Hello everyone! Yes, I'm alive XD First and foremost, I am soooooooo so sorry that I stopped updating ISS. To be completely honest, I just have the most horrible writer's block for that story. I think it's because I have so many plans for all of the other years, but not for third year, and I don't want to just do a bunch of filler. I might rework the story format a little, and hopefully I can get it up and running again. I will not give up on it yet!
Anyway, THIS STORY OMG. Alright, so I am a huuuuuuge fan of BBC's Sherlock, and way way back (like almost a year ago) when I first started going on omegle to RP I met this wonderful person who gave me this prompt. We RP'd pretty much the majority of this chapter over a few hours before she had to go to bed, but then we exchanged emails. She became my first email RP and possibly my favourite because this story that we wrote together is just fantastic. Unfortunately, she has gotten very busy, so I haven't heard from her in a long time, but I have enough from what we've already done to post thirteen full chapters and have a pretty solid ending just in case we never do finish. I have wanted to post this story FOREVER, because I really think that you'll enjoy it. So please don't let me down XD
Alright, that's enough of me. Without further ado, I present the first chapter of I O U Much More. Please read and review and fave and all that good stuff because that will make me incredibly happy! I'll be updating every Monday so keep your eyes open. Love ya!
~SXS
P.S. I don't know how I feel about the title. I mean, it just kind of stuck in my head when I started using it, but what do you guys think. Does it fit? Well, actually wait a few chapters and then tell me XD
Warning: This story will contain mild violence and male on male sex. Please read at your discretion. Thank you!
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, nor the original stories from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and only the Sherlock half of this story is actually mine. The rest belong to their respective owners.
John laid miserably in his bed at 221B Baker Street. He hadn't been able to bring himself to move out after Sherlock's death. On this particularly dreary day, it was raining, and John had woken with a horrid cough. Staying in bed all day sounded like a grand idea, especially considering how awful life was without Sherlock.
Sherlock usually didn't hate it when it rained. Under normal circumstances he quite enjoyed the music of the falling drops against the roof or window of the flat. But as of late he had no flat to stay in during these soggy conditions and it was difficult to find a place to duck for shelter when you're supposed to be dead. So the rain was not very welcome.
John forced himself out of bed sometime around nine o'clock. He was already an hour late for work, and he couldn't afford to waste anymore time. For a moment, his head spun rather spectacularly, and he had to pause to find his balance. Then he proceeded with his daily routine. Shower, coffee, clothes, shoes, coat. Life had become dull and repetitive without Sherlock. Ignoring his heightening fever, and coughing into the sleeve of his coat, John left 221B and trudged through the rain on his way to work.
Finally Sherlock had managed to find some cover in the form of an overhang in an alley right across the street from his and John's flat. Ever since he had 'died' Sherlock had been keeping a close eye on John, to make sure that he wasn't still pursued by Moriarty's men. So far nothing particularly threatening had happened, though there might have been a few close calls once or twice. Sherlock, of course, had thwarted these attempts without the least bit of notice from the doctor. As John left the flat to go to work, Sherlock watched from the shadows. John didn't have an umbrella, as usual. He coughed as he walked, and though Sherlock was rather far away, he almost thought he saw a flush on his cheeks. Glancing back at 221, he saw that there was no smoke coming out of the chimney meaning the fire wasn't on, and it was a particularly chilly day, so the only explanation was that John was over heated with fever. Coupled with the cough it made sense. But why would he go out in the rain like that when he was already sick?
Another rush of dizziness struck John, not a block away from the flat. He stopped for a moment, leaning against the nearest solid wall, and blinked to clear his vision. His coughing only intensified, worsening until his lungs burned and his ribs ached from the abuse. "God, maybe I should've stayed home..." he murmured. But, no. He had far too much work to get done, and he was already late. It was just a fever, just a cough, just a bit of dizziness. Nothing John couldn't handle. Besides, what did it matter? What did anything matter, when Sherlock was dead? Steeling himself, John continued to walk. He managed to cover another half a block before his knees simply gave out, and he collapsed on the sidewalk.
Sherlock followed John secretly, as he did everyday. He watched as John stopped to lean against the wall for a few moments. His walking seemed lopsided. Dizziness. Then he started to walk again until suddenly he dropped to the sidewalk. Some people around him stopped, gasping and asking if he was alright. Sherlock felt the urge to jump in, but hesitated. Should he reveal himself in front of all these people? He would ruin the all the cover he built and it would put him, and John, in danger again. And yet, he got the feeling that this was far more important. Stepping out from around the corner, he rushed into the crowd of people. "Move away! Get back!" Sherlock physically moved aside everyone until he was the only one there. He picked up his friend and turned around, making his way back to Baker Street and ignoring everyone behind in the crowd.
John was horribly confused. Was he hallucinating? He had to be, because a dead man was carrying him. For the moment, though, he felt too wretched to question it. He turned his face into Sherlock's shoulder, coughing roughly again. He was shivering, trembling terribly despite his burning body and sheen of sweat on his pale forehead. His cheeks, in contrast to the rest of his face, were brightly flushed. One weak hand reached up and twisted in the fabric of Sherlock's comfortingly familiar coat.
Sherlock tightened his grip on John when the doctor grabbed the lapel of his coat. He was shaking violently and he could feel his body heat through all the layers of their combined clothing. Rushing through the torrential downpour, they finally made it back to 221B, and Sherlock carried John up the stairs to their flat. He brought him straight to his bedroom and laid him on the bed. A little hesitant at first, Sherlock took off John's dripping wet clothing and got him fresh pyjamas from his drawers. Then he pulled a blanket up over him and sat on the edge of the bed, shaking his head so drops of rain flew from his hair.
For a few long minutes, John's fingers clenched around his blanket, then released, then clenched again. He was disoriented, and not at all sure what had just happened. He blinked up at his saviour, struggling to clear his hazy vision. His breathing was shallow. "Sherlock..." he finally said, his voice small, though he'd mustered all the energy he had to speak. "Am I dreaming?"
Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. He knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to tell John that he was still alive so that they could go back to life as it used to be, so that he could come home. But it wasn't safe. He could easily say that this was all a dream and John would pass it off as a result of the fever, never being the wiser. He felt a tightening in his chest as he thought about the decision he needed to make. Why was he suddenly so conflicted? This had been happening a lot lately since 'the fall'. His head arguing with what he believed to be the one organ he wasn't supposed to have; his heart. "John, why would you go out in the rain when you're so sick?" he asked, avoiding the choice for a moment.
"I had to go to work," John murmured, his tone suggesting that this was the most obvious thing in the world, and Sherlock clearly should have known the answer to such a foolish question. "I prefer to walk. I don't much like to take cabs. They remind me of you too much." Somewhere in his feverish mind he registered that he was practically babbling, but at the moment, it didn't seem to matter. Sherlock was here and, hallucination or not, John wanted to talk to him.
Again there was a feeling in his chest, his 'heart' acting up. He hated that John was in such pain, even though he knew it was necessary. "That was very stupid of you. I mean it this time when I say you are an idiot."
"I suppose it wasn't very smart," John agreed. "To be honest, I find I don't care much for my health nowadays. It doesn't seem to matter. I don't have you to look after anymore. You're dead. Or, well, I thought you were." He paused for a long moment to struggle through another vicious fit of coughing. "I'm not hallucinating, am I? A hallucination couldn't have carried me back here. You're alive."
Feverish and rambling though he was, John had struck an important point. Sherlock sighed, shoulders dropping in resignation. "Yes, John. I am."
John stared at him. "Sherlock, I would probably punch you if I were strong enough to lift my arm," he said. "Why? Why?"
Sherlock looked down at him. "I did it to protect you. You, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. Moriarty gave me a choice to either jump or you would all die. Obviously I wasn't going to let that happen so...You had to believe I was dead, John. I wanted to tell you, I truly did, but it was too dangerous. His men are still out there. I've been working on eliminating them. I'm so, so sorry, John."
John studied his face, searching for the sincerity there. And of course, it was written all over his face. What reason would Sherlock have to lie? "Of course Moriarty was behind it," he rasped after a long, thoughtful moment. "He has a way of causing trouble, doesn't he? Don't leave again, do you hear me? I can handle myself, Sherlock. I would rather face the danger with you."
"I have no doubt that you can hold your own to an extent. But this is different. These men, this...web. It's much more dangerous than anything that we've dealt with before." Sherlock looked out the window, half-expecting that they would be waiting outside with their guns aimed and ready. "I wouldn't be able to stand it if something happened to you."
"Well, then I suppose you'll just have to stay and look after me, won't you?" John reasoned. "You can clearly see what a wretched job I've done of living with you gone."
"I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry I put you through all this." Sherlock lifted a hand and hovered it for a moment over John's before letting it rest there. "I will most certainly stay here while you are sick, but I don't know what I can promise after that."
John glanced down at their hands, a bit stunned by the gesture. Really, he was shocked by how emotional Sherlock was being. The man seemed more human in this moment than John had ever seen him. "Won't I be in more danger, though?" he questioned. "Now that I know you're alive? Leaving me alone will just make me vulnerable." He was desperate. He needed to say just the right thing, whatever that was, to make Sherlock stay.
Sherlock was conflicted again. He could tell that John wanted him to stay, but that would mean that he wouldn't be able to continue on his elimination of Moriarty's men, meaning that eventually they would come back and try to strike again. Yet, if they found out that John knew he was alive and Sherlock left him, John would still be in danger. This was proving to be quite a predicament. "I don't know what to do. Either way, you'll be in danger."
John was confident that Sherlock was close to giving in. After waiting for another fit of coughing to pass, he pressed on. "Wouldn't you rather I be in danger with you here to protect me than be in danger with you God knows where?"
Almost all of Sherlock wanted to say yes. But how would he finish his work? He supposed that he could figure something out later. He needed to think. But for right then, he needed to take care of John. He was sure that the threat of Moriarty's men could wait until later in the night when he could drum up some sort of plan. "You're right. I'd rather fight them side by side with you."
John's tired face lit up with a smile. "I thought so," he said triumphantly. And then his weariness seemed to return in an overwhelming wave, leaving him dizzy and nauseous. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, and gagged, covering his mouth with the other hand. "Sherlock...is there a rubbish bin by the bed? I'm going to vomit..."
Sherlock jumped up, looking around quickly for a rubbish bin and shoved it under where John was leaning over the bed right before he vomited. He rubbed the doctor's back as he coughed up coffee and bile.
At that moment, John was rather glad he hadn't eaten breakfast, and that his dinner the night before had been meager at best. He choked on the bile that stung his throat, coughing wetly before spitting into the rubbish bin. Disgusting, really, but it came with being ill. "Thank you..." he gasped to Sherlock, out of breath.
Sherlock nodded with a low hum. "Would you like me to get you anything?"
"A drink of water," John said, "Would be absolutely brilliant. Please."
"Of course." Getting up, Sherlock went to the kitchen to fetch a glass and filled it with water. He brought it back and set it on the bedside table. "Anything else?"
John reached for the water, but realised that with his hands trembling the way they were, drinking it certainly wasn't going to be simple. "Ahh...you could help me take a drink...?" he suggested, a bit sheepishly. It was rather embarrassing, being an invalid.
"Alright..." Sherlock picked up the glass and put a hand on the back of John's neck, lifting him gently. He brought the rim of the glass to the doctor's lips and tilted it, letting John drink as much as he needed before putting it back down again.
John hummed, his tongue darting out to lick the last cool drops from his lips. "Thank you," he said again. "You know, you're rather good at this. I never thought you'd have such a gentle bedside manner." He smiled at the detective, teasingly.
"I had no idea until now. You tend to bring out my human side." Sherlock smiled back, smoothing some of John's sweaty hair away from his forehead.
John's eyes fluttered closed and he turned into Sherlock's touch. "So tell me...about this web of Moriarty's," he mumbled. "How many are left, do you think, before it's safe for you to officially return...?"
"If I had to estimate," Sherlock said, continuing to stroke John's hair, "I would say three. But those three are the most deadly men on the planet and will not be easily taken care of. It could take me months or even years before I would consider it safe to come back."
John frowned. "Well, that's not acceptable at all," he murmured. "I suppose we'll just have to take care of them a bit faster. What's so special about these three, then?"
"They're the snipers who were targeting the three of you that day. The best marksmen in the world, and they have nothing to lose. They won't hesitate if they see their opportunity. And they're very well concealed, almost as well as Moriarty himself. You could say they were his first outer ring."
"That does sound a bit dangerous..." John mused. He opened his eyes again, his gaze meeting Sherlock's. "I'll be okay, Sherlock," he assured him. "I swear I will. We'll find a way to stop them, but we'll do it together. Understand?"
Sherlock looked into John's eyes and could see determination flash in them. He knew there would be no arguing the point. They were in this together now. And really, he thought, that was how it always should have been. "Alright, John. Together."
"Good," John said with a smile. "As it should be. Now, if you don't mind, I think I'll go back to sleep. If you're gone when I wake up, Sherlock Holmes, I swear, I'll never forgive you." He pulled the blankets around himself and curled up loosely on his side. Not how he usually slept, but when he was sick, it was a different story.
"I'll be here," Sherlock said. He smoothed John's hair back one last time as he settled into a light sleep. For a moment he just watched as John's breathing slowed into a steady rhythm. Then he got up and started pacing quietly, hands clasped behind his back. Now was his chance to think. He knew that it wouldn't be long before they realised that he was back in Baker St., and because of that would find out that John knew he was alive. Really they should be off and running at that moment. They needed movement, distance. But John was certainly not well enough to go anywhere at present. They would have to wait until he was better. But in the meantime, what would they do? If they came to the flat now, John wouldn't be able to defend himself at all. Of course, Sherlock would die to protect him, but then John would probably be killed right after. Sherlock made a frustrated grunting sound. What could they do?
Well, what does everybody think? Let me know by hitting that review button, fave this story, follow it, show me some love :D And, to my darling RP partner, if you're out there reading this, I couldn't have done it without you. Thank you so much and I hope to hear from you soon.