've run several x-rays and tests, and the result is consistent: one of John's kidneys is gone. He has the surgical cuts and everything."
John looks out the window.
"And from the message you've been left, Ms. Watson, I would assume your brother is a victim of the organ thefts across London."
John shuts his eyes.
Call 999 immediately, or he will die. Moving his body will kill him. When you panic (and all signs point to "yes, you will panic"), he may wake and move, and he will die. If he dies, properly dispose of the body. He shouldn't die, though, but I do not know the capability of your intellect. If he does somehow die, send me the bill. Good luck. Doctor Organ
John has trouble bending down more times than he'd like to count. Stretching hurts as well, and light movements cause the scar on his lower side to pinch and burn. He often has to stop whatever he's doing to cry, but that's uncommon (he does it once a day).
Harry likes to make fun of him. "C'mon, John," she says, wiping a tear, "you have to laugh about it."
John stares at the ceiling.
She often pesters about his weight. "You're getting fat."
He shoves a biscuit in his mouth. "Piss off, I'm in recovery."
At most times, however, she's the model sister. She brings him tea when he asks, and she sits with him a few nights every fortnight or so. John feels like a burden, but he stays silent while they watch television and eat take-away.
After a month passes, Harry stops visiting. She texts him the occasional "hey!", and he replies with the obligatory "what's up?", but other than that, their interactions are nonexistent. Unsure if he's happy about this arrangement, John goes to bed each night with an empty chest. He wakes up much the same.
Except for one Monday morning, when he wakes up with an empty chest and in a bathtub full of ice (again).
Four words greet him once he manages to maneuver his head. They are atop the shower, stretched across the wall in chicken-scratch handwriting, and what it appears to be, the medium of red lipstick.
You're welcome. Doctor Organ
His mobile is lying beside the tub. "How convenient," John muses, using as little movement as possible to reach for the electronic device. He presses his lips together and tries to even his breathing, tries to reverse his body's natural reaction to drop into shock. "Doctor Organ," he hums, as he punches in the emergency service number. "Why should I thank you?"
Harry isn't at the hospital when John arrives—just the annoying doctor.
"Back again, Johnny?" she says, a wide smile on her face. John wants to ask who gave her the authority to use a nickname, but he chooses to stay silent and keep his gaze on the strong paper wrapped around his wrist that lists his status as a human being. The doctor laughs and pushes a strand of her brown hair back with a bobby pin. "Boy, do I have news for you, Johnny."
John's fingers curl.
"I'm a bit sad your sister isn't present. She might want to hear this." She tuts and shakes her head, fingers grasping the metal clipboard. Her eyes skim over the text, and John watches her with an unamused expression.
"Has my other kidney been stolen?" he deadpans. The doctor giggles and covers her face with the object in hand, like John had just spoken the award-winning joke of the century.
"Oh, no, no, Johnny. Although, that would be something!" Clearing her throat and lowering the board back to a considerable distance, she announces, "Rather your other kidney been stolen"—she chuckles—"you have been given a kidney."
Blinking slowly, John asks, "So, what—I've a black-market kidney; is that what you're telling me?"
"Perhaps," she mumbles, stapling herself to his chart and becoming professional once more at an unreasonable speed. "Have you told anyone your blood type?"
"No," he says.
Nodding and sighing, the doctor glances toward her patient resting in the bed. "Your body's not shutting down. We'll keep you for a day or two, monitor your health. I don't think it's needed, though." John tries to slide under the covers, but the new stitches in his side rub against the sheets the wrong way, and he bites his tongue to keep from whimpering. The doctor is oblivious. "It seems whoever this organ thief is has managed to find a kidney that's compatible."
"But that's"—John pauses to recover the strength in his voice after the attack of sudden pain—"completely insane. I thought that bloke only stole the… the organs? That's completely out of character, don't you think?"
She takes a deep breath and shrugs, arms crossing over her chest. "I don't know, Johnny."
John puffs out his cheeks and turns his head away from the woman and states, "Please leave me alone."
Doctor Organ is running low on cigarettes. He desires a type of high that'll knock him out for the weekend, and the bottle of pain pills the blond man in the flat is opening beckons for Doctor Organ to sneak inside and snatch them. Although the idea sounds pleasing, he stays on the sofa in his own flat, eyes glued to the laptop screen. He watches the man swallow the medicine with a glass of water retrieved from the sink before heading to his bedroom.
A few clicks allow Doctor Organ to peer inside the room in question. Boring paint is on the walls, and equally as dull carpet is underfoot. The ceiling fan is on. It takes the man three minutes to get comfortable for bed, and it takes him eight minutes to fall asleep.
Doctor Organ's mobile phone vibrates from its placement in the pocket of his dressing gown. Unwillingly, his hands grasp the gadget and pull it out. He reads the text, doesn't reply, and tosses the phone aside. Although he hears it hit the floor in a fashion that suggests a break, he doesn't do anything about it. Rubbing his fingers along his black roots, he mumbles, "You're going to be okay, John Watson."
The figure on the bed begins to snore.
Stop hijacking the CCTV footage. M
It is autumn. At the park, the leaves are turning brown and golden. Rain is a common factor, and for a few nights, it snows.
John's flat is cold once more.
"I need a new flat," he complains, pounding his finger into the thermostat. "Is the heat even working?"
The next evening, John gives in and buys three blankets. They are soft and made of wool smelled like cinnamon. He has wonderful dreams he often doesn't remember upon waking, but he feels refreshed and hardly sore, and that must count for something.
Patients at the clinic are showing up like they are blown in by a tornado. There are several cases of colds gotten out of control, and only a handful has something seriously wrong with them. Most of the work is boring, and it barely has the sustainability to hold John's attention. Since Harry doesn't show during his lunch breaks anymore, he sleeps.
Three out of five days have small children asking him if he was the "kidney guy from the news". Their parents always shush them, but he offers a reassuring smile and grows an increased interest in wanting to read the article he is featured. However, that desire is never fulfilled.
Harry comes over on a Saturday. Instead of it being a visit to "check up on him", as she had told John, she spends the day and most of the night whining about her love life and ruining the sofa's fabric with her tears. John doesn't say anything (his love life isn't doing that great, either, but he doesn't want to add fuel to the fire); he comforts Harry, a hand on her shoulder and a pissed-off expression on his face that she won't see.
"Harry," John says at two o'clock in the morning, "I need sleep."
"Whatever, John."
Harry sleeps on the couch and shouts about the temperature of the flat.
John sleeps in his bed with warm blankets and doesn't shout anything in return.
His sister has left before John rouses, and he could care less. He eats breakfast and showers and goes about his day as usual. The scars on his person doesn't bother him as much, and the headaches have been occurring less and less often.
John would call this day "the perfect day" until he notices one of his newly-acquired blankets have been misplaced.
At first, he accuses Harry of stealing it. They fight over the phone for an hour. Harry says she hasn't taken anything, and John says she has, and Harry calls him a bastard, and John asks her if she's been drinking, and Harry hangs up, and John doesn't call her back.
Returning from work a week later, John finds the blanket sitting atop his bed.
A single yellow post-it note is pasted to the top of the red bundle.
Your vitals are normal, and your quilt smells of spices, mint, and coconut. I couldn't help myself. Doctor Organ
John searches the flat, but sees no sign of intrusion.
With a constant fright of being watched, John travels to and fro each destination with a wide stride and eyes plastered to the ground. Unable to develop a sense of security in the apartment building any longer, he plans moving house.
"He'll just find me again," John says, as he watches a report about a man's missing gall bladder.
Though, he stays where he is, hoping his paranoia will come to the point where he can intake food and drink without vomiting.
He is unsuccessful. He loses four pounds.
The blanket goes missing again.
Doctor Organ is often reminded that he is a very sick bastard. Most of the clarification is by his brother, who takes a few minutes out of his busy, busy life to text a variation of "you need to stop" and "get a real job" and "you've tortured them enough".
As always, Doctor Organ chooses to ignore the ridicule. He spends the swift hours of the day helping Scotland Yard (Detective Inspector Lestrade somehow values his input) and wallows the lowly hours of the night checking on the man with blond hair.
"John Watson," he muses, his fingers pressing to his lips, as he spies said man maneuvering along the sidewalk with a bag of groceries in hand. His head is down, and his pace is quick, and Doctor Organ sees nothing wrong with the motion.
The black-haired adult goes home himself, automatically taking his laptop with him to the bedroom, mind a clutter of junk and new found data.
John Watson is pulling on a white cotton t-shirt, and Doctor Organ is sliding into a pair of latex gloves.
Harry thinks John's being ridiculous.
"John, you're being ridiculous," she sighs into the phone. He can picture the eye roll. "You're such a baby. Worrying about this isn't going to make it better."
"It's going to happen again," he says. "Harry, please believe me. I have this feeling."
"Well, I have this feeling I'm going to hang up in a second or two."
John beats his sister to it. He holds his mobile in his hands and slowly does a walkthrough of the flat, checking the windows, the doors, anything that could provide an intruder a way inside. After inspecting once, he inspects three times more, and then another succeeding that. His stomach groans, and his phone is silent, and the thought of staying up the rest of the night sounds pleasing.
So, he does.
However, he falls victim to slumber once lying on his bed after devouring a meal of noodles, several jam sandwiches, and a cup or two of tea. The feel of food and beverage resting comfortably in his abdomen, as well as the warm atmosphere of the room, pushes him into a deep stupor that deems him unaware of being transported into a different place in his flat.
And that different place happens to be the bathtub.
Expecting the sting of ice cubes scratching against tanned skin, John becomes still and hopeless. His lips move, but no words fabricate. He slides around and realizes he is fully clothed—fully clothed and hopeless. This must be preceding the anesthesia; the worst is yet to come.
Words are sculpted from his anxious vocal chords. "Please let me die this time," he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please, please, please let me die."
"Oh, don't say that," a low voice whispers, a piece of fabric rubbing against his ear lobe. "We haven't even gotten to the best part yet."
John explodes. He struggles to gain composure, hitting every piece of the appliance his hands and feet can lay. In the process, the new sound begins to laugh, and their hands touch John, and John yells at the top of his lungs, and he spins about, and he freezes and narrows his eyes and slowly says, "You, you're the stick with the black mop for hair."
The man sitting on the tile flooring seems to be smiling. If not for the surgical mask covering his mouth, John would be sure. But the curve of the cheek muscles and the crinkle of the eyes betray the emotion hiding behind the thin piece of cloth. "Is that what you see me as?" he says. John shrugs and watches the man reach behind him, dragging a durable backpack to place in between them. He unzips it and digs inside for a few seconds until his cheeks curve and eyes crinkle again at the appearance of a red blanket.
John's breathing becomes erratic. "That's mine. That's mine." The man scoots the bag aside and unfolds the blanket. "Oh, God," John groans, "that's mine—that's mine."
"Shut up." With a scratch of his scalp and a clear of his throat, the man moves over, resting his elbows on the edge of the tub. "You'll go into shock." Before John can protest, he wraps the red material around John's shoulders, patting them, pressing two fingers against the pulse of his neck. Eyes wide and as flattering as the lithe waist hidden beneath a crisp button-down shirt, the man quietly asks, "Will you be okay?"
John shivers and shakes his head, and he is utterly foolish to unravel in front of this stranger. "I don't know," he starts, vision becoming blurry, "what you're going to do to me." Tightening the blanket around his body, he begins to shrink into a helpless child. His back hits the wall behind him. "You've broken into my house multiple times. You've stolen my, my, my belongings in every sense of the word." His lips tremble, and the man watches with a vacant expression. "You're a sick person. I don't know what gives you… the right to come in here and just… do whatever you like."
Having no sense of boundaries, the man climbs into the tub with John. "It was my fault." He loops an arm around John's waist, engulfing him, holding a careful gloved hand to the scars at his side. "Renal trauma," he hisses, using his free hand to tilt John's head this way and that, "from your car accident."
John is frozen. "How did you know about that?"
"I was at fault," he repeats. "Your cab swerved into a building to avoid the person who had run into its bonnet." He traces the outline of each of the lines hidden beneath John's jumper, the slide of latex forcing goose bumps to rise. "Uncharacteristically, I felt guilt. I wasn't aware of the passenger. I knew you had suffered far greater damage than what the doctors were telling you—stupid, stupid doctors."
"I'm a doctor," John protests.
The man's lips press to the hollow of his throat, and John's eyes shut, his hands breaking free of the blanket's casings. He tries to move away, but the man's hands pull him closer, his lips leaving his neck in order to rest his forehead to John's. "You knew something was wrong as soon as you woke from your nightmare and noticed you had wet the bed with more blood than urine."
John stares at the man, at his dark, dark hair, at his blown pupils. "Get out."
A chuckle surfaces, and all foreign appendages leave his body as the man stands and looks down at John. "You should be more polite to the man who saved your life."
John stands as well and squares his shoulders, attempting to equal his height to the other. The blanket pools to the floor of the tub. Tackling the reaction to shiver is tough and forces John's innards to quake, his fingers to curl into fists, his eyes to narrow like a hawk's. "And who exactly are you?" he questions. His left hand isn't shaking any more.
"You know who I am," the man replies, cocking his head at a slight angle in a notion to suggest modest bewilderment. "My name is Doctor Organ, and you, John Watson, will hear from me more often."
After being left alone for several (long and peaceful) weeks, John receives a text during one of his rare visits with Harry.
Tomorrow. Doctor Organ
His sister questions it with a mouthful of mashed potatoes. "Who could be texting you?"
John saves the number. "Nobody."
The human heart is a beautiful piece of machinery.
Although the object in question isn't the one he truly desires, Doctor Organ is still pleased. He plans to watch it in its little jar before he falls asleep each night.
Doctor Organ longs for John Watson's heart. If he were to hold it in his hands, he would not feel ashamed in admitting he would be the happiest man in the world. But, if the heart were gone from the ex-army doctor's body, he would only be an empty shell, and Doctor Organ doesn't want that. He wants John Watson alive and well. He wants him smiling and laughing. He wants him enjoying a cup of tea with his sister. He wants him spread out like a canvas. He wants him cut open and displayed at a museum. He wants him bruised and beaten until there is no more life sustenance rushing through his tanned flesh.
John Watson is okay. The scars are barely noticeable. All traces of life are splendid.
And it makes Doctor Organ okay.
And it makes Doctor Organ's fingers twitch against the glass jar in his hands.
And it makes Doctor Organ feel stupendously idiotic.
When the clock strikes midnight, he places the heart onto the shelf in his bedroom. After a few minutes, he grows tired of staring at the item and lies on the mattress, eyes on the window, arms on his chest.
He remembers the pump-pump-pump of the red muscle as it rested against the open chest cavity of the dark-haired man squirming underneath the pressure of death. He remembers the man screaming at the top of his lungs. He remembers shoving several lit matches into the heart.
"I burnt the heart out of you," Doctor Organ murmurs, as he texts John Watson.
Tomorrow comes, and the man doesn't arrive.
"Pathetic," John says to the unopened box of Chinese take-away. "I am pathetic."
John is already anticipating the cold temperature in his bedroom. Not wanting to leave the comfort of the shower and wanting to sleep plays a tug-of-war with his body, and sleep overpowers. Despite the urge to marvel in the warm water for a couple more minutes, he wills himself out. Forcibly drying off doesn't quell his hair from standing on end, and the wrap of his dressing gown doesn't either. He shuffles toward the bedroom, eager to crawl under the covers and be devoured by the numerous blankets there.
However, upon entering the room and shutting the door behind him, John finds someone else indulging in the heat provided by the bed clothes.
"You," he says.
Doctor Organ is alert and using John's pillow. "Isn't the element of surprise grand?"
John crosses his arms over his chest. "If you haven't noticed, that's my bed."
"I have noticed," the other murmurs, settling against the covers, eyes slowly fluttering shut.
"Hey, hey." John climbs on top of the piece of furniture, reaching out to grab the man's shoulder. He pokes it and frowns. "You can't just come in here and except me to let you sleep in my bed."
An eye opens.
"And take that mask off," John continues. "It's freaking me out."
With a snap of the mask's band to further the point of not obeying John's wishes, the black haired sits up and studies him, a smile pulling at the edges of his lips. "No," he simply says, shrugging a shoulder and keeping his stare on John.
Glad for the diminished height difference, John confidently shakes his head. "No," he repeats. "Take the mask off, or, I don't know, get out." Doctor Organ wastes no time in ignoring John and lying back down and curling into the red blanket he had previously stolen twice. John sighs and pulls his dressing gown around his body more, chewing on his lip. "Why are you here?" he asks quietly.
"Apology," the man says against the surgical mask. Looking at John, he slowly blinks and rubs the corner of the quilt in between his fingers. "I am sorry for… not coming earlier… Something came up."
"What?" John falls onto his back. "A guy needed a kidney?"
"You are the only person I've given something to," says Doctor Organ.
"Why?" says John.
"I don't know," says Doctor Organ.
"Interesting," says John.
A groan, and then Doctor Organ is rolling over to the side of the bed, away from John, who, in return, raises an eyebrow and glances about the room, looking for an answer as to why the man had turned into a small child with a temper tantrum. "Um, excuse me?" John asks, as he dares to touch the man's back.
"Oh, shut up," hisses Doctor Organ, and John shuts up and scoots over to the other side of the bed and shuts his eyes and (surprisingly) falls asleep.
When he wakes up, his hair is still damp, and Doctor Organ is plastered to his back with a hand tucked inside John's dressing gown. Said hand has its fingers curling and uncurling on John's chest at the mimic of his breathing patterns. The man's face is safely tucked into the middle of John's shoulder blades, and the mask continues to be transfixed on his mouth, and he's mumbling anatomy terms, and John doesn't mind.
Doctor Organ visits every other night. They argue for an hour or two before falling asleep in each other's arms, and John doesn't mind.
The man refuses to remove his mask.
"Don't you eat?" John inquires one morning fingering a hole in a piece of toast.
"Only when I need to," the other answers, and the slight implication of a smile peeks through.
Chuckling, John tosses the bit of bread in his mouth and chews. "Okay, well, all right, but why don't you remove your mask?"
Doctor Organ sets a mug of fresh coffee before John and runs his fingers through John's hair, picking at the gray spots. "I'm a doctor," he jokes, and then he tells John to drink his coffee, and John does, and Doctor Organ leaves, and John doesn't mind.
After witnessing Doctor Organ climbing through his window and taking his laptop, John cancels his plans with Harry. She's pissed, and Doctor Organ giggles at a murder report, and John doesn't mind.
When John starts to mind, it's as he's walking through the front door of his flat after coming home from work. He is fiercely grabbed by the forearms and lead to the kitchen. The smell of dirt and an opened box of body soap are fresh in the air, but he doesn't qualify that as strange. He thinks he knows who's dragging him into the next room, so he doesn't necessarily say anything. However, he does voice his thoughts when he's shoved into the table. "What are you doing?" he tries to ask Doctor Organ, but having his head slammed into the wooden surface of the furniture doesn't do well to his speech. It doesn't carry profoundly. John attempts at talking again, but the man behind him thrusts three fingers into his mouth, and he chokes and wheezes.
Heart rising in his throat, he can taste blood (whose blood? whose blood! whose blood?!). A quick glance over his shoulder accesses him to more information to aid in his oncoming panic attack. Doctor Organ is covered in the red substance, along with dried mud coating a few streaks of his hair. John stares, positively frightened, and Doctor Organ slides his fingers deeper in the scared one's throat, caressing everything he can touch. He shushes John when he starts to whimper, and after a few moments' hesitation, he digs his hips into John's backside, causing him to yell and claw at the table's edge. John tries to lift himself up, but Doctor Organ presses his chest to John's back and pulls his fingers out and shoves them in again. When John begins to convulse, the maniac doctor grabs the top of John's head, gripping the hair and yanking out a few strands in the process.
John whines at the pain and the awful slip and slide of Doctor Organ's fingers rocking nausea to the peak. He bites down in a weak trial to force the other back, although this proves useless, as Doctor Organ pants into his ear when John's teeth scrape against his knuckles.
No matter how hard he bares his teeth or struggles or cries, he knows defeat is on the horizon.
So, he lies on the table, unresponsive like an abandoned toy.
He feels the other man's heat collecting in between his legs when he presses to John in the faux coitus, but John stays perfectly still. His face twists in a form of agony as he hears the other's final noise in his ear. He shudders against John, whose lips press together and eyes go fuzzy. Gathering what pride he has left, he focuses on the window beside him, at the pale blue sky with the white cotton-ball clouds and soft dust of a snow storm.
Doctor Organ pulls his fingers out from John's mouth. Expecting some kind of response, he takes his time wiping the salvia from his blood-stained appendages. To get the rust-like appearance away, he wraps his tongue around the dyed parts, and John squirms at the sight. His legs curl off the carpeting and join him on the table, which creaks and wobbles. Doctor Organ watches him with careful eyes, and he still has that Goddamned mask on, and tears start rolling down John's face. Catching his breath is hard, and for a couple seconds at a time, air doesn't go down to his lungs. It burns and aches, but John welcomes it.
At the sound of Doctor Organ clearing his throat, John flinches, and when the man in question slowly approaches him, John inches away, body curling and uncurling like a worm. The sick bastard hums at this, and then leaves a soft kiss on John's head, right behind his ear. He runs a hand along John's back and delivers another kiss, and the fabric of the mask is unpleasant, and John cries more violently. He hides his face in his arms and snots all over his jacket sleeves and wishes to be at the park with nice strangers and enjoy the weather with them.
When he recovers, Doctor Organ is gone, and a sheet of loose-leaf paper is on John's refrigerator, held by a single piece of transparent tape.
I think I'm in love with you, John Watson. Doctor Organ
John stays in the bathroom all night.
Harry's place becomes John's unofficial new state of residence. He doesn't tell her the real reason behind wanting to move (apparently missing his sister isn't a valid excuse). It takes a while for her to be convinced of letting him stay, but eventually she allows it. Unable to hide his relief, he wraps his arms around her shoulders and lifts her off the ground, and Harry breathes into his neck, "Well, I guess you did miss me." He laughs it off, and Harry shows him to the spare bedroom, and everything unfolds nicely.
Pretending to be happy isn't plausible, since he is happy here. The small rooms and scented candles remind him of their childhood, and he starts to crave Harry's attention. They spend the mornings making fun of talk show hosts, and they spend the evenings digging out old photo books and making fun of those, as well.
A month passes, and John is still happy.
"I think I'm coming down with something," Harry admits, standing in the doorway to John's room.
John turns a page in his novel. "Better not get me sick."
"You're a fucking prat," she teases, yawning and rubbing her eyes with her knuckles, as she shuffles her feet against the carpet all the way to her bedroom. Before diving into sleep himself, John finishes the chapter. The book makes its home on the floor, and the flowery comforter does, too. The moment John laid eyes on what bed clothes his sister owned, he almost went back to his flat and grabbed the blankets and pillows. But he knew that was childish (and he was a bit scared of going back there, to be honest), so when it's time to go to bed, he tosses it to the ground and doesn't worry about it until morning.
That night, as he watches the quilt lie in a puddle of pink and white, he goes back on his previous action and grabs hold of it, hauling it back onto the mattress, and covering his body with the material. It's a lot softer than he imagined, and he doesn't have time to think about what he's going to have for breakfast tomorrow before he's out like a lightning bug.
At one o'clock in the morning, John hears the slight scrape of an arm against the hallway wall. A soft cough follows it, so his first guess is Harry. He doesn't move much—only enough for the smooth sheets to make his legs numb.
The scrape comes back.
Proceeding, his bedroom door closes.
Breath hitching in his throat, John tries to believe it's only Harry.
The blankets are pushed back, and another body slips in behind John.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Cold fingertips run up the length of John's arm, stopping at the edge of his t-shirt sleeve. "We have to be quiet," the equally-as-cold voice whispers, and John begins to do the exact opposite until a hand claps over his mouth. "We don't want to wake your sister, do we? Oh—you have a sister—how wrong I was."
John can't help it; his eyes open, and they stare into the mystic orbs of Doctor Organ. He becomes paralyzed.
"I want to apologize," the man mumbles, and then doesn't continue, as if the prior statement were his apology.
John's breathing becomes erratic.
Doctor Organ studies John, and John studies Doctor Organ, and John reaches up with a shaking hand and pulls off the flimsy mask, and Doctor Organ lets him, and (dear God) the man has full cupid-bow lips, and they're a shade of the lightest pink available on the color wheel, and he bites into the bottom flesh with his white, white teeth.
John stops breathing. "You're a complete arse," he says, rising into a sitting position, forcing the fake doctor to accompany him, but his movements are that of a toddler's, and he stays on his back, eyes attached to Doctor Organ. He has more to say, but his voice box isn't cooperating, and his head is hurting, so he crumples the mask in his palm and fights to even his breaths, even turning his head to stare at his watch to time himself. Doctor Organ stays silent, and he keeps his gaze on John, who, after five minutes, finally regains composure. "I want you to leave," he says, lowering his voice to a hushed hiss, fearful of Harry's reaction to seeing a strange man in his bed. "You are dangerous."
"You like dangerous," counters Doctor Organ, his eyes narrowing and lips pursing. "And don't try to tell me otherwise, because I know by your dilated pupils and flushed skin that you will be lying."
John lets out a small noise reminiscent of an animal getting kicking in the ribs. "Oh," he sighs.
"Oh," the other repeats, slowly straddling John's hips with warm thighs, "is right." He presses his mouth to John's, and John grabs hold of Doctor Organ's waist and kisses him back (dear God, he kisses him back). The air in the room disappears, and they grab at each other, shredding clothing and using the flowered comforter as protection when they squeeze and grope and moan into their partners' mouths. It isn't until Harry's alarm clock in the opposite room chimes that they stop and kiss the disappointment away from their lips.
Doctor Organ leaves through the window, and John joins Harry in the kitchen, who comments on keeping his porn down. John tells her he will next time and drinks his coffee.
"We have to quit," John whispers to the drool-stained pillowcase. A pale tongue presses to the scar tissue upon his shoulder, tracing the spider-web pattern. "Stop," John tries to say between his suppressed moans and the other's licks. "Harry's going to find out."
"Why does that thought frighten you?" asks Doctor Organ, running his mouth down the length of John's spine. "She knows what you're going through, as she is attracted to the same sex." Abruptly, he joins the blond by his side, eyes wide and curious. "She is, am I right?"
John's reluctantly rolls onto his back, wrinkling his nose at the film gluing the sheet to his stomach. Doctor Organ light-heartedly chuckles and smooths the blanket out while John replies, "Yeah, she is."
"And you are, too, right?" A glance up and down his figure causes John to shiver and grab at the pillow behind his head. He holds it close to his chest.
"I don't know, maybe."
Doctor Organ throws the pillow across the room and wraps his arms around John, pressing their bodies together and catching his mouth in a kiss with far too much teeth. "We'll stop this later," he breathes into John's mouth, his tongue lapping up a bead of sweat collecting at John's temple.
They don't stop.
I like spending time with you. Doctor Organ
I think the feeling is mutual. JW
John informs Harry he's moving back to his old flat.
"About time," she says from her place on the sofa, munching on popcorn. "Now get out of the way—I'm trying to watch the telly."
She's taking this well.
His bedroom curtain is going to catch on fire if Doctor Organ doesn't back the fuck up.
"Back the fuck up," says John. "You're going to catch the curtain on fire."
"I am careful," Doctor Organ retorts around the cigarette hanging off his lip. He opens the window and hangs out of it.
"Back the fuck up," repeats John, shoving his palms to his eyes. "You're going to fall out." All he can hear is a deep laugh, and then the window is shut tightly. "You don't have to close the window," he mumbles, and it is opened once more. The smell of holly and the hint of snow are high in the air, and John wants to capture the fragrance in a jar and store it under his bed. When he's sad, he'll twist the lid off and inhale the smell, and he'll be enveloped in everything that is right in the world.
"Hey."
Dropping his hands from his eyes, John peers to the side of his bed, at Doctor Organ. The cigarette is lit, and ashes are steadily falling off the tip, but the odor isn't present—only the holly and snow are available. Doctor Organ is undressed, as well as John. He has a cup of tea in his possession, fingers tapping along the chipped china. "Would you like this?" he asks, and holds the beverage out. John takes it, and Doctor Organ plops onto the mattress. His legs slide to rest along the plane of his chest as he captures the cigarette in between his index and middle finger. "Is it adequate?" He gestures to the tea, and John quickly scrambles to pour a fraction into his mouth.
The taste is of cinnamon and firewood drowsily melting into a pinch of caramel. John hums, and Doctor Organ smiles. "It's more than adequate," John answers. "Bloody fantastic."
Doctor Organ chews on his cigarette.
"How did you do it?" John continues, shaking his head. "I haven't tasted anything like it. It's like you've captured the essence of, of heaven and mixed it into warm water." The man grins again, and John rambles about the idea of Christmas and fairy lights and baubles. The topic changes to ice and car accidents and hospitals, and John turns into a deer standing in headlights. "Why did you run out in front of my cab?" His voice is low, and Doctor Organ's tone is just as soft.
"Your cabbie was a mad man." He stands and looks around for his trousers, flicking the butt of his cigarette onto the carpet. "Two pills," he muses, dropping to the floor and retrieving another fag and his lighter.
"Pills?" John runs a fingertip along the brim of his teacup. "Serial suicides?" he pipes.
"Ah," Doctor Organ buzzes, confirming John's inquiry. The box-spring squeaks when he returns. "He wasn't alone, however. He was…" He bites his lip. "He was being sponsored."
"Sponsored."
Bouncing ashes onto his knees, Doctor Organ turns to John, unfolding in an inviting posture. "I would like your heart in a jar, John Watson," he exclaims, his face snapping in half to convey his sudden surge of positive emotion.
John spills some tea down his front. "Oh," he mouths.
Thrusting the stick into his mouth again, Doctor Organ narrows his eyes. "Not good?"
"A bit not good, yeah," John mumbles, digging his thumb into his thigh. "Why do you want my heart in a jar?" he asks carefully.
"I don't want your heart in a jar," he says, eyes rolling and arms waving. "I need your heart in a jar, John Watson. I already have one, but it is not yours." He leans forward at this, and then he's kissing John's neck, and John's shaking and launching the contents of the cup all over his bed covers.
"Whose heart is it?" he prods, prepared for a terrifying journey into uncharted territory.
But instead of taking his hand and dragging them into a world full of explosions and bloodshed, Doctor Organ jumps from the bed and cradles his cigarette close to his mouth. "More tea?" he offers, swiping the item from John and disappearing into the kitchen.
The sky is dark and full of thunder when Doctor Organ receives a text. His phone vibrates from his coat and wakes John, who is lying on top of the device. The blond grunts and turns a way in order for Doctor Organ to check the message. "Be quick," he murmurs, followed by a snore.
I don't appreciate your ongoing relationship with Dr. Watson. M
"It's unimportant," he whispers, tossing his mobile underneath John's bed. "Work," he lies.
"What do you even do?" John's voice is glued together with sand and intimacy.
Doctor Organ cups John's shoulder and rolls his thumb over the naked flesh. "I'm a consulting detective," he answers. "The Work I attract is dull, so I do a bit of experimentation on the side." He watches John stir, admires the muscles underneath his skin. Dissection is his prime operative with this man.
John yawns into Doctor Organ's armpit. "Why do you steal organs?"
"Because I want to see if I am able to."
On their three-month anniversary, they have a proper date.
Well, John considers a "proper" date as one where you're having fun with your partner, no matter what you're into. In this case, they are chasing a woman, who Doctor Organ says is a murderer, down an alley. She is fast, but they are faster, and when Scotland Yard shows up, John isn't questioned by the Detective Inspector over his connection to the tall man refusing to leave his side. Doctor Organ only stares at the salt-and-pepper-headed adult with an expression John doesn't understand, but the other clearly does, and they aren't bothered for the remaining hours of the night.
Doctor Organ walks John home, and they share a goodbye kiss made of adrenaline, lust, and impatience. John watches him depart with an ache in his chest and a damp mouth, but those are quickly diminished upon stepping into his bedroom and seeing the detective atop his bed wrapped up in his white cotton bed sheets and little else.
"Fuck," says John.
They do exactly that.
During the odd hours of the night, Doctor Organ is smoking a cigarette and staining John's wallpaper yellow. John is watching him and doing not much to stop his wallpaper from wilting. "What do you want me to do to you?" the smoker asks, raising a hand to scratch particles of his scalp.
Driven by impulsion and curiosity, John plucks at a hair on Doctor Organ's chest. "Take out my tonsils."
John doesn't regret the decision as he studies the strange man shake the vestigial organs in a small jar while he's lying in the bathtub. He has the widest grin and the brightest expression, and John smiles along with him, no matter the prior experiences in this very room.
After the amusement of watching the body parts float and smash against the casings passes, Doctor Organ climbs into the tub with John and feeds him vanilla ice cream and sings him lullabies until they both fall asleep.
I am in love with you, John Watson. Doctor Organ
I love fucking you. JW
It is hailing.
John has his eyes closed, and he's mimicking the breathing patterns of the consulting detective lying beside him. The atmosphere is quaint and cold. Forced to press together under the heat of the quilts are the two doctors. Their heads are put like puzzle pieces, and John's palm is getting sweaty from the grip of Doctor Organ. His fingers twitch and acquire the pins-and-needles feeling, but the other doesn't let go. "John," he says into his hair. John, alert, slowly opens his eyes and tilts his head back. He rubs his face with his free hand and nudges Doctor Organ his acknowledgement. "John," the man says, brow furrowing.
"What is it?" John reaches out and pokes at the fleshy part of his mouth before pecking it with dry lips.
The ambience of Doctor Organ's face looks like someone under great stress. John's beginning to think it's the other's hand that's sweating profusely, although, that accusation doesn't travel far, for Doctor Organ turns his head toward him; and with eternal eyes and a quiet pronunciation, he says, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."