Left Hand Turn
Summary: AU. World famous violinist has suffered a tragic accident, leaving him unable to play his beloved instrument anymore. Can John Watson, a therapeutic doctor, pick up the pieces and put Sherlock Holmes back together? Slash
Warning: Slash, adult relationships, homosexual content, strong language.
A/N: I figured I'd give this a shot. I'm getting rather bored with my other fandoms and since I do love reading Sherlock slash—why not give it a go? Now, coming up with a plot was probably the most generic thing ever. I mean, this does sound cliché, doesn't it? Eh, anyway, I will try my best to make it utterly fantastic and original. I absolutely promise. I don't think any of my characters will appear ooc, but if so please tell me so I can place them back to their original personality? Though, it's not that hard to keep them in character, is it? This first chapter may seem a bit short; the rest will be of exceptional length. Right, enough ranting, please enjoy the story!
Chapter One
Cameras, flashing lights, far too many people talking (let alone thinking) for Sherlock to even comprehend- which is odd because Sherlock is a very comprehending person. The crutch stuck firmly under his arm helping him maneuver through the massive crowed wasn't enough to keep the man balanced, so his manager—Lestrade, was forced to become a secondary crutch for the famous violinist.
"Sir, mister Sherlock, sir," repeated an eager man with a microphone, wanting questions that were probably too personal for Sherlock to answer, "are the rumors true, will you truly never play again?"
Lestrade saved him; he always did, but quickly shoving through the crowd with the best of his abilities and uttering the same phrase over and over again as they reached the limo waiting outside of the medical building, "Sherlock isn't accepting any questions as of now,"
"Do you have any comments on the current status of your upcoming shows?" asks a dark woman, her hair pinned to the back of her head in perfect tightness, her make-up light as she spoke with perfect slurs, obviously a trained news-reporter, "are you not attending them?"
"I told you," it was nasty, but could you blame the manager of a world famous musician to become irritated in such a situation? "Mister Sherlock will not be addressing any statements or question-"
"I've no longer the ability to go through with my shows, let alone my musical career. Be sure to write that word-for-word in your tabloids, wouldn't want people getting their hopes up, do we? I will never play violin again," it was blunt, almost sad to the horning people that were quickly jotting down the man's words in shock and disappointment.
Lestrade didn't bother looking to his client; he hadn't even bothered looking up from the cemented ground beneath his feet as the crowd of people finally respected the talented man and his boss as they made way to the limo. Flashes went off here and there, but no words were uttered and no questions were asked. They all watched the once so adoring violinist climb with struggle into the back of the long vehicle and drive away.
xxx;
"John, stop. John! Johnny, please just wait… jussss waaaiitt," slurs Harry, her short skimpy dress hiking up her thighs more than John would have ever wanted to witness. Just as the doctor reached the door of the apartment that he shared with his sister, he turned to face the woman with a cold look as he held his suitcase in his hand.
"I'm done giving you second chances, Harry; I can't live like this anymore. I'm moving out," he ignored the hurt expression of the intoxicated woman, who couldn't even stand straight let alone look at her brother without going cross-eyed, "You need anything call me, but don't expect me to come helping when you're like—like… this,"
It wasn't that he didn't care for his sister, simply the fact the no matter how much he stayed with her and tried to pull her back together, she never truly stuck through with his help. She'd always call him needing a ride, drunk as ever, and uncooperative. Watching his sister waste away and become a shriveled mess, he just couldn't do it anymore. He'd rather leave her alone to waste away than feel even more failure having her waste away while he's there. It was logical. Or, he hoped so.
"John wait, I'll do better, I'll—"
He didn't give her another minute to beg. He opened the door, said a slow and quiet goodbye, and slammed the door of the flat shut. It echoed, and he knew his sister would be on her knees plugging her ears with her hands as she cursed at the loud noise of the slam, but he didn't make himself care, he forced away any sympathy that he had left.
Ten minutes later, John could be found in a small café that was opened twenty-four hours just on the corner of his sister's street. He sat in the corner, a cheap coffee grasped firmly as he stared into space. Great, he thought to himself, now I'm bloody homeless. He moaned again when he looked at the time on his wrist watch, he had to be to work in nearly three hours—this was absolutely ridiculous.
"Shame, isn't it?"
This makes John jump, looking to the scruffy man behind the counter of the café, "Huh?"
Motioning to the flat screened television in the far corner opposite of John, the doctor's eyes switched from the man to the current picture on the screen—there was a man on crutches, and another walking alongside him, they looked familiar, but he wasn't up to date on social media. The man who previous made his coffee spoke, "good talent like that wasted away, he'll become a dead-beat before you know it now,"
"Who was he… I mean, who is he…?" asks John with faint curiosity, though he truly hadn't bothered to care, he didn't know this 'famous' man personally.
The employee looked to John in astonishment, "You don't know who he is? That's Sherlock Holmes, only the greatest violinist to ever grace earth with his presence! He was fantastic, even those punk kids liked him, he could make a grown man cry without even getting through a whole song,"
"Ah. So what happened then?"
There was a scoff, which made John feel stupid for not knowing scandalous media, "It was an accident, shot his nerves or some crazy medical thing like that. Can you believe his luck?"
"Yeah," whispered John, looking back to the TV and staring at it. Soon he forgot about the man called Sherlock and left a tip for the hardly informative man behind the counter. He grabbed bags and headed for the door. After all, he needed to be to work in less than an hour. Sarah was going to be absolutely cross with him.
tbc