Fanfics about Sherlock BBC
"I'm not his thing":
Sherlock awkwardly tried to spark John's passion. And hurt him so much that John left. However, coming to terms with loss isn't about Sherlock.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/341514125-fanfics-about-sherlock-bbchttps://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
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John looked at Mycroft in bewilderment, then said ironically:
"The warehouse meeting joke was funnier."
"It's hard for you to believe," Mycroft hissed, stung, "but I can accept obvious facts. And I highly recommend you to learn this skill. It helps to get rid of many problems."
"And what is the fact that I need to acknowledge?"
"Only fools and nonentities forgive," Mycroft said. "You are neither. And this is a fact. That's why I want to prove to you Sherlock's innocence."
"Did he kill someone?" John chuckled.
"Sherlock could never even say 'Hello' in a way that he didn't get punched in the face for it," Mycroft said evenly and calmly as if talking about the weather. "And you knew it from Mike Stamford. But you came to the meeting. You were interested in such an adventure and found the associated costs acceptable. As in all other cases. You have seen that Sherlock's words always need to be translated. You were his translator. And you considered it a small price to pay for the entertainment they provided. So why don't you try to translate for yourself what he says to you?"
"Actions speak louder than words," John said, just as calmly and evenly. And everything was trembling with rage inside him. Sherlock's actions... Oh yes, this topic is inexhaustible!
Mycroft responded venomously:
"The actions of a man who is unable to deal with his own rent bills and is afraid to talk on the phone? Dr. Watson, when you picked up Sherlock as a mangy street puppy, you washed him up and treated him for worms and ringworm, but that didn't turn the dog into a human. You can train a dog not to shit on your carpet and bite your guests, but the dog will still lift its paw up every post and bark at the wheels of cars. However, you become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed! You can shoot an unwanted dog, but don't throw it away!"
"What…" John began, stunned by this tirade, but Mycroft interrupted:
"Yes! This is true. I don't understand how you did it, Dr. Watson, but Sherlock has become your dog. Your thing. Even if he himself thinks otherwise. A fact remains a fact, even if denied." He grimaced in annoyance and waved his umbrella. "I would rather have you liquidated, Dr. Watson. But Sherlock won't survive your disappearance. You own him completely. That means you own me. And, since you are not a killer, then if you want to get rid of a pet you do not need, find another owner for him."
Mycroft looked at the still-confused John.
"You wanted actions, Dr. Watson? So take the trouble to notice that Sherlock always runs after you as soon as you start to disappear from his field of vision."
John looked at Mycroft incredulously. [Has he gone mad?] John thought. [What is he carrying?]
And Mycroft opened the trunk of the car.
"Take him. And do with it what you want. Worse than it is, it will not be."
John looked dazedly at Sherlock sleeping in the trunk. And the dream was narcotic. And handcuffed on the wrists, ankles wrapped in duct tape.
"What did you fill him with?" John quickly checked the pulse on Sherlock's neck, then his sclera and gums.
"On the left, in the inside pocket of my coat," Mycroft replied. "I've never been able to control him, but I managed to get his promise to write down how he's going to… get all gacked out. Combinations of substances are often quite bizarre, and resuscitators must know what they are dealing with. This time it was all easy. But he still needs a doctor."
John threw Mycroft an indignant look. But the next moment he growled:
"Give me the key!"
Mycroft gave him what he wanted. John removed the handcuffs from Sherlock and threw them into the corner of the trunk. Mycroft said:
"Save the handcuffs for yourself. Sherlock will like it if you use them in your intimate life."
John muttered a curse and pulled an army knife from his pocket, ripping open the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, jacket and shirt in one motion. Indeed, it's all bad. Mycroft and Sherlock weren't putting on a show. There are both old and new injection marks on the arm of the mad genius. He had fun for at least three weeks.
"And you did nothing?" John looked at Mycroft indignantly.
"I stopped being someone whose opinion matters to Sherlock when he was seven. Lestrade could control him a little by threatening to keep him out of business, but for this, Sherlock had to want to work."
"He was interested. And it became a salvation for him. And for me. He always quit drugs for the sake of riddles. But this time, he abandoned the riddle for the drug."
A chill ran down John's spine. This simply could not be. But…
"Why is he here and not in the clinic?"
"Drugs and alcoholics are incurable, Dr. Watson. And you, as a medical man and a brother of an alcoholic, know that better than I do. But they can cause a more or less stable remission for themselves if they themselves want it. That is why almost all psychologists and narcologists advise relatives of a drug addict or alcoholic not to play the "savior and victim", but to run away from him." Mycroft bared his teeth. "Sherlock had quit drugs himself on more than one occasion at a stage that seemed impossible. But if you decide to send him to the clinic, there is an address on your phone. An old phone," Mycroft clarified as John reached into his pocket.
Andrea got out of the car, looked at Mycroft, kissed John on the cheek and handed him a medium-sized duffel bag. She smiled warmly and got back into the car.
Mycroft said: "That was very smart, Dr. Watson. Scotland. A parallel system for registering citizens, a different language, its own currency and banking system. And no customs. All data from Scotland goes to the central databases but in a slightly modified form. Search engines don't see you. And Highland. Lots of tourists. The stranger is inconspicuous even in the village. You have become invisible everywhere." He sighed. "Andrea made me swear by Sherlock that I would do you no harm or good, and only then began the search. What are you are, I would like to understand..."
"Have you tried not to interfere with people's lives?" John muttered. "They say it helps to be unnecessary."
"The bag contains medicine and fresh clothes for Sherlock."
John looked at the bag in surprise. You can tamp down underwear, jeans, a sweater and a jacket in it, but not Sherlock's dandy toilettes. Mycroft's malevolent grin explained it all. The Holmes brothers and adulthood are mutually exclusive concepts.
Mycroft took Sherlock by the legs.
"Take him by the shoulders, Dr. Watson. Let's put him there," Mycroft nodded towards a low, wide, dense bush.
John wanted to be indignant, but Mycroft was ahead of him:
"I have urgent business ahead of me, and these conditions are much better than those in which I found him. A car will come for you soon."
"I have things to do, too," John said. "And I can't drag Sherlock to the job."
"You are not the only military trauma surgeon who was commissioned. They sent you a replacement. This is for a week, do not rush to kill me. According to the official version, you will be involved in a onetime special operation. Your boss has heard something about you, so he wasn't surprised. And the replacement is quite qualified, so you don't have to worry about the patients. And the issue with her resignation is just in the process of registration, so formally she is still in the service and must follow orders. Patients will not be disappointed. Captain Rosamund Aitken has excellent reviews."
John glared at Mycroft with fury. The damn manipulator knew that John wouldn't compete for a job with a man whose life had just been ruined. And it's not just a beggarly pension, a miserable municipal apartment and a talentless free psychotherapist. And not even in the feeling that you were used and thrown away. Loneliness. That's what paralyzes and pushes you to commit suicide. John understood this only from conversations with a psychotherapist, who herself experienced a discharge from the army.
While you're in military service, there's no time to make civilian friends. And someone constantly throws you from point to point like a cricket ball. Therefore, anyone who has served for over two years, wherever he goes - in England or in India, or in Afghanistan, or in some Cape Verde — a person will definitely find someone with whom he has already served, with whom he can twaddle in a bar about sports news and broads, to play at cards and billiards. You are at home everywhere. You always have a family. You have support.
And a retired military man is overwhelmed and torn apart by loneliness. It is so terrible that there is no strength to simply go to the social service and take a list of vacancies. And even more so, there is no strength to apply to a good employment company.
To find yourself after retirement in a job that is similar to your past life and through which it is easy to find new connections in the civilian world — you have to be a complete bastard to take away such an opportunity from a person.
John also understood why he left after that harmless, if it was said by Sherlock, phrase.
The last days with him were loneliness for John. The one that met him after being decommissioned from the army. Even worse, because then he really was alone, and no one promised him anything.
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