Magic One Shots (Sherlock BBC Fic)
AN – this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.
Warning – slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.
Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Time Slip 2
Sherlock frowned in disapproval as the front door to their flat quivered, as though someone was unlocking it, and then frowned. John was currently here, lying on Sherlock's chest, wheezing slightly with bronchitis, caught when they'd had an unfortunate dip in the Thames. The water had not been as badly polluted as Sherlock had originally thought, but it had been freezing. John had been a bit run down and they hadn't had a chance to go home and change until twelve hours later. His doctor was surprising stubborn about his health and so a cold and developed into bronchitis.
Sherlock had discovered that the best way to get John to stay in and rest was to demand 'couple time' – a concept he'd taken from trash telly. It mainly involved John allowing Sherlock to hold him in whatever setting and for however long he wanted. Sherlock had been scheming to demand his time in front of Anderson at some point, purely for the entertainment of seeing the other man pull that face but had put his plans on hold until John was well enough to appreciate them too.
Their door sort of didn't open. Or rather, their door stayed shut but an older one opened and let in two men in Victorian clothes. The taller of the two was himself, in dark and tailored clothes – the other was the John Watson that he'd once seen smoking a pipe and despairing of ever becoming Sherlock Holmes partner in every sense of the word.
"Holmes?" the John Watson in the doorway was distinctly unwell – he wavered on the spot and squinted around the room, full of unfamiliar and outrageous objects.
"Don't be alarmed, dear chap;" Sherlock's historical counterpart wrapped a protective arm around the others waist, supporting him while attempting to deduce precisely what was happening, "You're ill. It's the fever."
Sherlock watched as John Watson was helped into the room and over to the chairs in front of their heater, where he was settled with an attention to detail that spoke all too clearly of his companions true feelings. The old Sherlock Holmes – a very satisfactory name as far as Sherlock was concerned – did love his Watson, but had left that realisation too late. The wedding ring on Watson's finger spoke all too clearly for Sherlock to think otherwise.
"Mary will be worried," Watson mumbled, "I should go…"
"Rest yourself, dear chap. I sent her a note – and another to Anstruther. Your practice is covered tomorrow, which will give you time to recover," Holmes said gently, "You took the full dose of the scoundrels ether – you need to sleep."
"Like he sleeps," Watson looked over towards Sherlock and his restless armful of wheezing Mage with naked longing. It was not difficult to deduce that the two men had been subjected to an attack while out on one of Holmes' cases and that Watson had been abducted – the rope burns, the faint redness from the chemical that had incapacitated him, the marks on his clothes and those on Holmes all spoke to a clear sequence of events.
"Yes," Holmes agreed, his voice slightly unsteady. Sherlock's other self was clearly disconcerted by the presence of a modern flat and two modern men in his home, but Sherlock knew that when both Watson's finally gave in and went to sleep, this overlay of past and present would fade. John had never explained why this had occurred the first time around, and was in no condition to attempt it now.
What irked Sherlock was the way Holmes' hands lingered on Watson's body, touching to comfort and soothe, and yet the other man had clearly never declared his feelings for his partner. Watson was thin and worn and clearly spreading himself too thin – he had to earn a living, keep a wife and work with Holmes all at once, and all without the modern conveniences that made John's life so much easier. It offended Sherlock in a way he'd never expected that the other Holmes had let things get so bad.
And all because he could not make the effort to give up his chemical crutch.
Watson was almost asleep now, and John was quieting as Sherlock rubbed his chest in gentle circles, feeling the labouring muscles relax under his soothing touch. Over by the armchairs, Watson was leaning his head into Holmes' hesitant hands, a stained thumb smoothing over his pale brow.
"Your drug addiction is killing him," the words burst from Sherlock's mouth, dripping with disdain and censure, "You're an idiot."
The look of displeasure on his other self's face was oddly satisfying as they faded away and John let out a sigh, turning his face towards the armchairs and mumbling Sherlock's name. He smelt of snow and wood smoke again, a scent that Sherlock found quite delicious when it emanated from his lover. Unfortunately, John was in no condition to allow Sherlock to explore that scent.
Sherlock dropped a kiss on his head and tightened his hold, determined that his John Watson would never know a day of despair because of Sherlock's former addiction.
End (for now…)
AN – set before ACD's 'Final Problem' – so Watson is married and Moriarty still at large.
More? Let me know…
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