I just….I don't even know if I can write a good Mycroft anymore after Season 3, Episode 3. I don't know. I mean, I got mind-fucked so hard it's difficult to think straight. And of course, by the time you read this, I'll have recovered, but as of now I'm just gonna sit here and brood of the many ways that I would try to kill Mycroft. Brutally. Very brutally. And Moriarty. And I don't even know. Maybe the whole British Gov't. In BBC Sherlock, of course. Which would be Mycroft.
God-Dammit. I can't even think.
From now on, you will be seeing a lot less Mycroft.
(Funny thing is, it's a good three weeks now and I still hate him.)
Dear John
Chapter Nine: I Have A Better Drug
~oOo~
Third Person POV
"Huh. You kept them?" John Watson sat in his chair, looking absentmindedly down at his lap while as a simple, wooden box took up matter in that particular area. He could see perfectly folded letters, probably categorized by sentiment rather than date. His hands twitched as he felt Sherlock's gaze burn into his skull. Instead of glancing up to see if Sherlock was on the verge of taking the things from his lap, he took one out, running his finger along the front of the paper. It looked just like a letter would back in the olden days. Around the Civil War area, at that. It was the only paper that his regiment had assigned, but it was enough for his purpose.
"Why would I not?" Sherlock replied stiffly from his position on his own chair.
John glanced up with a smile. Ow. He really did hate that wound down his eye. He was lucky that he didn't lose his sight. "Because you're Sherlock." He answered with a broader grin on his face, lip curling in what Sherlock thought was a fit of humor. The oceanic orbs that the sociopath owned rolled due to John's hypocrisy.
"I did," was the only thing Sherlock had to say as he lifted his legs up on his own chair, his arms wrapping around the moved appendages and his chin resting on the crook of his knees. He watched John with scrutiny, nose scrunching up as he saw John to glance back down at his letters.
"Ah! I remember this one!" John stated excitedly as he pulled out said sheet he was staring at. "Remember this, Sherlock? This was when I told you that I got moved from stationary medical to the lines again, and I woke up with a snake trying to strangle me," the blonde giggled as he stared down at the note almost longingly.
Of course Sherlock remembered. He didn't forget anything that pertained to John. But that letter was, quite honestly, a little bit scary but more or less funny, because John had explained to him how he had to wrestle out of the grip of – well, he didn't remember what kind of snake it was, but that didn't matter – the snake, and had to pick his knife out of his back belt and slice the thing right by his head, rendering that gooey, venom-like substance all over his face.
John had said he smelt like shit for the next week. Or so some of John's mates had told him.
Sherlock nodded with a fond smile, deciding to reply to John instead of leaving him in the dark. "Of course, John. For the first few minutes after scanning the page I didn't quite believe what you were saying, to tell the utmost truth. I mean, soldiers tales and everything." He teased the hurt figure, watching as John shifted his leg uncomfortably on the chair he had it propped on. The curly-haired man frowned, but managed to put back his worry and focus on the man going through his miscellaneous notes and letters.
"Oh, piss off. The only tall tale I ever told you about my adventures was to tease you about my best friend and me. Which, obviously, I told you it was a lie before you managed to figure out a way to drop my body in the Thames." John smiled. He recalled that conversation well. Sherlock had given him this look like he reaped murder for a living, and John had to admit that even being a soldier and a doctor he wasn't sure if he could function correctly with Sherlock trying to kill him.
"You underestimate me. I figured out precisely six ways to drop you and him into the Thames before you told me you made it up." Sherlock smirked. John couldn't help but to roll his eyes at his lover's threat. Deciding to stay silent John looked back down at the letters and picked through a few of them, reading the first few lines. He remembered writing almost each and every one of them – the only ones he couldn't remember were the ones where he didn't give a lot of information of what was going on around him at the time.
"Oh geez, remember when I told you about being employed down in Australia with imported horses instead of a set of wheels because of transport issues? That horse was bloody amazing." John smiled fondly as he remembered Steel, his trusty bay that he would lead on wherever he went. When he was employed down there he was in the Med. Station, so there wasn't much fighting and more patching up, Steel would carry the supplies he needed almost like he knew what was going on around him.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I still don't understand how you can ride a horse so well for such a small stature," he commented, a stiff brow raised. "It took me at least six years of training to be able to ride properly."
The blonde snorted and closed the old fashioned box, placing the sacred wooden object on the side-stand next to him. He grunted while he moved, ignoring that thick shots of pain that he was still trying to conceal. "I never rode with a saddle, western or not. I rode bareback, therefore I let my legs do all the work. You, on the other hand, had to learn English riding, Western riding, bareback and all the ways to sit on top of a horse. Which was probably a lot easier for you considering you're a freaking stick."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I am not a stick. I –."
"Have muscle mass, yes, I know." John leered with a grin that made Sherlock shiver. "I just meant your lanky, not that I would ever have it any other way." John commented with a yawn, tears prickling at the corner of his eyes due to the force of the yawn.
"Tired?" The dark-haired counterpart asked as John snuggled in on the blanket that lay on top of him. John nodded, and closed his eyes almost absently. "You can't sleep there, John." Sherlock scolded.
John opened one eye and groaned. "But I don't want to move dammit. I hate crutches."
"Just be happy you aren't in a wheelchair anymore."
"Shut up."
"Come on, John. We don't need you cramping on top of your injuries."
"I hate being broken."
"They do say doctors are the worst patients."
"Sherlooooock, I don't wanna move."
"Nope, c'mon, get up. I'll help you to bed."
John frowned to himself. He disliked when people had to take care of him, especially Sherlock. It was true, he did like Sherlock helping him, but just being a burden alone was getting extremely tiresome to have to deal with. Mycroft helped with transport and everything, but Sherlock was doing most of the work. Hooking him up to the CPM machine, making him tea, helping him shower and catering after his every need – not that John didn't do that for Sherlock, but he was just that type of person.
However he also knew that he had no choice in the matter. It made John's heart swell knowing that Sherlock wouldn't do this for anyone else – not even Mycroft. "I hate you," John pouted playfully, earning a smile from Sherlock, who simply had moved to hand him his crutches.
"Love you too, John. Besides, you need to get back in that machine."
"That bloody contraption from the pits of bloody hell where all the bloody bloodiness of –."
"John."
"Sorry, don't like that machine."
"I know."
They smiled at each other and John managed to stand, not without groaning extremely painfully and closing his eyes. Sherlock kept his distance, knowing that John would hurt while traveling to their bed. The blonde grabbed his crutches and began moving around the furniture to get down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom, his own rendered useless since he had been screwing the consulting detective.
Sherlock trailed behind him, watching and calculating where the crutches would land. He had done so ever since John had almost fallen in the kitchen when his metal contraptions of the living world of annoying caught onto the side of a chair and wretched from his grip. The doctor thought it was quite cute, albeit a little unnecessary.
John yawned again as he reached the door, leaving Sherlock to open it for him. The taller man slid in quickly and cracked his neck, from which the blonde gave the other a small glare. Sherlock knew that was bad for himself. "Sherlock," John complained before he could stop himself. "You're going to get Arthritis through your spinal tissue." He stated like a child as he threw his crutches down, plopping on the bed. Sherlock smiled.
"Thanks for the advice, Doc, but I think you should worry about your own health before that of mine." John rolled his eyes. Sherlock and his stupid comebacks.
"Whatever. Just get me in this thing."
After they had settled down and Sherlock lay comfortably next to his lover, one arm draped over John's flat chest and the other curled under his head, Sherlock decided to go on a fully next-day preview of what they had to do.
"We'll be able to sleep in until nine o'clock, and then we have therapy at ten, Mycroft will come over at two and Lestrade at four, then we have some filing and we're done for the day." Sherlock summarized briefly. John hummed.
"Can't Mycroft and Lestrade wait?" Watson complained after a moments silence, finding his day a lot more hectic than he was ready for. Sherlock tightened his grip on John, having his fingers now wrap loosely around the side of his waist. He buried his fingers under his lover and nuzzled into his chin. John giggled as some of Sherlock's hair tickled his nose.
Sherlock lifted his head slightly and kissed his lovers jaw. "No, love."
"But –."
"Why do you argue with the high-functioning sociopath? It's obviously going to end in a failure."
John snorted. "I've won more than a few arguments over you."
Sherlock retorted with a snort of his own. "Nothing factional, purely emotional."
John giggled and bit his lip, his eyelids dropping. "Solar System, Sherlock. Solar System."
"I learned!"
"Yeah, out of Primary…."
"Knowledge has no means of time."
"Shut up, Sherlock. Let me go to sleep."
"I'm serious. Time is just a figment of our imaginations that we have conjured to up explain the never-ending yet ever-changing concept of our world and I find that even now, time is simply a post-it note that symbolizes what you must do within your aging. It's –."
"Sherlock, lemme sleep."
"I'm just saying."
"Love you, Sherlock."
"Love you too. Goodnight."
"G'night."
~oOo~
When John woke the next morning he was immediately hit with pain. Grunting, trying to stop his mind from focusing on the main part of his agony, he blinked his eyes, raw from sleep and dry from their lack of use. He could feel a large mass of weight still attached to his chest and he figured that Sherlock was still wrapped around him like a glove.
With another moan of resistance, John glanced to the side to check his clock.
6:45.
"Euuuuugh." John moaned as he rolled his eyes. With his free arm, the blonde lifted it to his face, working his fingers around his eyes to rub them wet again. Huh, kind of erotic. Rub them wet. Huh.
Okay, time for bed again.
Doing his best to shift and let his ass have a little less of his body weight – god, sitting in bed really hurts it – he closed his eyes and prepared for sleep once more.
It didn't take him long to slip away.
~oOo~
The second time John awoke it was at a more proper time.
John let his eyes flutter open, and as his subconscious mind achieved its original purpose to come around to the conscious world, he could feel the similar amount of pain well up in his body. Obviously his pain medication had worn off.
Muttering something untellable, John realized that Vicodin sounded really freaking wonderful at the time.
As he glanced down, vision still blurry, he saw the outline of Sherlock's bedhead invade his vision. John smiled softly, but refrained from sitting there and messing with it, and instead decided on waking his lover up to get him some medication.
"Sherlock?" John muttered the question softly as he tilted his head down to get into Sherlock's ear. "Sherlock?" He asked again when the other wouldn't budge.
The consulting detective shifted a little bit, lifting his head to bury it further into John's neck. The smaller figure almost 'awed' allowed, but he didn't just in case Sherlock happened to hear him thinking how cute the man was as the moment.
John lifted his arm and shifted over, tapping Sherlock on the cheek. His lover grumbled for a moment, before settling back. John rolled his pristine blue eyes. "Sherlock, I need you to wake up, love." John's gruff sleepy-voice rang in the silence.
Sherlock was pulled from his sleep not a moment later, his eyes fluttering much like John's had when he had just woken. John smiled as Sherlock shifted a little bit, more so to look up at the injured man. "Yes, John?" He questioned, eyes unfocused and blurry.
John smiled. "Sorry, love. But could you please grab me some Vicodin? It wore off."
Sherlock rolled on his back and John couldn't help but groan at the loss of heat on his chest. "Alright," Sherlock yawned as he ran his hand over his face in attempt to wake himself up. "Do you need anything else?" He asked as he rolled out of bed.
"No, that should be fine. Thank you."
"Welcome." Sherlock heard. John closed his eyes then and by the time he had opened them, Sherlock had disappeared down the hall and into the kitchen, where the drugs were sitting.
John glanced at the clock again and this time, it said 8:30. That was a lot better. He still had thirty minutes to be able to sit in bed and do nothing. Their appointment – theirs considering Sherlock wouldn't let him go alone, to his embarrassment – was at ten and it was only about a ten minute drive from their home, so technically they had over and hour to chill to themselves. And of that hour, it would only take thirty minutes for the meds to kick in.
Speaking of medication, John had to admit he was extremely proud of his sociopath for not stealing some of his medication for himself. He knew that Sherlock was responsible…well, could be responsible, but he had to admit he wasn't sure how the other would be able to handle with drugs so close to him. He had known Sherlock hadn't taken any because he counted, every day, the contents of the bottle and the shipments being made to his house.
Sherlock probably knew that he was too, but he would understand why he was doing such.
Sherlock had succumbed to drugs once more from his three-year-absence, and when John found out that literally devastated him. He knew Sherlock had tried so hard to get off the first time, and knowing and seeing that he had gone back was too much. The first time, Lestrade was there to help him get over it, and this time, it was John.
The recovery was brutal.
After all the withdrawals had ceased, it took Sherlock a while to get back to his normal weight and, quite frankly, healthy. John hated going through that. He was sure Sherlock had too, not that he knew what that was like.
"Don't ever let me get up half-asleep again. I think my toe cracked in at least six different directions after stubbing it three times." Sherlock complained as he re-entered. Upon seeing John's remorsefully thoughtful face, Sherlock paused. "Something wrong?" Sherlock rumbled as he once again made for the bed, stopping only when his knees hit the wooden frame.
John shook his head and grinned, holding his hand out for the pills. Sherlock had dropped them in his hand, and handed him a water to swallow them down. John did so. When he was done, he handed the empty glass back to Sherlock, who had set it on the nightstand.
The dark-haired figure hooked his thigh over the bed and sat down next to John, concern still marring his features. John loved when Sherlock was like this. Overbearing was something that reminded the blonde that he had changed Sherlock so much for the better. "You're doing a good job." He praised his counterpart.
He did that often, of course.
This didn't stop Sherlock from raising an eyebrow.
"What did I do right this time?"
John chuckled. "Arrogant ass," he teased, before grunting and shifting up a little. The machine went with him when he slid up a little bit more on the bed, "a lot of things, actually. You're treating me like a proper patient, for one." Sherlock pouted at this. John merely shook his head. "And you're staying away from my pain medication." He slid in easily, almost hoping that Sherlock wouldn't catch his praise.
Sherlock appeared to be surprised for a moment. The blonde could almost see the gears working in his head, trying to decipher what he was going to say next. Words from that man were always chosen in a carelessly-wise notion. For a moment or so, the only sound was the ticking clock on the nightstand, but Sherlock came around after a second. Instead of a snarky reply like John was more than used to, the man smiled.
John raised a brow while Sherlock replied. "I have a better drug." Sherlock said quietly as he leaned down, moving his arm to the other side of John's waist, and promptly kissed him on his dry, surprised lips. After the initial shock John smiled and responded to the kiss, his own lips moving slowly and lazily much like a couple that had just woken up – hint, hint.
Sherlock pulled back a seconds later with a small grin of his own. "I have been prescribed John Watson. Very lethal if taken too much, but I think a man of my capacity has the ability to handle such venom."
"Honey no one will ever be able to handle me." John retorted with a smile. "Now come back down and lay with me. We don't have to get up for another half an hour."
"Yes, Captain."
