This is a weird little snippet that came to me the moment I read THIS prompt. I hope it works for the OP.
The tense is present, something I haven't done in years. So please forgive if it's not perfectly consistent.Yeah, this fic is sorta just there. No real tie-ins other than it's post TGG. Even so, I managed making it so vague that there isn't even the tiniest hint of a spoiler.
And now, thanks to![[info]]()
supermouse I have a working title for the piece!!!!
Title: Anchored
Rating: G (I mean it folks, NOTHING happens)
Pairing: None! But SHerlock and Mycroft are present
Category: H/C (totally pointless H/C, in fact)
Word Count: 1102
Warnings: POintless H/C and a bloody nose
Summary: Sherlock gradually wakes in a hospital, a bit out of sorts and the sound of his brother soothes him? Maybe? Not sure about that.
(Summary is almost as long as the fic)
A/N : This fic is a vignette for the kinkmeme prompt "After the explosion, Sherlock wakes up in hospital with tubes down his nose, and is surprised when the first thing he sees is Mycroft, slumped in a chair next to his bed, snoring. It's got little to no framework and reference and so it's sort of adrift, as fics go. I think that's possibly because I wrote it imagining that Sherlock would have been feeling a bit adrift and without context.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smells and shapes come and go near him in the darkness, threatening phantoms only offered forth because his senses are too blanketed to be more concretely useful in reporting the world he is slowly becoming aware of. Sherlock is barely more than reactionary, stiflingly afraid as the fog lifts and the awareness of pain (almost everywhere) asserts itself. He's confused and hurt and all he wants is for the pervading, sharply antiseptic odor to become the warm smell of maleness and wool--John's smells.
Underneath everything is a cacophony of grating noises, the limping, unsteady beeping of some machine, the hiss and bubble of air and water somewhere very nearby, and a strangely comforting grunting, dragging noise...distinctly nasal. He knows that noise, from long ago--latches onto it like a lifeline in the storm of unwelcome disorderly input he suffers clawing his way up through the strangling night that has swallowed him.
Another noise suddenly rises above the others, new and guttural and raw, the conjoined twin of a vibration in his throat bringing a knife of pain fit to take his breath away. Sherlock absently makes a note to himself, 'don't groan like that again...' It bloody well hurts!
Gummy lids flutter and the light hurts too, if only as a small, blazing counterpoint, lancing brightly through the expanding terrain of his consciousness. And then that annoying, wonderful, sane noise again... Up and down in frequency and tone. It's a rhythm of some kind...queerly comforting, like a lullaby long forgotten. Only more raucous. He still has no word for the sound, but it's like a funny balm on his nerves. Every minute or so the dragging noise erupts into a ludicrous snort, shoulders jerk, empty quiet reigns... And then the whole cycle repeats itself.
It takes several moments for Sherlock's curiosity to foment into real action and he's almost coherent enough to be disgusted with himself. Almost. His head slowly (terribly, horribly slowly) cranes toward the sound when he's surprisedly halted by the tug of tubing against his face, pulling from deep within his sinuses. The painful burn isn't unbearable, not next to the other aches making themselves heard, but the intimacy of the violation... Having things, tubes--to which he did most certainly not consent--coming out of orifices... It was beyond intolerable! With an irritation that might have been born of horror someplace deep within himself, Sherlock reaches up to yank at the intrusions. Or rather, he tries to. But he seems to lack the strength, and the attempt itself erupts such a blossom of agony in his breast that the beeping cadence in the background is suddenly a loud, drunken gallop of ugly noise.
The soothing burble of sound stumbles and then stops suddenly. 'Snoring... That's what it is!' his mind cries amid the panic rising to the forefront. Sherlock wrenches his head that direction, resulting in an altogether satisfying sting in his sinuses that makes his eyes water, and something warm and moist dribbles down his upper lip.
One of his hands finally starts to obey, making a clumsy, pitiful flail toward his face. And in what feels to Sherlock like an instant, the blurry form next to him has risen like a leviathan from the mists of his periphery and reached out, cleanly catching his wrist. "Lie still Sherlock," comes the soft, low words. An order all the same and in a voice he'd know anywhere, even in this hell.
"Mycroft..." Sherlock rasps, the word tearing at his throat. He tugs weakly to free his wrist, but it's already being tucked gently, firmly at his side.
"Hmmm... Yes, brother. Lie still," Mycroft repeats, just as gently. Again, the command is implicit within the tone. "A nurse is on the way to quiet these wretched machines."
Sherlock's vision is starting to clear and had he been at all himself he'd have dodged the folded linen handkerchief suddenly in his field of vision, dabbing gently at his nose. "You would finally wake only to do something like this. I'll give you that. It's very you."
Sherlock has no idea what 'something like this' actually is. It's all too much to recon at the moment and all he can think is that if Mycroft didn't want him doing whatever it is he's done, he shouldn't have been snoring loud enough to wake him. That he misses the noise already is beside the point. "Noisy bugger," Sherlock croaks out finally, pleased he is able to speak and appalled at how much it takes out of him. Mycroft smiles tightly, and Sherlock doesn't have the strength to sort through his hard drive for what that particular rictus of an expression means.
"Yes, well... It's good to finally see you awake, Sherlock," Mycroft dances neatly around the accusation and Sherlock laments not being currently capable of the mental gymnastics to torture his elder sibling.
Finally the annoying dabbing halts. "Though I could have done without you bloodying your nose first thing," his brother offers in that same strangely soft tone again. Sherlock doesn't care on a good day what Mycroft could do without. He certainly can't be arsed to care right now.
Thick fingers comb gently through his matted hair, setting a hypnotic tempo of comfort washing through him, and Sherlock postulates that something dire must have occurred to warrant this.
A nurse enters and resets the machines, adds something to an IV line Sherlock is only just noticing. She grabs up his chart, asks him a few things he doesn't bother answering, She obviously isn't expecting him to anyway. The pain begins to drift away a bit and with it some of the scarce clarity he was only just holding onto. His eyes shift back to Mycroft, still at the head of the bed, still stroking his hair. Two sets of gray eyes meet and then Sherlock's glance flicks to what he knows are ice chips in a cup nearby.
Ever adept, Mycroft understands and Sherlock might almost be willing to thank him for the blessed relief he suddenly feels as the cold slivers melt, soothing his throat.
"You snore," Sherlock croaks out instead.
Mycroft smiles again, more genuinely. He leans over and Sherlock feels the momentary brush of cool, soft lips on his brow. "Do I," he inquires teasingly.
"Yes," Sherlock's voice is in ruin, but he doesn't care. "Stop it," he barely manages so scratch out as audible.
Sherlock knows by the solemn nod that is the last thing he sees before slipping away, that Mycroft understands he means just the opposite.
~~~FINIS~~~~
The tense is present, something I haven't done in years. So please forgive if it's not perfectly consistent.Yeah, this fic is sorta just there. No real tie-ins other than it's post TGG. Even so, I managed making it so vague that there isn't even the tiniest hint of a spoiler.
And now, thanks to
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=1)
supermouse I have a working title for the piece!!!!Title: Anchored
Rating: G (I mean it folks, NOTHING happens)
Pairing: None! But SHerlock and Mycroft are present
Category: H/C (totally pointless H/C, in fact)
Word Count: 1102
Warnings: POintless H/C and a bloody nose
Summary: Sherlock gradually wakes in a hospital, a bit out of sorts and the sound of his brother soothes him? Maybe? Not sure about that.
(Summary is almost as long as the fic)
A/N : This fic is a vignette for the kinkmeme prompt "After the explosion, Sherlock wakes up in hospital with tubes down his nose, and is surprised when the first thing he sees is Mycroft, slumped in a chair next to his bed, snoring. It's got little to no framework and reference and so it's sort of adrift, as fics go. I think that's possibly because I wrote it imagining that Sherlock would have been feeling a bit adrift and without context.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Smells and shapes come and go near him in the darkness, threatening phantoms only offered forth because his senses are too blanketed to be more concretely useful in reporting the world he is slowly becoming aware of. Sherlock is barely more than reactionary, stiflingly afraid as the fog lifts and the awareness of pain (almost everywhere) asserts itself. He's confused and hurt and all he wants is for the pervading, sharply antiseptic odor to become the warm smell of maleness and wool--John's smells.
Underneath everything is a cacophony of grating noises, the limping, unsteady beeping of some machine, the hiss and bubble of air and water somewhere very nearby, and a strangely comforting grunting, dragging noise...distinctly nasal. He knows that noise, from long ago--latches onto it like a lifeline in the storm of unwelcome disorderly input he suffers clawing his way up through the strangling night that has swallowed him.
Another noise suddenly rises above the others, new and guttural and raw, the conjoined twin of a vibration in his throat bringing a knife of pain fit to take his breath away. Sherlock absently makes a note to himself, 'don't groan like that again...' It bloody well hurts!
Gummy lids flutter and the light hurts too, if only as a small, blazing counterpoint, lancing brightly through the expanding terrain of his consciousness. And then that annoying, wonderful, sane noise again... Up and down in frequency and tone. It's a rhythm of some kind...queerly comforting, like a lullaby long forgotten. Only more raucous. He still has no word for the sound, but it's like a funny balm on his nerves. Every minute or so the dragging noise erupts into a ludicrous snort, shoulders jerk, empty quiet reigns... And then the whole cycle repeats itself.
It takes several moments for Sherlock's curiosity to foment into real action and he's almost coherent enough to be disgusted with himself. Almost. His head slowly (terribly, horribly slowly) cranes toward the sound when he's surprisedly halted by the tug of tubing against his face, pulling from deep within his sinuses. The painful burn isn't unbearable, not next to the other aches making themselves heard, but the intimacy of the violation... Having things, tubes--to which he did most certainly not consent--coming out of orifices... It was beyond intolerable! With an irritation that might have been born of horror someplace deep within himself, Sherlock reaches up to yank at the intrusions. Or rather, he tries to. But he seems to lack the strength, and the attempt itself erupts such a blossom of agony in his breast that the beeping cadence in the background is suddenly a loud, drunken gallop of ugly noise.
The soothing burble of sound stumbles and then stops suddenly. 'Snoring... That's what it is!' his mind cries amid the panic rising to the forefront. Sherlock wrenches his head that direction, resulting in an altogether satisfying sting in his sinuses that makes his eyes water, and something warm and moist dribbles down his upper lip.
One of his hands finally starts to obey, making a clumsy, pitiful flail toward his face. And in what feels to Sherlock like an instant, the blurry form next to him has risen like a leviathan from the mists of his periphery and reached out, cleanly catching his wrist. "Lie still Sherlock," comes the soft, low words. An order all the same and in a voice he'd know anywhere, even in this hell.
"Mycroft..." Sherlock rasps, the word tearing at his throat. He tugs weakly to free his wrist, but it's already being tucked gently, firmly at his side.
"Hmmm... Yes, brother. Lie still," Mycroft repeats, just as gently. Again, the command is implicit within the tone. "A nurse is on the way to quiet these wretched machines."
Sherlock's vision is starting to clear and had he been at all himself he'd have dodged the folded linen handkerchief suddenly in his field of vision, dabbing gently at his nose. "You would finally wake only to do something like this. I'll give you that. It's very you."
Sherlock has no idea what 'something like this' actually is. It's all too much to recon at the moment and all he can think is that if Mycroft didn't want him doing whatever it is he's done, he shouldn't have been snoring loud enough to wake him. That he misses the noise already is beside the point. "Noisy bugger," Sherlock croaks out finally, pleased he is able to speak and appalled at how much it takes out of him. Mycroft smiles tightly, and Sherlock doesn't have the strength to sort through his hard drive for what that particular rictus of an expression means.
"Yes, well... It's good to finally see you awake, Sherlock," Mycroft dances neatly around the accusation and Sherlock laments not being currently capable of the mental gymnastics to torture his elder sibling.
Finally the annoying dabbing halts. "Though I could have done without you bloodying your nose first thing," his brother offers in that same strangely soft tone again. Sherlock doesn't care on a good day what Mycroft could do without. He certainly can't be arsed to care right now.
Thick fingers comb gently through his matted hair, setting a hypnotic tempo of comfort washing through him, and Sherlock postulates that something dire must have occurred to warrant this.
A nurse enters and resets the machines, adds something to an IV line Sherlock is only just noticing. She grabs up his chart, asks him a few things he doesn't bother answering, She obviously isn't expecting him to anyway. The pain begins to drift away a bit and with it some of the scarce clarity he was only just holding onto. His eyes shift back to Mycroft, still at the head of the bed, still stroking his hair. Two sets of gray eyes meet and then Sherlock's glance flicks to what he knows are ice chips in a cup nearby.
Ever adept, Mycroft understands and Sherlock might almost be willing to thank him for the blessed relief he suddenly feels as the cold slivers melt, soothing his throat.
"You snore," Sherlock croaks out instead.
Mycroft smiles again, more genuinely. He leans over and Sherlock feels the momentary brush of cool, soft lips on his brow. "Do I," he inquires teasingly.
"Yes," Sherlock's voice is in ruin, but he doesn't care. "Stop it," he barely manages so scratch out as audible.
Sherlock knows by the solemn nod that is the last thing he sees before slipping away, that Mycroft understands he means just the opposite.
~~~FINIS~~~~