Part 5 of Long Bondlock Prompt Fills
Prompt: John has always been able to read minds - it's how he handles Sherlock so well. John always knows what Sherlock needs and when to give the man some alone time. Can Sherlock find out on a case?
- KristiGetsVibes
John Watson realised that he was different from everyone else when he was a small child. The crucial moment of awareness came when his mother pulled him aside as they were buying groceries one day and said, "John, sweetheart, you have to stop making things like that up. It's rude."
Six year old John was confused. He didn't understand how he knew that the man in the red shirt was worried about his brother in the hospital, or how the woman in the pretty flower dress didn't love her husband but liked the neighbour, John only knew that he did.
As John and his mother strolled through the store, John would tug on his mother's dress and say, "Mum, that lady didn't like your shoes." or, "Mummy, that man right there has a dog at home, but he forgot to give it food this morning."
John's mother had found her son's active imagination cute, at first, but she realised as John grew older that he wouldn't stop. Mrs. Watson soon became annoyed with her son's fictitious ramblings, and told him to keep them to himself.
"But Mum-"
"I said no, John, and I don't want to talk about this again!" she snapped.
Tears sprung to little John's eyes. He didn't understand why his mother would be mad at him for simply saying what he heard. John spent the duration of the trip with his head down. Maybe, he thought, if I don't look at them I won't hear them anymore.
But, to his dismay, voices still flooded into his head. Was this not normal? John didn't know, but he wouldn't dare bring the topic up again.
As John grew older, he learned to keep quiet about the voices he heard. The voices of his mother and father were constantly in his head, as was Harry's. When he went to school, the voices multiplied until they were almost painful, and John often complained of headaches during the day. John kept to himself, for the most part, as it was hard to make friends when he kept answering questions that weren't spoken aloud.
John eventually convinced himself that he wasn't crazy, and that the voices he was hearing were actually the thoughts of others. Still, he kept it to himself, unwilling to let someone else know his secret. The last thing he wanted was to be labelled as a freak.
He even knew Harry liked girls before she did. He often caught her thinking romantic thoughts about her best friend Clara, but it took nearly a year before Harry admitted to herself - even in her head. It wasn't until six months after that when she finally told her parents. Harry was scared of telling Clara about her feelings, afraid of rejection. John desperately wanted to tell Harry that everything would be alright - that Clara fancied her as well - but he was too afraid of what his sister would think of him.
Despite not talking very much, John always wanted to help people. It was easy, of course, when you knew exactly what they wanted. He would leave little 'You are loved!' notes in someone's locker if they were depressed, or anonymously give a chocolate bar to a girl who was alone on Valentine's Day. John was constantly volunteering at the hospital. He loved going into the children's ward and cheering them up by bringing little gifts. He was continually spending all of his allowance on small stuffed animals to pass out.
When John was fifteen, he joined the school's football team (he was an excellent goalie, given the fact that he knew where his opponent was going to kick the ball). It was here that John's life finally turned around. He was liked, for the first time in his life.
John was constantly being invited to after game parties and to hang out with lads from the team. It was all such a new concept for him, having friends.
John decided to become a doctor when he was fourteen. He had gone to the ER for a sprained ankle, and the doctor attending him was caught up in her own thoughts. One of her patients had recently passed away from cancer - which could have been treated sooner if the patient hadn't been hiding their symptoms for so long. The doctor was distraught over it.
John realised that he could have helped. If he was a doctor, he would be able to help people, and they wouldn't be able to lie about their symptoms. He was grinning for the rest of the night.
The decision to enlist in the army, however, didn't come until much later. John was an adrenaline junkie, after all, and he had to pay for medical school somehow. Joining the medical corps seemed like the best option, and it gave John something he hadn't had in a long time: a purpose. Usually medics weren't meant to fight on the front lines, but John had specifically volunteered. He had watched good men die and bad men walk free and seen pain. So much pain, and suffering.
Yet, even as he was lying in the hot desert sand with a bullet searing white hot pain through his shoulder, he couldn't bring himself to regret his decision.
And then he was sent home. Cast aside. A medic was no good if he couldn't hold a needle steady, and a soldier was useless if he could barely walk. John could hear the pity in the thoughts around him, penetrating his mind and demanding not to be ignored. He could hear it when the nurse told him he was being invalided home, when his therapist took asked about his blog, and when his sister handed him her old phone with a slurred, 'Call me.' Worst of all, he could hear it in the thoughts of random passersby when they saw his cane and inability to walk properly.
But when John first met Sherlock, it was like a slap to the face.
While on active duty, he had met many different people; intelligent minds tended to be louder and faster, and children's minds were soft and pure. A drunk's mind was especially slow, and it almost made John feel like he was battling through syrup when he felt the fog of a druggie's thoughts. Introverts' minds were less invasive; they didn't flood into his head and demand attention like an extrovert's did. He even once had the pleasure of meeting a person with synesthesia whilst in Afghanistan.
Every mind had its own… signature. For example, he'd never mistake Harry's thoughts for his mother's, because Harry's mental voice was distinctly Harry. Sometimes a person's signature was similar to their actual voice, and other times it would take John weeks to put a voice to a person.
But Sherlock — Sherlock was something special. The moment John had walked into the lab at Bart's, Sherlock's voice had entered his mind and sucked John in. Sherlock's thoughts were invigorating. Many were flying by simultaneously with incredible speed, a speed that John had never encountered before. Formulas and equations were currently on the man's mind, and something to do with a riding crop left in the morgue.
John had to pull himself out of the man's engaging mind and realised that Mike was still in the room with him, expecting him to say something. John glanced about the lab, noting the new technological equipment, before finally landing on the owner of the magnificent thoughts.
"Well, bit different from my day," John joked, but his eyes were still locked in the man sitting on a stool, eyes focused on the microscope in front of him.
He was skinny. That was the first thing John noticed, of course, his medical mind supplying him with a quick estimation of how underweight the man was. Nothing a few good meals won't fix, John thought. The man had a thick head of dark brown curls, and was as pale as they came.
At John's words, the man glanced up from the experiment in front of him to Mike, and then slid his eyes over to John. John felt shivers roll up his spine from the piercing gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it came. The man - Sherlock, from the sound of Mike's thoughts - looked back down to the microscope, but his thoughts were entirely on John.
The deductions happened in such quick succession that if John hadn't been paying close attention, he might have missed them.
'Haircut, stance: obviously military. Cane + limp? Said 'different from my day' — suggests trained at Bart's. Needs confirmation. Back to limp: Doesn't ask for a chair? Possibly psychosomatic. Psychosomatic limp = traumatic injury. Wounded in action. Boring.'
John was still reeling from the the - very accurate - assumptions that this man had made about his life. How had he done that? John was so caught up in his own (and Sherlock's) thoughts that he didn't register that Sherlock had asked a question at first.
He snapped back to the present as Mike said, "And what's wrong with the landline?"
"I prefer to text," Sherlock responded, still not looking up from the eyepieces.
Mike patted his pockets before saying, "Sorry. It's in my coat."
He was lying, of course; John heard Mike think about his new phone - which was in his trousers at the moment, and how he didn't want it scratched just yet.
'Liar.'
The thought came from Sherlock, who knew by Mike's hesitation when he patted his right pocket everything that John knew from reading Mike's mind.
'Incredible,' John thought.
Sherlock's thoughts reached John again, demanding attention. 'I need to let Lestrade know about the gardener. I am not making another trip to Scotland Yard, I have too many important experiments at home. If Lestrade is still bumbling around tomorrow, I could tell-'
John reached into his back pocket and fished out his old phone. "Er, here. Use mine," he said, offering the small device.
Sherlock's eyes - and thoughts - immediately shifted to John. "Oh, thank you," he said. Sherlock glances at Mike before standing and walking over to John.
Mike had realised by now that he should probably introduce them. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."
The deductive thoughts came rushing back to John as Sherlock took the phone from him. 'Friend of Mike (who also trained at Bart's) confirms medical background. Medical service + army = army doctor. Tan on body (not above wrist/below neck) hasn't faded yet, so recently invalided home. (Afghanistan or Iraq?) Army pension is very little, possibly looking for flat sh— Oh, of course. Mike brought him here as a potential flatmate for me (either he really hates this man, or John has the patience of a saint).'
This all happened as Sherlock took the phone from John. John was almost getting a headache from the quickness of the man's thoughts. He took a deep breath as another wave of thoughts came when Sherlock glanced at the phone.
Oh, an expensive phone. This is interesting. Man like that, obviously not very familiar with technology. He wouldn't waste his money on this: most likely a gift. Scratches on charging port, not one but many over time; owner was careless. Military man wouldn't treat his one luxury item so poorly, it's had a previous owner. Definitely a gift then, but from whom? Ah, there we are.' Sherlock took note of the engraving on back. 'Harry Watson: family member. Obvious. Small likelihood of father being previous owner; possibly cousin (looking for a flatshare, also unlikely), therefore brother. Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses means romantic ties (idiotic, honestly - how can x's represent kisses?). Factor in expense of phone (wife is more likely than girlfriend) and model (recent, about six months old) means marriage troubles. He definitely left her if he got rid of the phone. Gave phone to brother, suggests he wants to keep in touch. So why wouldn't a man with a low army pension looking for a cheap place to stay go to his brother? (Mental note: search flat for Mycroft's bugs. Again.) Has problems with brother, obviously, but- Ah. There it is. Harry's a drunk going by the scratches on the port. Army and medical man would disapprove of his brother's drinking problem.'
The thoughts were so quick that it took John a few seconds to recover from them. Sherlock snapped him out of his thoughts when he asked while texting, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
John frowned, trying to figure out how he was supposed to react. He settled for just saying. "Sorry?"
He could hear the smugness oozing off of Mike's thoughts, as if Sherlock was just a party trick to show off.
Seeming impatient, Sherlock glanced up to see the look of confusion on John's face. "Which was it," he asked again, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Afghanistan," John answered. He then realised a normal person would enquire how he did that. He asked, "Sorry, how did you know...?"
Sherlock ignored him completely as a small mouse of a girl rushed into the room. Her thoughts were kindhearted and soft. "Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." John could hear the way the praise made the girl practically glow, and immediately knew that Sherlock was using her for access to the lab. A little flirting could go a long way.
John's phone was handed back to him as Sherlock took the mug from Molly. He suddenly frowned, eyes narrowing as he glanced at her face. "What happened to the lipstick?" Sherlock's curiosity was genuine - he didn't understand that Molly had put the lipstick on for him.
Molly's cheeks warmed, and she squeaked out a lie, "It wasn't working for me."
Sherlock turned and strolled back to his microscope. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too..." he waved his hand searching for the right word, "small, now." Sherlock took a sip from the mug and grimaced at the taste. 'I said two sugars,' he griped.
Molly smiled awkwardly, "...Okay." She turned and scurried out the door, her thoughts embarrassed and rejected.
Sherlock spoke, focused on his laptop, "How do you feel about the violin?"
John realised belatedly that Sherlock was talking to him. "I'm sorry, what?"
Sherlock's thoughts were annoyed. 'A slow one, great.' He continued to type as he talked, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He finally looked up at John, almost revelling in the confused expression there. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He gave John a hideously fake smile, while John continued to just stare blankly.
John glanced across the room to Mike. "Oh, you… you told him about me?" John knew Mike didn't, of course, but it seemed like a logical question. John still had a part to play, after all.
Mike was extremely pleased with John's baffled expression. "Not a word," he confirmed.
John turned to Sherlock again, "Then who said anything about flatmates?"
"I did." Sherlock picked up his coat and shrugged it on. "Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Sherlock's voice suggested that the conclusion should have been obvious.
John wanted to hear his speak his deduction out loud. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"
Sherlock ignored him, instead wrapping his scarf around his neck. He picked up his mobile again. 'Damn, still no signal. The morgue always has good signal - I left my crop there anyways. Might as well go. Hopefully I can avoid Molly...'
"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," he said, distracted by his thoughts. "Together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock walked towards John and gave him another fake smile. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening: seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
He then proceeded to practically strut to the door.
'Don't let him leave!' A voice in John's head demanded. "Is that it?" he called, turning to look at Sherlock.
Sherlock, who was nearly out the door, paused and strolled closer to John. "Is that what?"
"We've only just met, and we're gonna go look at a flat?"
Sherlock's face was blank, but his thoughts were genuinely puzzled. "Problem?" He asked.
John smiled at the genius's thickness.
'Here we go.' Mike thought. John looked at him, but Mike just continued to smile away.
John turned back to Sherlock. "We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and double checked all of his deductions before firing off, "I know that you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid."
At the mention of the limp, John's leg flared up in pain. He glanced down at it and shuffled awkwardly on his cane.
Sherlock smiled smugly, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He began to exit the room, only to stop and lean his head back in dramatically. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He sent John a wink and called "Afternoon," to Mike, and then he was gone with a twist of his coat.
And thus began of a whirlwind adventure that ended with John putting a bullet through a cabbie's chest not nearly twenty-four hours later.
Really, living with Sherlock wasn't all that bad.
Of course, the man had no respect for personal space whatsoever - and the git was always leaving decomposing fingers in the butter dish - but other than that, the duo complimented each other greatly.
For the first few months after John moved in, he kept expecting the genius to right out call him out on the fact that he could read minds, but Sherlock never did. Luckily for John, Sherlock was mostly absorbed in his own thoughts.
Whenever Sherlock would get suspicious (as John would often bring him a cup of tea when he was thirsty - before he asked for it), John would have to deflect with a 'I wanted a cuppa and thought you might too', or 'I don't want you to get cold.'
Mycroft, on the other hand, was completely suspicious of John from the start. He never quite guessed the mind reader bit, but he was constantly putting John under supervision, looking for any signs of shady activity. John thought it was touching, really, how much Mycroft cared about his younger brother, even if he couldn't put the feeling into words.
John knew when Sherlock was fooling himself into believing that he wasn't hungry, or tired, and it was then that John would step in and force the detective to eat or sleep. If John was completely honest, he wasn't quite sure how Sherlock had survived this long without John there to keep him from harming himself. It was a wonder that the man hadn't simply collapsed from all the stress he put on his body.
Sherlock's mind palace was literally just that: a palace. The place was huge, and when Sherlock was distracted John would sometimes wander the halls. He tried not to invade Sherlock's privacy too much, but he couldn't help but to stumble across a whole wing of the house that was dedicated to him. Sherlock had classified John's likes and dislikes, fears and joys, even how he took his tea when he was in different moods.
Each case had it's own place (the larger and more memorable cases had their own room, while the quick ones were tucked away in a filing cabinet.)
John was completely surprised to find that social niceties were displayed in the foyer - Sherlock simply ignored them, using them only when there was no other way to get something he wanted.
John also knew that when he called other people idiots, he wasn't exaggerating. Sherlock was quite the show off, but he had every reason to be, really. His mind flew at ten times the speed of others. He wasn't trying to insult others with his remarks on their lack of intelligence, he was simply stating a fact.
Worst of all, John knew just how much Sally and Anderson's comments affected him. The man was wrapped up in layers of armour, but everytime Sally hissed, 'Freak,' at him, the word would bounce around in his brain for sometime after, destroying everything in its path. John also knew how much his whispers of, 'incredible,' or 'amazing,' helped. The younger man was so unused to receiving compliments, that it took him a while to accept John's. He now preened under John's affections, and - not that Sherlock would ever admit it - sometimes tried to impress John with his deductions just so he could receive praise.
It wasn't until a few weeks after the Blind Banker affair that Sherlock began to notice that something was… off about John. They were working a case in Dublin at the moment; Sherlock was particularly excited - a triple homicide posed as a double murder and suicide.
The day had been a stressful one, and John's control had slipped. He had responded to one too many of Sherlock's thoughts, and the man was starting to catch on. John made sure to get many things wrong for the remainder of the day, and slowly Sherlock's mind returned to the case.
The blow to the back of the head, however, had been a surprise. Sherlock and he were investigating a warehouse (why was it always a warehouse?), and John was so wrapped up in Sherlock's deductive thoughts that he simply didn't notice the man sneaking up on them both until it was too late.
John felt the piercing pain in the back of his head, and had one moment of petrifying fear - Sherlock! - before his consciousness slipped away.
When John woke, he first noticed that his arms were bound tightly behind his back, and his ankles were tethered together. The next thing was that there was a crushing weight on his chest and he had a mouthful of hair.
John peeled his eyes open, only to be met with piercing blue-grey ones inches away from his own. "Erm, hello." he scratched out.
Sherlock blinked. "Ah, you're awake. Good." He rolled off of John and back onto the concrete floor. John realised that Sherlock was bound in a similar fashion to himself. He had a small cut on his temple that hadn't quite stopped bleeding yet, but his head was clear. "Untie me."
"Good to see you too," John rolled his eyes.
"Don't be snarky, John, it doesn't become you. Besides, this is your fault." Sherlock's thoughts were racing again, trying to absorb all the information around him in order to find a way out.
"Oh," John said, wriggling around to where he was back to back with the consulting detective. His fingers grasped at the rope around Sherlock's wrists, but he couldn't seem to get a good grip on it. "How so?"
"You were supposed to be the lookout."
"Now, hang on, when did we decide that?"
Sherlock huffed, "It seemed obvious, John. I search for evidence while you keep us safe. Which you did a great job at, by the way."
"You're being a bit of a git right now, Sherlock." But John wasn't going to be too hard on him, because Sherlock was mentally playing out every useful scenario, desperately trying to keep them alive.
John still couldn't get the rope off Sherlock's wrists. "Damn it."
"Did they take your gun?"
John finally noticed the absence of the familiar weight against his back, and cursed. "Yes."
"Well, this is quite a predicament."
"Well put." A hysterical giggle tore through John. "What do they want then, Sherlock?"
"He," Sherlock corrected. "It was a pair that murdered those people, but one of them took the money and bailed. The other is probably going to ask us for his location so he can take his revenge."
"And after that?" John asked, though he could hear the echoing worry in Sherlock's thoughts.
"Working on that bit."
"Right," John muttered, just as the warehouse door swung open. A man sauntered in, only about twenty-four or so. His thoughts instantly invaded John's mind. This man was deranged, his thoughts a wicked snarl that John could hardly decipher. He was angry that his partner had screwed him over, and was willing to do whatever it took to get his revenge.
But John didn't like the… feral taint to this man's thoughts. His mind was clouded with rage and it was making him delirious. And he had John's gun.
John knew there was no way he could ever let this man near Sherlock.
The man, slightly inebriated, squinted at the pair of them. He slurred, "Which one of you is Sh'lock 'olmes?"
Both John and Sherlock spoke quickly, "I am."
The man glared at them, and John winced when his thoughts turned darker.
"I am," John spoke again, raising himself to his knees and shuffling to where he was slightly in front of Sherlock's prone form.
"John," Sherlock hissed, but John cut him off by reaching back and covering the man's mouth with his hand. He didn't even flinch when Sherlock bit it.
"Prove it," the man sneered. He pulled John's Browning out of his jeans and aimed it at them shakily. "And you better not be lyin' to me, right now. Or I'll shoot."
John took a steadying breath, trying to recall everything that had gone through the man's mind so far. He pulled the deductions right from Sherlock's head. "You have a two year old daughter; she's staying with your parents at the moment. Her birthday was recent, but you couldn't get her the toy she wanted - it was too expensive. That's what spurred you to get with your buddy and rob that family's house. You didn't mean to kill them, it was supposed to be an in-and-out job." At John's words, the man's head raced. John plucked out the name. "It was all Michael's idea to kill them, wasn't it?"
The man sniffed, and nodded. "No witnesses, he said. I didn't wanna do it, but- but he said if I didn't he was gonna kill me, too." His hand shook harder. "And- and now I have you two after me. I have you two to get rid of as well."
John jumped at the opportunity. "Just me. Let him go. He doesn't know anything."
"Jo-" Sherlock tried to say, but John tightened his hand. John could hear the confusion in Sherlock's thoughts, and smiled sadly.
"Quiet, John," John said, "let me do this."
The man's eyes were narrowed suspiciously. "I let him go, and you'll tell me where Michael ran off to?"
John nodded, easily lifting the information from Sherlock's head. "But only if you let him go. If you don't, you get nothing."
The man nodded, slowly, and strode forward to Sherlock and John. He pulled a knife out from his boot, and cut through the rope binding Sherlock's ankles together. Before Sherlock could lash out, the man grabbed a fistful of John's cropped hair and held the gun threateningly to his temple.
"There," he said. "Your partner's free to find his own way back. You and I, Mr. Holmes, are going to have a nice chat. I'll drive." He began to lead John backwards, and John had to grit his teeth against the pain.
John should have known sooner that the man had no intention of letting Sherlock leave. He only wished he had more time to prepare.
The moment the man's thoughts shifted towards harming Sherlock, John heaved himself onto his side, knocking the younger man off balance. The gun dropped, and Sherlock reared to his feet, racing to grab it. The man was quicker, however, and shoved John off of him to reach for the weapon.
John winced when he felt his wrist snap at the impact of the fall, but still managed to squirm up and throw himself on top of the man. John was trying everything to distract the man long enough for Sherlock to escape.
"Run," he gritted out, and winced when the man's elbow collided with his nose. The man clambered on top of him and grabbed two fistfuls of John's hair. John saw stars when the man lifted his head and slammed it back down onto the concrete.
John felt the forgotten knife underneath him, and painfully pulled his hand out of the rope that bound his wrists. His mind raced with the knowledge that he shouldn't be able to do that - simply push the bulk of his other wrist out of the way. Definitely broken, then.
With his good hand, John grabbed the knife and tried to cut at the man's midsection. John, however, was certainly concussed and his movements weren't as quick as he would have liked. The man tore the knife from his grip and John could only register painpainwhitehotpain before a shot rang out and the man dropped to the floor.
Absently, John reached up and put his hand over the large wound in his stomach, as if a simple touch could stop the flow of blood.
"John?" Sherlock questioned, but his voice seemed so far away.
'Blood loss,' John's brain supplied. 'You're going into shock and losing too much blood.'
"Sher-" John choked, and felt a pair of hands cover his own, applying pressure. John realised that he should be in pain right now, but at the moment he was blissfully - mercifully - numb.
"John. John look at me," Sherlock commanded. John tried. Truly, he did, but Sherlock was slipping from his vision. "Just hold on. You're going to be alright." He could hear the panic and horror in Sherlock's thoughts, but couldn't find the strength to bring himself to reassure the younger man that he was okay.
"Mycroft is on his way, just stay with me."
John was confused. When did Sherlock call Mycroft?
'Oh, don't die. You can't die on me, John.' Sherlock chanted in his head. His thoughts were frantic.
"'M not goin' die." John blinked lazily, "Just… jus' rest."
"No! Don't, John. You can't. Who- who will make the tea?"
John smiled. He held on long enough to see red and blue lights flashing on the warehouse walls, and then was pulled under by the grip of blissful peace.
John woke to beeping.
Annoying, incessant beeping that was all too familiar to him.
'So, not dead then,' he thought.
He stirred in the lumpy hospitable bed, and was suddenly aware of the warm hand holding his. He tried to peel his eyes open, but the lights above him made it impossible to do anything but squint.
"John," Sherlock called. "I require your assistance."
He snorted. Was it so hard to have a moment of peace? Why cou-
John froze, realising that Sherlock hadn't called his name, but thought it.
Bugger.
"John," Sherlock said, speaking aloud this time.
John wet his lips slowly, and was grateful for the cup of water suddenly placed under his lips. The cool liquid soothed his throat, and when he was finished he calmly said, "Sorry, John is asleep and can't answer any detective's questions."
His eyes were still closed, but he could hear the smugness radiating off of Sherlock's thoughts. 'I knew it.'
Deciding there was no point in hiding it, John said, "No, you didn't."
'I guessed.'
"I thought you never guessed."
Sherlock was slightly annoyed at being caught in his own words, but nothing could dampen his triumphant mood. 'This is fascinating.'
"You can speak out loud, you know."
'Waste of time. This is much more convenient. How long have you been able to do this?'
"Ever since I can remember, really. I-" John stopped suddenly as a new set of thoughts entered his range. "Your brother's coming."
A few seconds later, Sherlock heard the distinct footsteps on the linoleum tile.
'Incredible,' he thought as Mycroft and his assistant walked in.
"What are you doing here, brother dear? Isn't there a country that needs running?"
Mycroft smiled cynically at Sherlock, and John's lips twitched at the annoyed thoughts circling through both brothers' heads.
Mycroft turned to John, eyes running over the doctor's frame, His eyes narrowed. "Hm, I see Mr. Richard did a number on you."
"Was that the bastard's name, then?" Sherlock asked.
John frowned. "Was? Is he dead?"
"I shot him," Sherlock said plainly. "Hardly my fault he couldn't survive the bullet in his chest."
"Jesus, Sherlock. I don-"
"Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, "go get me some coffee."
Sherlock started, "What? No. Isn't that what your assistant is for?" The three men glanced at said assistant, who was still typing away on her phone. John knew from her thoughts that she wasn't as oblivious as she seemed. She bristled at the thought of being sent on a coffee run.
"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft demanded. Sherlock glared at his brother, but John nodded at him, telling him it was fine. Mycroft only wanted a word alone with John.
Sherlock huffed, and thought to John, 'I'll get him coffee, alright, but I'm spitting in it and buying a slice of cake to eat in front of him.'
John smiled at the thoughts, causing Sherlock to wink and Mycroft's eyes to narrow. Sherlock whisked himself out of the room, effortlessly dramatic.
Mycroft turned to John and cleared his throat, "It has come to my attention that last night, you attempted to sacrifice yourself for my brother."
John winced at the moment of crushing fear that ran through Mycroft's mind at the thought of losing his brother.
"Thank you," Mycroft said, his voice completely sincere.
John nodded. "It was nothing," he said. He reached to the side and used the remote to lift himself to a sitting position. "Hand me my chart, please."
Mycroft sighed, and instead picked the clipboard up himself. "Hm, let's see. Lacerations to the wrists and ankles, bruises here and there. Moderate concussion, fractured wrist and, of course, a stab wound to the abdominal cavity. The knife nicked both your large and small intestines; you were in surgery for about two hours. You needed three blood transfusions."
"Whoops," John chuckled, and Mycroft gave him a tight smile.
"Yes, well, next time try harder to not get stabbed."
"I'll do my best," John laughed, and then winced at the dull ache in his stomach.
Mycroft's eyes flickered over John again, analysing. "You need to rest and refuel your strength, Doctor." He began to stroll to the door as Sherlock walked back in, coffee and cake in hand.
Mycroft gave a gloating look to his brother, and then turned to face John. "And, in the meantime, please try to keep out of other's thoughts. Good day," he called, and practically strutted out the door, assistant in tow.
John and Sherlock froze, staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock looked around the room and snarled, "Stupid bugs."
As always, if anyone wants to take a fill and turn it into a fully-fleshed story, just send me a head's up and I'll put a link to your story at the end of the chapter :)
Leave a prompt in the comments if you want more. Each fill will be around 5,000 words.