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 Sherlock. He was still in the trunk. There was something fake about him, something that made you think about stimulation.
John mentally cursed the slowness of his thinking. He takes too long to think! Maybe not too slowly compared to ordinary people, as he was a high-class military doctor and a good fighter, but compared to the Holmes brothers, he is an idiot.
John pulled a list of drugs from Sherlock's pocket. It's written on a piece of newspaper with an eyeliner, with a trembling hand. He was having fun somewhere in a bohemian environment, but at the bottom level. And the mixture of drugs causes not so much a buzz, but a quick transition to the state of a log, when a person is sleeping and feels nothing at all. Usually, drug addicts do not use such a cocktail precisely because it almost immediately puts you to sleep even in a small dose — and that is why at the dawn of surgery it was used for general anesthesia. But they quickly refused, because the drug is dangerous for the heart. For all the time of communication with Sherlock, John had never seen his drug addict side, but from the stories of those who saw him, he knew that, unlike most drug addicts, Sherlock's buzz was just to turn off his brain, exhausted without riddles. Or create hallucinations that can replace riddles. And like any drug addict or alcoholic, Sherlock was too self-centered to care how his actions affect those close to him. The main thing is that he himself is enjoying it.
But the doctor doesn't discuss the moral character of the patient.
John checked Sherlock's pulse again. Such as it should be after taking such a mixture.
John checked the bag. Underwear, socks, a T-shirt, a sweater, a tracksuit. The sweater is very warm, if Sherlock wears it under a sports jacket, he doesn't need a coat. Everything is expensive, as far as John, indifferent to brands, could judge. And there is a phone, a wallet, and the license under the junk — all John left on Baker Street. He put it in his pocket and looked at the medicines and instruments that were under it. A good set, there is even a needle for injection into the heart — drug addicts often don't respond to a defibrillator. Relatives of drug addicts know this. And Mycroft had the ability to simply order a paramedic in MI6 to assemble a medical kit, so its perfect correctness is not surprising.
And yet something is wrong.
"Take him away," Mycroft said. "And do something."
John looked at him doubtfully.
"If you really care about your brother, why did you bring him here and not to the clinic?" John asked again.
"The clinic won't help him," Mycroft said grimly. "He is here precisely because I worry and care about him."
"The job of the DDx doctor — are you serious?"
"Of course, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied with regal arrogance.
"Offer it to one guy from my former hospital. He is very talented and can save many lives, but working as an ordinary doctor is not for him. His inability to communicate with people is almost the same as Sherlock's."
John saw the rarest sight in the world: a confused and bewildered Mycroft.
"Dr. Watson..." Mycroft muttered. "I don't know what to say." He took out his phone. "What is his name and what department does he work in?"
John wouldn't have taken even water in the desert from Mycroft. But that doesn't mean that this manipulator can't be useful to someone else. John dictated the data to Mycroft, and when he finished writing it down, John cut the tape on Sherlock's legs and told Mycroft: "Get him".
Anyway, a patient is a patient. John will deal with his feelings later, after a medical debt. And the feelings of Sherlock, its feelings of both Holmes, are the hysteria of spoiled kids who never knew refusal in anything, but they didn't get the toy they wanted for the first time in their lives. As for the job... Find a city in the world where an ambulance does not need a doctor. And there is so much adrenaline that there is enough for a dozen people. Previously, John avoided this job, it woke up the worst nightmares about the war, but now John has more or less figured out the military past, he can work in the ambulance. And Edinburgh is no worse than London in terms of the intensity of life.
Nightmares… There were none on Baker Street. However, this life was an illusion. No worse than drugs. And John didn't want to be a drug addict. And now he knew how to overcome that which gives rise to nightmares. It won't work right away, but no wounds heal instantly, and all that matters is that John found a cure.
When Sherlock was on the bush, John's new phone rang. His boss in Marry-Morstan-Gleann asked for GPS coordinates. Understandably, Andrea gave him the go-ahead.
John sent the boss, now ex-boss, the coordinates. And Mycroft, meanwhile, left in a very English way — without saying goodbye. John didn't even look toward his car. Sherlock was more important. What is wrong with him?
John didn't have time to figure it out: the ex-boss arrived. The camp was nearby. He gave John his suitcase and the keys to own car.
"Leave it at Buddy's Pub. Are you going through Craobh?"
John took out his old phone and looked in his diary for today's date. They even booked a room.
"Yes," he said aloud.
The ex-boss helped John get Sherlock in the back seat.
"Is this your mission?"
"No. By-effect. If he was a mission, would you be allowed to see him?"
The ex-boss nodded and chuckled. And looked at Sherlock a little more closely.
"It's strange. He looks like a junkie from squat but has model hair. Dirty, however..."
John wiggled his jaws. Hair. Certainly. The ex-boss did not serve the SAS in vain: he thinks faster than John, although he is not a doctor.
If Sherlock did pipe way as much as his hands say, his hair would look sick — this is the first sign of relapse in an addict. So it's all a game. Sherlock gave injections, but it was something harmless: glucose, saline, vitamins…
Liars and manipulators. But more about that later. Even the most deceitful and manipulative patient was first and foremost a patient, and the mixture of which the youngest of the Holmes poured for the sake of their game was very dangerous.
The ex-boss shook John's hand. And he kept her in his.
"Don't be a hero, Waitsoin. Be alive."
John laughed back.
"I have recovered from heroism."
"Yes. As all of us." He clapped John on the shoulder and walked towards the camp.
John cursed softly. It was disgusting to lie to a good person, to make him worry about what was not there. [I will surely get some help out of Mycroft for the camp,] John thought.
…Sherlock woke up at the entrance to the city. John, looking at him in the rearview mirror, said:
"Stay silent. Move less. You were not weakly poisoned for the sake of your show, and I still don’t know what is wrong with your heart. Leave the joke about not having one for Moriarty."
"Oh, you understand that?" Sherlock was surprised. "And Mycroft believed. You learned well from me how to think."
"Drugs kill your brain. I told you that I am a very good doctor."
"John…"
"Be silent," John looked at the road attentively.
"What nightmares do you have?" Sherlock asked.
John in an instant threw the car to the side of the road and braked.
"Fuck you, Sherlock, you chose the time!"
"Phy…" Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "A driver like you risks nothing." He looked at John. And he repeated obstinately: "So what are you dreaming about? It is important."
John sighed. It's cheaper to answer than to talk about personal boundaries. Especially since Sherlock will not discuss it with anyone. And the memories aren't as painful as they used to be. But John didn't refuse the sarcastic question:
"You still haven't figured it out yourself?"
"You didn't have nightmares while you were with me," Sherlock said smugly.
John squeezed the steering wheel so that he won't punch Sherlock in the face.
"You are not the only remedy for them."
Sherlock sat up, leaning forward, his fingers gripping the head of the second front seat so hard they turned white.
"So what are your nightmares, John?"
"The death of people which I could not save. They are civilians in the main, who should not have been touched by all this. Children especially. Nasty deaths, slow, where there is a lot of pain and blood. The death of friends. Collecting corpses. Everyone does it, not just the rank and file, if you need to have time to take out the bodies before the shelling. We needed to quickly understand which fragments of the bodies belong to our people, and which belong to strangers. It is especially difficult to do this if the hot weather has worked on the bodies. And hot is very… nimble. But leaving the bodies of people you knew... It's often worse than dying yourself. The road, which is always full of mines, and the radio-controlled platform with sand, which you can be launched ahead of, we rarely had." John swallowed and straightened his shoulders and back even more. "It's all. I don't want to discuss the details."
"And it's not as bad as me?" Sherlock looked tense and seemed agitated.
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