Title: Not the Real World
Author:Me! Pennies_4_eyes
Pairing: Gen OR not. Up to you.
Rating: PG
Category: H/C with a load of angst
Warnings: a couple of curse words
Length: Short/Vignette
Spoilers: None really
Summary: John's been living and working with Sherlock for months. He's gotten used to thinking of their weird life as a bit unreal. And now he's got his hands full with a sudden, jarring realization that wild as his life has become, it's no storybook. A real life with real world consequences.
A/N: This is a fill for This prompt reposted with a different fill than mine in part II of the sherlock kink meme.
The prompt was a luscious, vague word prompt. "It's all fine." John POV
(This was my first fanfic in this fandom. I did it way back in the earlier kink prompt II and just never got around to posting it here. And no, it seems like it--but it's not a death fic. I might get around to a follow-up some day.)
Not the Real World
John was born a realist in a real world. Thirty nine years ago a plain, steadfast son was born to plain, steadfast parents. And he had never been anything but plain and steadfast since.
At least up until the day he met Sherlock Holmes. That was the day the bloody rules changed. That was the day he was reborn into a surreal existence where several key things he knew about the world, other people and especially himself, had changed. He'd been running amuck in that new world for months now---exploring, running, fighting, making what felt like more than a small difference.
It had been intoxicating.
Intoxicating, and yet seemingly not real. He even posted the craziness on his blog like some story, minus the parts that would get them arrested, of course. Being arrested meant consequences and consequences were for the real world. And John hadn't quite been ready to admit that was what he was living--so he shielded his not-real life the way he would have shielded a real one, only for different reasons.
Harry, the byproduct of the same plain and steadfast upbringing (her sexual identity notwithstanding) was cut of the same cloth. She'd read about what they were up to and once accused John of lying in his blog to get attention. She'd said it was all too cliché to be real. Boring gimp of an ex-soldier makes good as the sidekick of an exotic looking, super-genius eccentric nearly a decade younger. It was like a formulaic gay romance novel--or so she'd said.
John wouldn't know. He didn't read trashy romances, gay or otherwise. All John knew was that this was his life, unbelievable as it was.
Only now, Sherlock Holmes' 'too weird to be true' world of moonlit chases and Tele drama heroic near misses and storybook villains was suddenly a solid thing. Up until this moment it had seemed like some fast-paced fable he'd fallen into. But the blood surfaced all too real and warm, cooling all too sickeningly fast--on the ground, on his hands, all over him. The smell of it was enough to make him forget the dark, wet alleyway for another bloody day full of sand and dry air and the staccato report of rifle fire. The fear inside him was real too, so clenching and painful he couldn't help but scrabble and grasp desperately for some rulebook for this fantasy world turned real, just so he could cry 'foul'.
Because Sherlock Holmes was dying.
Gray eyes cast about lazily, startlingly unfocused. John knew that, more than anything, meant this was going badly. Sherlock was never unfocused in the middle of a case.
Full lips, an ominous dusky blue, whispered something John didn't quite catch over the din of Lestrade calling out commands to his team. "Shh... It's all fine, Sherlock. Just hold on." John pleaded quietly. He was shaking apart inside, but his hands were rock steady--moving on writ, working faster than he could almost think. Battle instinct. He was two people now--the stalwart sidekick in their fantasy world where he blogged their insane adventures in which bold actions never had permanent consequences, and the realist, the soldier-surgeon who'd seen too many brave men turned corpses to ever believe in the ridiculous life John had been living since meeting the consulting detective.
"John..." A long, white fingered grip tightened on his arm, almost painfully for a moment, before suddenly going slack. Immediately John reached out for the pale column of neck, two bloody fingers searching for another fantasy--the one he needed so very badly.
Nothing...
No, no, no, no! "Sherlock, c'mon now. I'm pants at this whole grief thing. I'd appreciate not having another reason to see that silly bint of a psychologist." He was begging a bit, he knew. But it didn't...
Yes! It was there! Faint and staggering, it felt like a victory all the same. "Lestrade! Where's that bloody fucking ambulance!"
More pressure, more precious time leaking crimson between his fingers. But he wouldn't allow this to end badly. It was fine, it had to be. John didn't want reality. He wanted Sherlock's insane facsimile of the real world to go on forever, even if he knew deep down it couldn't.
If he just held on...
John ignored the part of his brain calculating body mass index for blood loss and leaned in close to Sherlock's ear, whispering heatedly. "It's all fine. You hear me, dammit. It's going to be all fine."
~~~~FINIS~~~~~~~~~~
Author:Me! Pennies_4_eyes
Pairing: Gen OR not. Up to you.
Rating: PG
Category: H/C with a load of angst
Warnings: a couple of curse words
Length: Short/Vignette
Spoilers: None really
Summary: John's been living and working with Sherlock for months. He's gotten used to thinking of their weird life as a bit unreal. And now he's got his hands full with a sudden, jarring realization that wild as his life has become, it's no storybook. A real life with real world consequences.
A/N: This is a fill for This prompt reposted with a different fill than mine in part II of the sherlock kink meme.
The prompt was a luscious, vague word prompt. "It's all fine." John POV
(This was my first fanfic in this fandom. I did it way back in the earlier kink prompt II and just never got around to posting it here. And no, it seems like it--but it's not a death fic. I might get around to a follow-up some day.)
Not the Real World
John was born a realist in a real world. Thirty nine years ago a plain, steadfast son was born to plain, steadfast parents. And he had never been anything but plain and steadfast since.
At least up until the day he met Sherlock Holmes. That was the day the bloody rules changed. That was the day he was reborn into a surreal existence where several key things he knew about the world, other people and especially himself, had changed. He'd been running amuck in that new world for months now---exploring, running, fighting, making what felt like more than a small difference.
It had been intoxicating.
Intoxicating, and yet seemingly not real. He even posted the craziness on his blog like some story, minus the parts that would get them arrested, of course. Being arrested meant consequences and consequences were for the real world. And John hadn't quite been ready to admit that was what he was living--so he shielded his not-real life the way he would have shielded a real one, only for different reasons.
Harry, the byproduct of the same plain and steadfast upbringing (her sexual identity notwithstanding) was cut of the same cloth. She'd read about what they were up to and once accused John of lying in his blog to get attention. She'd said it was all too cliché to be real. Boring gimp of an ex-soldier makes good as the sidekick of an exotic looking, super-genius eccentric nearly a decade younger. It was like a formulaic gay romance novel--or so she'd said.
John wouldn't know. He didn't read trashy romances, gay or otherwise. All John knew was that this was his life, unbelievable as it was.
Only now, Sherlock Holmes' 'too weird to be true' world of moonlit chases and Tele drama heroic near misses and storybook villains was suddenly a solid thing. Up until this moment it had seemed like some fast-paced fable he'd fallen into. But the blood surfaced all too real and warm, cooling all too sickeningly fast--on the ground, on his hands, all over him. The smell of it was enough to make him forget the dark, wet alleyway for another bloody day full of sand and dry air and the staccato report of rifle fire. The fear inside him was real too, so clenching and painful he couldn't help but scrabble and grasp desperately for some rulebook for this fantasy world turned real, just so he could cry 'foul'.
Because Sherlock Holmes was dying.
Gray eyes cast about lazily, startlingly unfocused. John knew that, more than anything, meant this was going badly. Sherlock was never unfocused in the middle of a case.
Full lips, an ominous dusky blue, whispered something John didn't quite catch over the din of Lestrade calling out commands to his team. "Shh... It's all fine, Sherlock. Just hold on." John pleaded quietly. He was shaking apart inside, but his hands were rock steady--moving on writ, working faster than he could almost think. Battle instinct. He was two people now--the stalwart sidekick in their fantasy world where he blogged their insane adventures in which bold actions never had permanent consequences, and the realist, the soldier-surgeon who'd seen too many brave men turned corpses to ever believe in the ridiculous life John had been living since meeting the consulting detective.
"John..." A long, white fingered grip tightened on his arm, almost painfully for a moment, before suddenly going slack. Immediately John reached out for the pale column of neck, two bloody fingers searching for another fantasy--the one he needed so very badly.
Nothing...
No, no, no, no! "Sherlock, c'mon now. I'm pants at this whole grief thing. I'd appreciate not having another reason to see that silly bint of a psychologist." He was begging a bit, he knew. But it didn't...
Yes! It was there! Faint and staggering, it felt like a victory all the same. "Lestrade! Where's that bloody fucking ambulance!"
More pressure, more precious time leaking crimson between his fingers. But he wouldn't allow this to end badly. It was fine, it had to be. John didn't want reality. He wanted Sherlock's insane facsimile of the real world to go on forever, even if he knew deep down it couldn't.
If he just held on...
John ignored the part of his brain calculating body mass index for blood loss and leaned in close to Sherlock's ear, whispering heatedly. "It's all fine. You hear me, dammit. It's going to be all fine."
~~~~FINIS~~~~~~~~~~