Cabin!Lock fanfic :3
Multichapter fic I think, though updates will be sporadic...
Pairing: Martin/Sherlock (but not right this minute)
Trigger warning for drug use
Martin Crieff was down on his luck, he always had been. But this was different. He needed a flat share in London. London. The most expensive city in the UK and he had to get a flat share there. He sighed as he walked through the city, looking through the papers, for anything that he might be able to afford. One caught his eye. 221b Baker Street. He glanced at his watch; he could go now if he caught the tube. He looked around at the city and shrugged. He had nothing to lose.
221b was refreshingly ordinary, and when he got there the landlady gave him a hug and a cup of tea, informing him that the other part of his potential flat share had already moved in, and would be home in about half an hour. Martin nodded once, looking through the windows at the quiet street outside.
"I'll take it." The flat share was reasonable, the landlady was nice, the area was good. He nodded once. "Yes. I'll take it."
"Are you sure you don't want to meet Sherlock first? He's rather... Odd." Martin nodded absent-mindedly.
"I can't afford to pass up such a reasonable flat share. Besides, he can't be as bad as Douglas." Martin suppresses a shudder, his thin shoulders shaking. He hears the door slam and turns to see his new flatmate. Tall, strikingly handsome, though not in the conventional sense and carrying a head. Martin blinked, a little shell shocked.
"M-Martin Crieff; pleased to meet you." Sherlock turned, tilting his head to one side.
"You're an airline pilot on a small charter air firm. You failed at least five times and your family gave up, however shortly after your father died you proved them wrong. You don't have much money, hence why you're looking for a flat share. You're a pilot, but incredibly insecure about it, and you have no confidence." He rattled off all these facts, folding his arms. "Sherlock Holmes." Martin squeaked, a red flush rising over his face.
"Y-you're absolutely r-right."
"I see you've taken the flat."
"Yes but... How did you know all of that, I've never seen you before in my life."
"I simply observed." He huffs out a breath and disappears into the kitchen, where the bagged head is carefully stored on the bottom shelf of the fridge.
"I... Right." He pauses, biting his lower lip. "My hours... They aren't set in stone."
"You work two jobs, obviously you don't get paid for being a pilot so you need another job to support yourself." Martin flushed a deep red colour that clashed horribly with his hair.
"How did you...?" He ducks his head. "It doesn't matter." Sherlock looked at him.
"I've upset you."
"No I'm fine." He keeps his head down.
"Captain?" He looks up at this, biting his lower lip.
"Yes?" His voice is dull and toneless.
"I didn't mean to cause offence, it's just how I am. If I hurt you, I'm sorry."
"You don't have to pretend to care, I've had it from Douglas for years. I'm used to getting hurt." He shrugs a little.
"It wasn't my intention." He looks a little forlorn, but it is quickly dispelled.
"I'm still going to rent, if you're worried about needing the money. I'll... Sort it out." He nods once. "Nice meeting you, Sherlock." He turns and leaves, shaking his head.
Martin moved in. He didn't have much, so the move was pretty painless. Mrs Hudson, the landlady was kind to him if he missed rent, or if he couldn't pay the full price. He looked down at his shoes when Sherlock came home, and sometimes he didn't come home at all. He was hardly ever home though, so it didn't matter. It really didn't matter. It didn't matter that he'd hardly spoken to the man, that he didn't really know anything about him, he just got by. Until, that is, he came home after a long haul flight from Beijing and returned to see his flatmate lying on the sofa, syringe in hand. He squeaked and put his coat - fairly shabby and mended in several places - on the hook. He carefully tiptoed across to Sherlock, wincing at the angry red mark on his arm.
"Sherlock?" His voice was soft and he gently moved the syringe from his hand. Sherlock didn't even stir. Carefully, he checked his vital signs and, with a worried glance, put the syringe on the sink in the kitchen. When he returned, Sherlock was still spark out on the sofa, heavy black shadows reminiscent of bruising beneath his eyes. Martin let out a shaky breath and carefully tucked a blanket around him, rearranging it so that Sherlock was more comfortable. He went and made coffee. He had a week off after this, another all nighter wouldn't hurt.
In the morning, Martin made strong, sweet tea and knelt beside Sherlock.
"M-Mr Holmes?" He delicately touched his shoulder and then stepped back.
"It's Sherlock. My brother is 'Mr Holmes'." Came the disgruntled reply from under the blanket.
"S-sorry..."
"Where did this blanket come from?" He tilts his head to one side.
"Oh I... I put it over you l-last night when I got home." Martin stammers, stepping a little further back.
"Oh." The knowledge that Martin had seen him use was clear in his mind. If he'd been a different person, he would have looked down in shame. Instead he fixed him with a curiously clear gaze. "What did you do with it?"
"W-With what? The uh... Thing? It's in the sink..."
"It's a syringe, Martin." Sherlock reprimanded slightly, but he winced a little as he stretched his arm.
"Y-yes of course sorry." He drops his gaze, but hears himself speak again. "I... Do you w-want me to take a look at your arm?" He asks quietly.
"Why?" Sherlock sniffs haughtily but winces again.
"I've d-done a first aid course. I'm a pilot I have to know some... Basic medical training. It's just looks painful." He keeps his eyes flicked downwards.
"That would be a kindness I don't deserve." Sherlock's baritone rumbles. Martin shrugged a little uncomfortably.
"I think you deserve it..." He rocks back on his heels. "Do you want me to?"
"It would be nice if you would." Martin nods and hurries to the kitchen where the first aid kit is. He brings it slowly back into the lounge and unbuttons the cuff of Sherlock's shirt and rolls it up.
"Don't judge me for whatever you see." His flatmate says softly, for the first time panic flashes in his eyes.
"I won't." Martin says as equally softly. He rolls the sleeve up to his mid bicep and sets about silently cleaning the wound with antiseptic. He doesn't say a word to indicate that he'd seen the scarred track marks running up Sherlock's arm as well as the fresh puncture. He feels Sherlock jerk beneath his touch and absently strokes his hand to calm him. He soothes him like a frightened child, saying nothing, relying on touch alone. He reaches for a soft pad of gauze and some surgical tape, and he carefully dressed the wound. With a steady hand he packed up the kit and replaced it in the kitchen. "I'm not that good, but I hope it helped." The previous anxiety and stutter is gone and he gently rolls his shirt down again, buttoning the cuff. His fingers linger against Sherlock's wrist for a moment, but then he stands again and heads to his bedroom. He has paperwork to do for Carolyn.
Tell me if you like it?
