![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aliyn_ravenA bit retro. Forgotten fandom, but I love this cute craziness.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/341514125-fanfics-about-sherlock-bbc
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126
Summary: 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.
***********
***********
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
***********
***********
"John, I don't need your dinner. I'm thinking! And if you don't have any interesting ideas, then do your scribble for idiots. If you're bursting with cum, go fuck someone else. Or raise your intellect to the level of a skull and wait for me to call you."
*****
John Watson always tried to be reasonable, practical and calm. It is necessary for the doctor. This is important for a soldier. And if you don't have these things, you can't survive with Sherlock Holmes.
But John achieved success only with medicine. The soldier from John was not very good if he caught a bullet because of his own recklessness. As for Sherlock Holmes…
Well, at least John didn't kill him. This is no small feat when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. With any Holmes. Anyone who knows Sherlock or Mycroft will confirm this.
The cold wind quickly cooled the fury, and the drizzling rain forced him to hail a cab. And then John realized that he had run out of the house without a jacket, phone and money. It was the first time such stupidity had happened to him. But the scandal was worth it. To be precise, there was no scandal. John merely left. He did that immediately and without saying a word. There was no point in saying anything after what he had already said.
John took cover under the awning of a Chinese restaurant. It's time to think about what to do next. And it wasn't just about the coming night. John needed global decisions — about his entire current and future life.
Although, what is there to decide... Everything is clear. John needs to go somewhere far away and start life anew. Don't let yourself hang because of a freaky genius.
[I knew all of this would end.] John thought. [I always knew it. I knew from the very beginning that Sherlock Holmes would quickly get bored of me. He was surprised that I wasn't afraid of his whims. But he quickly got used to it. After the pool... It covered us... Not us. I was always in love with him, although I didn’t want to admit it, and his hormones swept over him. Sex is the best anti-stress, and Sherlock was under a lot of stress at the prospect of losing the needed, then still needed, toy. There was a lot of sex. But lust ends even faster than love, and love lives for three years at its best. It's all over.]
It's even worse than it ended. Sherlock had come to see John as a thing to pick up and throw away at his whim. If Sherlock had said "I don't love you anymore, get out of my apartment and my life" it wouldn't have been as painful as this attempt to use John like he was a nicotine patch.
John closed his eyes, remembering Afghanistan. Until now, he had driven away these memories, suppressed them, but now they gave strength.
'Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. You see the battlefield. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.'
[Yes,] John admitted. [Damn Mycroft was right. The battle has become my drug. I never learned to live outside the war. I'm still missing it. And now it's time to find war without Sherlock Holmes.]
An emotional wound is no worse than a physical one. And traumatic shock is inevitable. He needs to find a lair while the short primary stage, erectile shock, lasts — no pain, no emotions, very clear consciousness, quick thinking, and a surge of energy. Wise nature made sure that any living creature had time to find shelter for licking wounds.
The drizzle turned into a downpour. And around Sherlock's house, within a radius of five blocks, everything is littered with surveillance cameras. If John catches a cab here, the Holmes brothers will catch Sherlock's rebellious property instantly and return it to Baker Street. So he needs to get into the blind spot quickly. Sherlock always figured them all out instantly, didn't hesitate to mess up the cameras, and constantly updated information about the free areas. John followed him through all of this. And now he will get away from him with the help of this.
Rain is no worse than shelling. John scurried from canopy to canopy — getting wet and catching a cold would be a bad addition to the coming of the debilitating shock, a secondary stage of traumatic shock, which would itself turn John into a piece of jelly.
Here it is! A place behind the backyards of houses and shops. A meeting point for cabmen, a place where they smoke, and exchange information. There are always vagabonds at the point, Sherlock's army of spies, but now it's raining, and unnecessary witnesses have fled.
John looked at the cabmen who stood under umbrellas — the rain was too noisy to speak through the open car window. He needs a person from the Near or Middle East, a Muslim.
There he is!
John approached the cabmen. It was not necessary to imitate lameness, he began to return herself. But for now, you can walk without a cane.
"It's my first time in London and they robbed me," John said, strengthening what remnants of his Australian accent he still had. "No wallet, no phone, no clothes. They even took away my cane. My friend will help me, but he lives far away."
The cabmen looked at him as if he were a tramp, but one, who looked like a Syrian, nodded.
"Come with me. I'll take it to a friend."
"His friend is just such an illegal immigrant and vagabond," said another cabman. "Otherwise, this dude would have gone to the police. His friend won't give you a penny."
"Allah sees," the Syrian replied and went to the car. Like this. Everything is simple. A liar will go to hell, but it will still count as an attempt to help a suffering person as a score for a pass to heaven.
When John got into the car, the cabman gave him a rug to put under him the seat so he would not wet it and gave him a roll of paper towels to dry himself off.
It was really a long drive, but Chris Rice was never John's friend. What's more, Chris hated John ever since John contacted Sherlock: Chris was an inveterate homophobe. However, he could not help but help a fellow soldier who had problems. And he knew for sure that Captain Watson, whoever he was, always returned his debts.
The version of "I got busted at the sweepstakes" went like clockwork: Chris was a player. And not only immediately gave John a drink of hot tea with rum and paid for the cab but also gave, as John asked, a tip to the cabman — "If he doesn't want to take it, you say that it's for charity. But let him feel rewarded for helping."
Chris not only lent John money but also gave him some dry clothes and his own old crutch. John promised he would definitely send everything back, washed and ironed, and he advised him to throw away wet clothes and sneakers — Chris was taller, and the exchange would not work. John phoned the hospital from Chris. It was to the hospital, at the reception, and not to Sarah personally. And he said that he got drenched in the rain, he could not go to work tomorrow.
Chris wanted to call another cab but John refused, saying that he would stand on the street for a while because he needed to air out before returning home.
Chris wasn't surprised, he did it himself. He gave John an old hooded raincoat.
And John left. He caught a cab, and drove to the bus station — it takes longer to get to Birmingham by bus, but there were fewer cameras than at the railway station. And other people bought a ticket for John: if a person with a crutch sitting on a bench gives money and asks to buy a ticket for him, in England there will always be those who want to help a disabled person, even late in the evening. And the bench was out of view of the cameras.
Now the main thing is to hold out until the house of Edwin Trenk. He wasn't John's friend either, they talked little after they were both discharged from the army because of being wounded, but he can call him a buddy. And what's even more important, Edwin is busy searching for jobs for retired soldiers. Unofficially, this is his charity, and Edwin works as a logistician at the warehouse of a supermarket chain. That's why John went to him: only the military themselves knew about Edwin's volunteer work, and they will not want to interact with Mycroft's minions.
John asked the bus driver if he had any books left behind by the passengers. He gave him "The Lost World". John smiled at the ambiguity, thanked the driver, and took his seat. Now only breathing exercises from yoga to extend the stage of erectile shock, and attempts to distract by reading. Maybe it will turn out not to turn into a beast howling in pain along the way.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/341514125-fanfics-about-sherlock-bbc
https://archiveofourown.org/works/47086126
Summary: 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.
***********
***********
Ajax, thanks for the preliminary reading.
***********
***********
"John, I don't need your dinner. I'm thinking! And if you don't have any interesting ideas, then do your scribble for idiots. If you're bursting with cum, go fuck someone else. Or raise your intellect to the level of a skull and wait for me to call you."
*****
John Watson always tried to be reasonable, practical and calm. It is necessary for the doctor. This is important for a soldier. And if you don't have these things, you can't survive with Sherlock Holmes.
But John achieved success only with medicine. The soldier from John was not very good if he caught a bullet because of his own recklessness. As for Sherlock Holmes…
Well, at least John didn't kill him. This is no small feat when dealing with Sherlock Holmes. With any Holmes. Anyone who knows Sherlock or Mycroft will confirm this.
The cold wind quickly cooled the fury, and the drizzling rain forced him to hail a cab. And then John realized that he had run out of the house without a jacket, phone and money. It was the first time such stupidity had happened to him. But the scandal was worth it. To be precise, there was no scandal. John merely left. He did that immediately and without saying a word. There was no point in saying anything after what he had already said.
John took cover under the awning of a Chinese restaurant. It's time to think about what to do next. And it wasn't just about the coming night. John needed global decisions — about his entire current and future life.
Although, what is there to decide... Everything is clear. John needs to go somewhere far away and start life anew. Don't let yourself hang because of a freaky genius.
[I knew all of this would end.] John thought. [I always knew it. I knew from the very beginning that Sherlock Holmes would quickly get bored of me. He was surprised that I wasn't afraid of his whims. But he quickly got used to it. After the pool... It covered us... Not us. I was always in love with him, although I didn’t want to admit it, and his hormones swept over him. Sex is the best anti-stress, and Sherlock was under a lot of stress at the prospect of losing the needed, then still needed, toy. There was a lot of sex. But lust ends even faster than love, and love lives for three years at its best. It's all over.]
It's even worse than it ended. Sherlock had come to see John as a thing to pick up and throw away at his whim. If Sherlock had said "I don't love you anymore, get out of my apartment and my life" it wouldn't have been as painful as this attempt to use John like he was a nicotine patch.
John closed his eyes, remembering Afghanistan. Until now, he had driven away these memories, suppressed them, but now they gave strength.
'Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. You see the battlefield. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.'
[Yes,] John admitted. [Damn Mycroft was right. The battle has become my drug. I never learned to live outside the war. I'm still missing it. And now it's time to find war without Sherlock Holmes.]
An emotional wound is no worse than a physical one. And traumatic shock is inevitable. He needs to find a lair while the short primary stage, erectile shock, lasts — no pain, no emotions, very clear consciousness, quick thinking, and a surge of energy. Wise nature made sure that any living creature had time to find shelter for licking wounds.
The drizzle turned into a downpour. And around Sherlock's house, within a radius of five blocks, everything is littered with surveillance cameras. If John catches a cab here, the Holmes brothers will catch Sherlock's rebellious property instantly and return it to Baker Street. So he needs to get into the blind spot quickly. Sherlock always figured them all out instantly, didn't hesitate to mess up the cameras, and constantly updated information about the free areas. John followed him through all of this. And now he will get away from him with the help of this.
Rain is no worse than shelling. John scurried from canopy to canopy — getting wet and catching a cold would be a bad addition to the coming of the debilitating shock, a secondary stage of traumatic shock, which would itself turn John into a piece of jelly.
Here it is! A place behind the backyards of houses and shops. A meeting point for cabmen, a place where they smoke, and exchange information. There are always vagabonds at the point, Sherlock's army of spies, but now it's raining, and unnecessary witnesses have fled.
John looked at the cabmen who stood under umbrellas — the rain was too noisy to speak through the open car window. He needs a person from the Near or Middle East, a Muslim.
There he is!
John approached the cabmen. It was not necessary to imitate lameness, he began to return herself. But for now, you can walk without a cane.
"It's my first time in London and they robbed me," John said, strengthening what remnants of his Australian accent he still had. "No wallet, no phone, no clothes. They even took away my cane. My friend will help me, but he lives far away."
The cabmen looked at him as if he were a tramp, but one, who looked like a Syrian, nodded.
"Come with me. I'll take it to a friend."
"His friend is just such an illegal immigrant and vagabond," said another cabman. "Otherwise, this dude would have gone to the police. His friend won't give you a penny."
"Allah sees," the Syrian replied and went to the car. Like this. Everything is simple. A liar will go to hell, but it will still count as an attempt to help a suffering person as a score for a pass to heaven.
When John got into the car, the cabman gave him a rug to put under him the seat so he would not wet it and gave him a roll of paper towels to dry himself off.
It was really a long drive, but Chris Rice was never John's friend. What's more, Chris hated John ever since John contacted Sherlock: Chris was an inveterate homophobe. However, he could not help but help a fellow soldier who had problems. And he knew for sure that Captain Watson, whoever he was, always returned his debts.
The version of "I got busted at the sweepstakes" went like clockwork: Chris was a player. And not only immediately gave John a drink of hot tea with rum and paid for the cab but also gave, as John asked, a tip to the cabman — "If he doesn't want to take it, you say that it's for charity. But let him feel rewarded for helping."
Chris not only lent John money but also gave him some dry clothes and his own old crutch. John promised he would definitely send everything back, washed and ironed, and he advised him to throw away wet clothes and sneakers — Chris was taller, and the exchange would not work. John phoned the hospital from Chris. It was to the hospital, at the reception, and not to Sarah personally. And he said that he got drenched in the rain, he could not go to work tomorrow.
Chris wanted to call another cab but John refused, saying that he would stand on the street for a while because he needed to air out before returning home.
Chris wasn't surprised, he did it himself. He gave John an old hooded raincoat.
And John left. He caught a cab, and drove to the bus station — it takes longer to get to Birmingham by bus, but there were fewer cameras than at the railway station. And other people bought a ticket for John: if a person with a crutch sitting on a bench gives money and asks to buy a ticket for him, in England there will always be those who want to help a disabled person, even late in the evening. And the bench was out of view of the cameras.
Now the main thing is to hold out until the house of Edwin Trenk. He wasn't John's friend either, they talked little after they were both discharged from the army because of being wounded, but he can call him a buddy. And what's even more important, Edwin is busy searching for jobs for retired soldiers. Unofficially, this is his charity, and Edwin works as a logistician at the warehouse of a supermarket chain. That's why John went to him: only the military themselves knew about Edwin's volunteer work, and they will not want to interact with Mycroft's minions.
John asked the bus driver if he had any books left behind by the passengers. He gave him "The Lost World". John smiled at the ambiguity, thanked the driver, and took his seat. Now only breathing exercises from yoga to extend the stage of erectile shock, and attempts to distract by reading. Maybe it will turn out not to turn into a beast howling in pain along the way.
