AN: First of all, this story is pre-/AU series 3. It does also include mentions of torture injuries- just one moderately graphic reference in this chapter, but any following will have a significantly greater inclusion. This isn't about obscene gore or torture vulgarity, it is purely an emotive tool. It has been written to induce the sort of angst that gets the hairs on the back of your neck standing to attention, not to sicken the stomach.
The reunion of Sherlock and John absolutely fascinates me- the reactions and interactions , as portrayed and brought to life so skilfully by these two fantastic actors, are quite brilliant- beautiful, and I wanted to explore that. Coupled with a fondness for hurt/comfort, scars, and post-torture reveal, this is one of the creations that has been floating around in my head as a result of that.
I can't promise to update this frequently or regularly, and I don't even have a full story in mind. Just a couple of context-less scenes. So this may just result in possibly little more than a two-shot, but I promise you- if I have something in my head, I will write it down and get it up for you in a matter of days. It may even blossom into a collection of short works surrounding these themes, but I promise that I will try and write whenever I have anything in my head.
For all of you fascinated by secrets and revelations surrounding the reunion- keep reading. There may be more.
John gave a discreet cough, and removed his hand from the orifice it had been examining. He let his eyes loop to the ceiling as the middle-aged man in front of him turned over awkwardly and began pulling his trousers back up. There was a soft tinkle of the belt buckle as John removed the purple glove with a loud snap.
It had been two and a half years now, since Sherlock had done… what it was that he had done. Jumped. Fallen. Two and a half years… and John was now comfortably bored. Happily married, and suited to the suburban life- occasionally rescuing the neighbours junkie son from various perilous situations, but generally content in the situation that he found himself within.
God, he missed Sherlock. God, was he bored.
"Well, all seems to be fine, Mr Johnson. I wouldn't think there's anything to worry about. Of course give the receptionist a ring if you're still experiencing problems in a week's time, but I think that should be pretty unlikely. Maintain a well-balanced diet, good amount of fibre and your five-a-day, and, er, don't forget to wash regularly down there. Okay, Mr Johnson, hope you're feeling more comfortable soon. See you again; have a pleasant weekend."
Mr Johnson nodded emphatically and left the room. John gave his hands an extra wash and sat back down at his desk with a sigh.
That was it, the end of the day. Two years, maintaining a 'healthy' nine to five job- plus the additional fifteen to forty minutes where the clinic always overrun, and that was the end of the events for today's surgery. Today's adventures.
God he missed the old days.
He deposited his bag on the desk and shoved any necessary 'homework' within it, though he usually kept the amount of work he brought home with him to a minimum, and finally extricated a nice, large chocolate bar with relish.
This was the high point of the evening. Not chasing round London after elusive criminals, not working on the bloodiest and most savage of murders. Having a quiet night in with the missus and a sneaky chocolate bar. Tomorrow evening they had tickets for the touring production of Miss Saigon at Richmond Theatre. John Watson was domesticated. So far, he was still deciding whether he liked it.
There was a quiet knock on the door and the receptionist poked her head in through the narrow gap. John instantly felt his heart drop.
Oh, no…
She wasn't, however, carrying any patient notes. Just a small post-it stuck to her middle finger.
"Dr Watson, I've got one other for you, sorry. A 'Mrs Norton'. She wants to ask a couple of quick questions about her husband. She's concerned."
John straightened up, twisting towards her as his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Her husband? Sally, I can't diagnose by proxy. If she's worried about him he should come in himself—"
"No, no, I think she just wants a quick chat, just to see if there is anything to be worried about so she can bug him to get a proper appointment if there is. She says she'll only be a few minutes; came in specially at the end of your shift so as not to take away patient time."
"No, she's just taking up my own time now. How very kind of her."
Sally gave a shrug, and gestured again at the door behind her.
"She's here. A couple of minutes. She does look worried." She reached out towards him with the post-it.
John signed, reaching forward to take it and brushing a clearing on his desk where he had unloaded his post-work sugary snack. He looked longingly at the wrapper as a second knock sounded at the door, a well-wrapped up woman being ushered in with her back to John as she thanked the receptionist. Her collar was still pulled up high against her ears. She sat down as the doctor gave one final eyeing to the chocolate bar sitting obscured under his paperwork.
"Alright, Mrs- er, Norton. You said you had some concerns about your… husband…?"
He stopped dead, staring into the face of someone he thought- knew- to be long since deceased.
Irene Adler just smiled back at him expectantly.
John blinked. Blinked some more, and scratched at the furry growth at the base of his chin. Yes, he was trying out new styles again- it was Movember, and Mary had seemed… appreciative.
"You're dead," he said finally.
Irene smiled.
"It wouldn't be the first time."
John shook his head, disbelieving.
"No- no, I… Mycroft told me. You're dead. You were killed in Pakistan. He bloody well made sure about it after last time."
"Well, the Holmes brothers are so easily beguiled."
"No…"
John cleared his throat loudly, his head twisting from side to side as if his collar was tight and uncomfortable.
"How the hell did you get out of it, then. Because Mycroft made sure. He bloody well made sure. And no 'medical examiner' or 'records keeper' tricks this time- he oversaw the entire thing in person."
Irene's smile was tight, somehow melancholy.
"Yes, well, I had help. And now I owe a favour."
"You 'had help'…" John murmured under his breath.
"Yes. And I do so hate to be in anybody's debt."
There were several moments of silence, as John's fingers drummed against his armrest.
"Sherlock's dead," John said abruptly. "Two and a half years now. In case you haven't heard the news."
The Woman shifted in her seat, silent, before inclining her head.
"You have been wrong about that previously."
John grimaced, his jaw locked.
"Not wrong now. I saw it, he—I was there. I took his pulse; buried him. He's gone. He won't come back just because you have."
The Woman remained silent. John glanced away, rubbing at his face with the edge of his sleeve as he tried to retain his composure.
"What are you doing here, Irene? Why did you come?"
"I told you. I'm returning a favour."
There was silence again. Irene unbuttoned her jacket and removed a small tablet from inside.
"I have a person within my care who requires help. Medical help, Doctor Watson, which I am unable to give him, despite my extensive abilities."
John blinked at her, incredulously.
"You're in possession of 'medical abilities'? You're not a doctor; you're not even a nurse. You're a—"
"I'm a dominatrix, John. And a good one. A certain understanding of human anatomy comes paramount, as well as the ability to sustain it being a prerequisite for doing the things that I do. In my line of work, certain medical skills are necessary for keeping the clientele alive and returning."
John swallowed thickly (embarrassingly), and tried to keep his mind on track. His eyes rolled up to the ceiling as he fought to retain focus. Irene followed his gaze, her smile becoming debauched as his inclination for height began to give her the distinct impression of a fondness for… suspension.
"So why come to me? Why not just take them to hospital? Or- no, let me guess," John's face blossomed into a keen smile. "That would break 'confidentiality clauses', I would imagine. Don't want everyone knowing what they've been getting up to in their free time. Very secretive, I would imagine, your clientele."
Irene stared at him squarely, her chest rising and falling softly as she took an elongated breath.
"Generally. Yes."
John smiled.
"Uh-huh. And this guy? Or, er, gal…"
"He refused."
John brought his hands up in a 'there you are, then' gesture.
"It's not for the reasons you're thinking of. Though hospitals generally don't like tending to these sorts of injuries, they also get suspicious when dealing with dead men. People are called, files are flagged … Confidential information goes astray.'
John gave a curt nod, squaring his jaw, not at all comprehending and not about to let that that both either bother him or show.
"So I ask again. Why me? You've been successfully dead for three years, why expose yourself now? There must be plenty of other doctors you've befriended during that time to suite your needs. And when I say 'befriended'…"
"You're being delicate, yes. You do have a fondness for decency, don't you?"
John remained silent.
"He insisted. My hands were tied." Irene said , eyes widening playfully.
John coughed.
"Such a stressful profession, being a doctor. High risk, life and death."
"Being a GP generally isn't that stressful…" John muttered.
"You'd be surprised by the number of your colleagues who require a little unwinding at the end of a taxing week. You're not the only one who takes care of the needs of others, John."
John set his jaw squarely, clearing his throat and looking into the eyes of The Woman. He knew she was only attempting to unsettle him even further. Didn't mean it wasn't working though.
"This patient? You came to me for a reason…"
Irene rolled her shoulders, seeming to go business-like as she swiped her fingers across the small tablet-PC in her hand. She wasn't playing games anymore.
"First of all, I must impress upon you that this isn't my handiwork. This has nothing to do with any of my… skills."
John looked unimpressed.
"Uh-huh. I'm staggered you're actually concerned about what I think of you."
"Call it professional pride, Doctor Watson. But this—this is not my doing."
She handed him the tablet. John glanced at the displayed photograph and felt the lining of his stomach evaporate.
The sight before him was… horrific, in a word. Truly horrific. He couldn't make out any discernable features; the angle showed mostly the figure's back and side, but he could tell that the injuries before him were extensive. Strips of flesh hung in ribbons across his back, the wounds glossy as they attempted to heal. But first they would need to be… reconstructed. Repaired. Sewn back together.
"He has multiple lacerations and contusions," The Woman begun, her voice cold and regulated as she began reciting her own observations. "His face is pretty messed up, but nothing serious there, that I can see. And no, the head injuries did not result in unconsciousness; I didn't see the need to bring you a photograph of a facial beating. He didn't sustain a concussion. But his back… I simply do not have the experience to care for such injuries. I know floggings very well, they are the bread and butter of what I do. But this isn't anything akin to the sort of injuries I create. I'm ill-equipped, inexperienced. The damage is too extensive."
John said nothing, studying the digital photographs with great intensity as he zoomed in and out, switching pictures and doing the same.
"I don't do that. I don't cause that level of damage. "
John eventually looked up from the image, his face somehow greyer and more drawn than before.
"I still don't understand, though. Why come to me? This is what you specialise in; you're a dominatrix, this is what you do. You see pain and injury every day. I still don't get what you're doing here."
Irene's hand flicked out and snatched the tablet from John's grasp.
"I am in the business of pleasure, Doctor Watson. Pain for pleasure's sake, but pleasure none the less. What I do is satisfying, not only to my clients but also to me. But this… There isn't anything pleasurable about this. This isn't pain for pleasure's sake. This is pain for the sake of pain. Torture, for the fun of it. This wasn't consentual. This wasn't even for the extraction of information. They just liked to hear him scream. Any person would have cracked by this point; an interrogator would have put him out of his misery. Dumped the body. Instead… they just let him hang limp, and waited for the next imaginative torment to enter their minds."
Irene looked down at the photographs once more. John felt as if he was for once seeing into the true depths of her.
"This isn't what I do." She said softly. "This is… sick. Barbaric. Without purpose."
John let out a silent sigh, shifting and scratching at the side of his neck.
"So why not put him out of his misery yourself? You're not unfeeling, but I've seen that you're also not adverse to the loss of human life. Why are you trying to patch him up at all?"
Irene drew herself up, her eyes suddenly penetratingly cold.
"For a doctor, you seem very quick to pull the trigger."
"I'm not talking about me, Irene. I just don't understand your concern for this guy."
She fixed him with a long stare. John felt as if she were reaching into his soul.
"Would you destroy the greatest mind you have ever known, just for a little bit of pain? The greatest intellect? Pain is temporary, Doctor Watson; that is why my clients always return to me. It doesn't last; bodies heal. So will he, given time. I may be callous, but even Sherlock knows I'm not that unfeeling.
"Now, are you going to help him or not?"
AN- Irene's alias I've used here is 'Mrs Norton'. In the original short story 'Scandal in Bulgaria' which the series two opener 'Scandal in Belgravia' was based upon, Irene gets married. The man she marries is Norton.
