
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/982758.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Original_Characters, Mary_Morston, Mycroft
      Holmes, Harry_Watson, Clara_(Sherlock), Bill_Wiggins
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Homophobic_Language, Alternate_Universe, Oral_Sex, Porn
      With_Plot, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Angst, Mutual_Masturbation,
      Swearing, First_Time, Anal_Sex, Alternate_Universe_-_Different_First
      Meeting, Drug_Use
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-27 Updated: 2015-02-21 Chapters: 6/? Words: 10651
****** Sinking ******
by Bound_in_reason
Summary
     When Sherlock transfers to Carl Powers school, and joins the Swimming
     club, he is not expecting Coach Watson's particular brand of
     distraction.
Notes
     I have no rights to any of these wonderful characters or any version
     of Sherlock Holmes in general.
     Totally un-betaed. Any help welcome.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
"I'd like to see you do better!" Sherlock panted, supporting his weight against
the blue tiles of the pool.
"Right! Fine. Hold this." Coach shoved the stop watch at the stroppy teenager,
and proceeded to stripped of his t-shirt, then dove into the water. As he
surfaced, John pushed back his blond hair, now darkened and flat against his
forehead. Sherlock noted the mottled scar on Coaches left shoulder, bare in
front of him, and began to consider the possibilities of how it came to be, but
before he had time to reach a satisfactory conclusion John nodded to him to
start the timer. Sherlock refocused and readied the stop watch.
"Three, two, one, go."
John pushed off the wall at speed, and with precision, swam the full length of
the pool and back again, showing his muscular, compact form to full advantage
as he swam. Sherlock pressed down the button, and gawped at the results. John
climbed up the ladder, and collected his towel from the bench. He proceeded to
rub away the moisture from his face and hair. Coach sat down on the edge of the
pool, smirking, as he draped the towel around his neck, once more covering the
starburst scar. He casually dangled his legs into the water next to Sherlock.
"If I can do it at twenty six with this belly" He said, grabbing a modest roll
of skin. "and my old shoulder injury, you can certainly do it Sherlock."
"You're so sure you made the time? I didn't even tell you the result."
"It was on your face." Coaches skin crinkled as his smile met his eyes.
Sherlock kicked back from the wall, and floated on his back. His black curls
waving in the water.
"Not bad for an old timer, I suppose."
"Oy! Not so much of the old, you spotty oyke!"
Sherlock righted himself, and examined his face with long fingers.
"I am not spotty!" John grinned at the affronted teenager. "Or an oyke;
whatever that may be."
"And I am not old." John smiled a broad toothy smile, and Sherlock's smile
mirrored his. They laughed together comfortably, as Sherlock swam to the side,
and rested his head on his arms on the edge next to John's dangling legs.
"You really think I can do it?"
"Yes. Yes I do." John fixed eye contact with those stormy grey eyes, and leaned
marginally closer. "And what's more, you will smash my time once you put your
heart into it."
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully breaking the intense look Coach was fixing on him.
His mind was certainly engaged elsewhere. He was not there to break his
personal best times or even compete. He was here to find out who had killed
Carl. So why was he so concerned with what Coach thought? He wanted to please
him. Wanted to do his best, which he had to admit was more than he had
expected. Who would have thought his wirey body, that which he paid so little
mind, was quite capable at competitive swimming. What indeed was his heart
doing?
"Com'on practice is up." Coach offed his hand to Sherlock, and supported him
while he climbed up and out of the pool. "We can try again tomorrow, but next
time I want you to focus on what your body is doing, and get out of that
enormous brain of yours. You're quite brilliant Sherlock, but you'll never get
anywhere living in there." Coach said, tapping a finger to the teenagers
temple.
 
"We can't have this argument again Mary. I love my work. There's this new kid."
Johns face lit up, and his hands became animated. "If he really put his mind to
it, he could be great. No. Not great, totally amazing and."
"Like you were going to be John?" John's shoulders dropped. Mary stepped closer
to him, lowering her voice and placed a hand on his arm. "It's swimming luv!
Splashing about in water. Don't you want to be more? On your wage, we won't
ever afford a mortgage, let alone a family?"
John palmed his face and sighed. It was true that he had never intended to
become a swim coach at the local grammar school, but after the accident he had
been left with few choices. But teaching competitive swimming was the only
thing he derived pleasure from anymore.
It was as though this conversation had been on loop for months, building up
resentment on both sides. It was painful and destructive and going no where
fast.
 
They had fought. Third time this week. Obvious. Crumpled shirt. Slept on the
sofa again. Did not want to go into the bedroom to change. He showered at the
pool. Hair still damp. Furrowed brows. Stressed. Flexing fists. Still rolling
the argument over in his mind.
Sherlock watched Coach sitting in his little office, off of the pool changing
rooms. Sherlock did not like the sullen man sat with his hands balled in his
hair. That was not the man whose eyes sparkled from the reflection of the
water, and beamed with pride when Sherlock shaved another tenth off his time.
The man who punched the air when his team won a heat. This man was broken.
Sherlock turned to the locker and retrieved his kit, starting slowly to change
for the next training session.
"Hey Sherlock!" It was a familiar, but unpleasant voice. Malcolm Maynard.
Sherlock continued to change, stripping off his shirt and tie. "Hey, I'm
talking to you." The body moved closer. "Think you're too good to talk to the
likes of me do you posh boy?" Sherlock raised his eyes only momentarily, then
resumed untying his shoes and placed them in the locker. A hand landed on his
locker door firmly slamming it closed.
Sherlock had made little effort to fit in over the past term. With his primary
objective of gathering evidence it had not, as of yet, been a requirement of
his investigation. Some of his classmates had started gossiping about the
reason he had been expelled from private school. It was true that he had been
expelled, but it had been a necessary and quite deliberate measure. The gossip
mills had turned and cultivated a rather salacious account, involving sexual
favours to sixth formers. All, apparently, for essays, and answers to tests.
Sherlock had balked at that bit. Ridiculous speculation and foundless claims.
Where was their evidence? Any imbecile should be able to ascertain he was an A*
pupil, in absolutely no need of assistance from horny sixth formers.
The boy leaned in and lowered his voice. "Bet you like it up the arse don't you
Holmes? Fag like you must fit in perfect at a puffie posh school. Why'd you
leave? I don't want any bum bandits in my school."
"Hurry up lads. Haven't got all day." Malcolm jerked away from Sherlock. Coach
was standing in his office doorway, clutching his times clipboard and eyeing up
Malcolm knowingly. Malcolm skulked off and Sherlock opened his locker, and
resumed changing. Coach Watson walked over and stopped where Sherlock was
sitting, removing his sock. John sat down, facing the opposite way on the
narrow metal bench.
They sat a moment until Coach broke the silence.
"None of it matters you know. I mean. What happens here. In school now. It's
not important. You aren't who you're gonna be, and what people do, what they
say now, will be insignificant later. It feels important now, but later it
really, really won't be."
"I know." Sherlock stated confidently, while removing his googles from his kit
bag.
"Good. Well." John licked his lips, a little put out. "Good. It's all fine
then?" Coach stood, but his eyes fixed on Sherlock's back, seeming to be
waiting for something more. "Okay. So. In the pool in five." Coach turned to
leave heading for the pool.
"Sir?" Sherlock stared at his pale bare toes.
"Hmm?" John swivelled, causing his trainers to squeak on the tiles.
"If you've heard rumours about me, then I want you to know, they are completely
foundless." His stare lifted to his teacher. Why Sherlock felt the need to say
this he did not know. It did not matter to the case. It was an irrelevance.
"I know that Sherlock. People talk crap sometimes."
"I find they do little else."
Coach smirked. "We'll not everyone can be a genius like you."
"You're not a genius, but most of what you say isn't crap."
"I'll take that as a compliment then shall I?" John shook his head in mirth.
Sherlock echoed John's warm smile. "You're a piece of work kid! Com'on hurry up
will you!"
 
"Okay lads." Coach clapped and blew his whistle. "Good work today, mostly." The
young men began to clamber up the ladder in single file, some hauling
themselves up and out from the ledge. "Fletcher! Bit more practice tomorrow
with your breathing ay? Bit all over the place at the moment mate. Once you're
all changed, I've got some news, so don't buggar off until I've had a word."
The boys nodded and muttered.
 
"Right then. You're'll here yeah? Oy where's Holmes?"
"Still in the shower, Sir. He waits till we're all done to get in, Sir." Jones
piped up.
"Weirdo!" Another added, smirking at his mates.
"Enough of that Chapman. No one's interested in your opinion." Coach scowled,
and marched around the corner, and yelled over the din of the running water.
"Not waiting all day Holmes."
Moments later Sherlock appeared, shampoo still in his hair, with his towel
clutched around his middle, looking rather put out. The group sniggered.
"Right boys. Big news. We've got a scout coming in before we break up for Feb
half term." Grins spread on some of the groups faces, and others buried their
heads in their hands and groaned. "She will be here during the final swim meet,
and will be looking for talent to sponsor. Hope you can hear me with all that
soap in your ears Holmes." Sherlock whipped up his head, glaring as he
continued to wipe his eyes with his towel. "I have hopes for some of you" Coach
continued to look at Sherlock. "and expect you all to put in your best. If any
of you harbour dreams of Olympic success one day, this could well be your
break. So after the Christmas break, I will be ramping things up in training.
If any of you can't commit to that, then you need to talk to me in January."
 
John sat in his office leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head. He
rubbed his scalp, fingers intertwined in his short crop of hair and sighed. He
had not felt he should mention, to the lads, that he would be leaving after the
spring term. Things at home had reached breaking point, and Mary had all but
insisted he resign to go and work at her uncles insurance business. He had
dreamed of going into medicine as a youngster, but that had been well beyond
his and his parents means. The army had been his way in, but the accident had
put a stop to that idea. So he had fallen back on his old love of competative
swimming. Now he was going to have to give that up to, just as he was starting
to get some real talent through.
"Oh well!"
John hefted himself up from the chair, and walked out into the moist air of the
changing room, to start the cleaning and mopping up. It was quiet, except for
the running water in the showers. He huffed, expecting that Sherlock had left
it running, since everyone else had left five minutes ago. As he rounded the
corner, he spied Sherlock at the end of the communal shower. Head low, one arm
up against the tiles, with the water cascading down his lean pale back, washing
away the last remnants of soap bubbles. John stood caught by the sight of the
boy, who was now rubbing a flannel over his long neck, still with his head
down, and black lank curls dripping down covering his eyes. He was beautiful,
young and unspoiled. John swallowed thickly, and moved on towards the cleaning
cupboard to get his mop.
Chapter End Notes
     This story is set in a well known grammar school in Chelmsford, where
     the BBC Sherlock's John Watson was supposed to have attended.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Sherlock had failed. He had gained no ground in weeks. It was immensely
frustrating. After a promising start at the end of October, when he first
arrived at Carl Powers school, he had expected to be done by Christmas at the
latest, but here he was still attending a dreary community Grammar school with
February a week away.
Sherlock had maintained the pretence, attended all his swimming training, and
managed to gain a few strategic informants from all the year groups; by
offering after school tutoring in the library. It had been tedious, but a
necessary evil, or at least he had though so at the time. Coach Watson had been
pushing him hard, but Sherlock was losing interest in it all, as Carl Powers
mysterious death became less and less likely to be solved.
 
"This isn't good enough!" Coach shouted to Sherlock, the only other occupant of
the pool. "You're like some belly flopping walrus today! We've got one week
left and you need to get this dive start down pat. Do it again. You're not
going anywhere until we've got this thing down to perfection."
Sherlock, who had been perched on the starting block, stiffened up straight and
pushed his shoulders back square, eyes widening.
"We've!?" He spat. "And what, pry tell, have you contributed to all my effort
today, other than shout, constantly repeating the same mindless instruction?
Perhaps you haven't observed, but I really couldn't care less if my starts are
perfection or not. This is an utter waste of my time. Why I bothered to
continue humouring you, when I could have been focusing on more pressing
matters, I have no idea."
Sherlock stepped down from the block, pulling off his swimming cap and googles.
As he stomped passed, to collect his towel, John, who had been stood open
mouthed, turned on him grabbing his upper arm roughly.
"You little git! You think I enjoy being here every evening, privately training
you, when I could be at home? I'm doing this for you Holmes." John shook with
rage, his fists tightening.
"Indeed I do." Sherlock growled. "Better this, than sat at your sisters
watching her drink herself to death." John's eyes widened and he stepped back,
releasing Sherlock's arm. "Funny how so many marriages disintegrate during the
Christmas festivities. Must be all the terrible gifts people give." John's
fists balled up, his thin lips pulling tight. "And as for doing this for me. I
think you'll find you're doing this for yourself Watson. This is your dream not
mine. I won't let you live it through me a moment longer."
Sherlock turned, and strode out towards the locker room, not looking back as
Coach stood seething on the spot. While Sherlock quickly dried himself off at
his locker, having no intention of showering, as was his usual habit, (Chlorine
really reaked havok with his hair.) Coach Watson appeared beside him still
quietly livid.
"You!" Coach stepped closer, eyes level with Sherlock's. "You think you know
anything about my life!? That thing you did when we first met, figuring people
out, I said it was clever, amazing even, but you know nothing about anything
that truly matters. This is my life. Who are you to laugh at it?" John placed
his hand on Sherlock's shoulders. John lowered his voice. "I defended you, when
all the guys were getting on at you saying you were a freak. I. God Sherlock
I." John's voice wavered.
Sherlock, who had been shocked into silence, watched as the man he had admired
and hurt so much crumbled. John went to his office slamming the door. Sherlock
hesitated, wanting to flee, but felt compelled to fix his mess. He followed
Coach, opening the office door slowly.
"Coach. I."
"Get out!" John was stood by his desk, not one metre from the door.
"Please. I shouldn't have said those things." Sherlock walked in, shutting the
door behind him. "I've been wound up by. Well that doesn't matter, but I
shouldn't have." John's deep blue eyes bored into him. "You are the most
passionate teacher I have ever had. You are inspiring in so many ways, even
with all your home life." John glared and Sherlock raised his hand to placate
him. "I mean, that you stayed positive with the team." He stepped closer. "I
could see you were sad when you thought none of us were looking, but I saw.
You've had so much disappointment since the shooting."
"You know about that?" John looked surprised. It had happened in New York, ten
years ago when he was there for his last swim meet.
Sherlock nodded, moving to perch himself on the edge of the desk. "There were
lots of rumours to sift through, but, with a little research, I found the
truth. "You took a bullet for a pharmacist in a chemist store that was being
robbed. Gunman was an addict."
"I was only in there for a sleeve for my sprained wrist. I came out much worse
than I went in."
Sherlock raised his hand and settled it on John's injured shoulder.
"I doubt I could cope as well if I was dealt the same hand. I think I'd go
insane if I was unable to follow my passions."
"And what are your passions Sherlock?" John seated himself in his chair, but
maintained eye contact with the half naked teenager sat in front of him. "I
gather it isn't competative swimming from your little outburst in the pool. Why
have you dedicated so much time to it if you have no interest?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found he had no satisfactory answer to
that question. He tilted his head frowning as though examining his own motives.
After a few moments he replied with energy.
"Puzzles. Conundrums. Mysteries. These drive me forward. The thrill when I see
something no one else does. When I understand the meaning and connections that
draw the threads of the whole together to form the irrefutable truth. It is
like nothing else." Sherlock shuffled where he sat, suddenly feeling exposed.
Coach sat captured by Sherlock's enthusiasm. He released a breath he did not
realise he had been holding.
"And what we've been doing? How does that fit in?" John questioned again.
"I needed to join the team to gather certain information, to clarify a theory I
was working on. Quite unsuccessfully I might add. But I felt compelled to
continue training with you, to improve, to impress." Sherlock began to shiver,
as his skin cooled. "I didn't want to disappoint you. You had so much faith in
me and now I've let you down like everyone else in your life."
John scouted forward in his chair settling closer between Sherlock's knees.
"Look Sherlock. I'm grieved to admit you are right about me at the moment,
although how on earth you knew boggles me, but I don't want it to affect you
or." John rubbed at his face. "Just don't worry about me okay?"
"I do. It does. It affects me. I've found it increasingly difficult to focus on
anything except for." Sherlock blushed and turned his head away. He jumped down
from the desk, now standing between Coaches legs. "I should go." He wrapped his
arms around himself, realising how vulnerable he was, stood in his Speedo
trunks.
"Except for?" John pushed.
"Feelings. Sentiment." He spat out the words. "Seeing you miserable. Alone. It
pulled at my insides. The feeling was... unfamiliar. It makes me uncomfortable.
I just wanted." Sherlock felt his breathing become restricted. The tiny office
suddenly feeling constricting, the atmosphere stifling. "I wanted to." He found
himself repeating the sentence unsure how to proceed. Sherlock's eyes darted
about the tiny office. Finally, he looked down as John's hands moved up to hold
Sherlock's waist. "I just wanted you John." Sherlock's gaze remained fixed on
John's hands touching him.
Sherlock moved forward, as John gently drew him towards him, the pressure of
his fingers a suggestion rather than instruction. John's thumbs smoothed over
Sherlock's navel. Sherlock leant down, eyes locking with John's.
"I want you." He breathed. "I want to touch you." Sherlock settled his hand on
the chair behind John's shoulders. "I want to make you feel good and forget
about anyone who isn't me. I want you to always look at me the way you do when
I have pleased or surprised you. I need you to want me John." Sherlock slowly
bowed his head lower. "Do you want me, John?"
There was a pause as they breathed the same air, their noses almost touching.
"Oh God yes!" John gasped, pulling Sherlock into his lap and cupping his hand
behind Sherlock's head, bringing their mouths together into a soft, but
insistent press of lips.
They both breathed out together, relaxing into the kiss. Sherlock settled into
John's lap, enjoying the warmth that radiated from the man underneath him. They
licked and sucked at each others lips. John's hands cradled Sherlock's face,
while the boy hung onto him with arms wrapped around his neck. John's hand
moved lower, his fingers grazing Sherlock's tight nipple, down the goose flesh
of his torso and around his back, settling on and grabbing Sherlock's arse,
roughly pulling him closer. Sherlock gasped, as their erections pressed against
one another. The kiss heated, their tongues stroking and sliding together,
delving deeper.
"Sherlock. I want you."
"Yes! Anything John. Please."
John's hands dipped into Sherlock's trunks, grabbing at his hips, nails digging
into the flesh, while Sherlock ground down onto John's erection. John groaned
loudly, then suddenly seemed to come to himself. John gently pushed Sherlock
off his lap to stand. He leant across the desk and shut the blind. Grabbing his
keys, he opened the door and, signalling to Sherlock to stay where he was,
hurried out for a few moment, only to return and lock the door behind him.
"Don't really want any unwanted..." John began to explain. When he turned
around to face Sherlock, he was confronted with a naked and beautifully aroused
adolescent. Sherlock dropped to the floor in front of him, his hands peeling
down Coaches shorts revealing his still eager cock.
"Wha... Oh!" John exclaimed, as Sherlock took him into his mouth. "Sherlock!
You don't have to... Oh God that's good!" John ran his fingers through the inky
curls. Sherlock smirked up at him, eyes bright. "Oh God, your mouth!"
Sherlock licked at the head, dipping his tongue into the slit, lapping at and
tasting John. He sucked noisily, bobbing his head, while his hand explored
John's testicals. Sherlock's other hand firmly gripped the base of John's cock,
bringing it up the shaft with his mouth every so often. John could not help but
tighten his fingers in the young mans hair, as his orgasm began to build.
When Sherlock moved to touch himself, John pulled Sherlock off him and pulled
him up from his knees. Sherlock looked momentarily perplexed, but nodded
approval when John pulled his T-shirt off, throwing it onto the desk, and
pulled him into the private shower cubical.
The warm water trickled down their bodies, as their hands roamed over each
other. John mouthed at Sherlock's neck and rubbed his palms over the boys
slender hips and over his round bottom. Sherlock's mouth occupied itself
tonguing John's ear lobe, his hands repeatedly rubbed and squeezed, enjoying
the strong muscles in John's upper arms.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous Sherlock." John blurted, bringing Sherlock's mouth to
his and tasting him once more. "God I shouldn't want this but."
Pushing them back out of the main jet of the spray, John brought their
erections together in his grasp. Sherlock grip tightened on John's arms,
holding on, as his knees buckled.
"I've never done anything with a man, but Christ, your arse Sherlock. It would
push me over the brink every time I thought about you."
John slicked his hand with shower gel and massaged their lengths with slow,
firm strokes.
"Oh... Ngh! You... Mmm... imagined me?"
"Yes, when I touched myself, I thought of you Sherlock." John quickened his
hand on their shafts.
"What did you imagine, John?" Sherlock's asked, voice rough and breathless.
"This. Touching you, your hair, those lips." John leaned into Sherlock, resting
their forehead together. "Us blowing each other, and me inside you, my fingers,
my m... My mouth, my cock inside you. Anything, God, everything."
"Ohh... John. I'm going to."
"Yeah? Mmm. Like this." John's fingers twisted as they came up their lengths.
"Yes. Ngh. Yes John. Oh!"
Sherlock mashed his mouth against John's, while his cocked spurted ejaculate
over John's cock and moving fist. John continued rubbing his erection in
increasingly irregular strokes, chasing his own orgasm. Sherlock legs finally
gave out and he sank to the floor of the shower, bringing him in line with
John's flushed cock head. Looking up at John with his eyes squeezed shut,
leaning forward, braced against the tilled wall, Sherlock darted out his
tongue, swiping it over the come covered tip. At the touch of Sherlock's warm
lips John lurched forward, coming over Sherlock's lips and chin in pulses.
"Arr, fuuck!"
John sank down to the floor, joining Sherlock, and captured the teenagers mouth
with his. John kissed Sherlock's chin and cheeks and temple, then returned to
the cupids bow of the young mans mouth, then slowly sat back on his heals,
smiling broadly. Sherlock grinned back, cupping John's face in his hands. Their
breathing settled as the force of their orgasms faded into a sense of
satisfaction and calm.
"Up." John said, pulling them both up to their feet. "Here." John grabbed the
shampoo and squeezed a blob of the yellow liquid into his hand, then turning
Sherlock, he began to smooth it into Sherlock's scalp gently. Sherlock
chuckled.
"What?" John enquired, still running his fingers through the curls, working up
a lather.
"You really like touching my hair." Sherlock bent his head low, enjoying John's
fingers, as they massaged the shampoo into the hair at the base of his neck.
John huffed a laugh.
"I like touching all of you, but yes, I suppose I do." John kissed and smiled
into Sherlock's neck. "I think I like touching you too much already. This, what
we're doing, it's dangerous, but I can't stop.
"Then don't." Sherlock looked up, searching John's face. "Don't stop, John.
Never. Stop."
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John was jolted from his pondering with the sharp rat a tat tat on the car
windscreen. He rolled down the window and smiled warmly at the bundle of wool
before him.
"Hey honey, you okay?" Clara mumbled though the thick red scarf wrapped around
her neck. With mitten clad fingers, she shoved a steaming mug of tea at him
through the window. "You've been out here a while. I was getting worried you
might freeze to death. You do realise it's snowing luv."
John undid his seatbelt and clambered out of the car.
"Huh! It's quite deep already." John exclaimed, pulling his jacket tighter
around himself.
"Well yeah. I thought I should rescue you before you got snowed in." She
laughed. The fresh snow crunched under their feet, as they walked up the path
to the house. "You're home later than usual. Kids giving you grief?"
"Hmm, something like that." John mumbled into his tea. "Harry home yet?"
"Nope. You know, some big scoop, deadlines, don't wait up Hun, leave dinner in
the oven, yadda yadda." Clara flopped down on the sofa, still ensconced in her
woollen fortress.
Sitting on the arm of the chair, John warmed his face against the ceramic cup.
His mind was wandering back again to his activities earlier that evening, when
a little voice broke through.
"ImfinkinboutleavinerJohn." Clara seemed to sink further into the coach.
"Pardon?" John frowned.
"I can't take it anymore John. I'm seriously thinking of leaving her."
John put his mug down and scrubbed his face with his hands. When it rains, it
pours. He groaned.
"Look, I was thinking about what you said about you and Mary; Growing apart,
wanting different things, not feeling supported. You were miserable John.
Christ, you both were. Going your separate ways was the best thing for both of
you." Clara shuffled forward and placed her hand on his knee. John peeped
though his fingers. "I just think I've finally realised I'm the only one
fighting to save our marriage."
John grasped her hand and looked down at her, with pain in his eyes.
"Are you sure? Clara, I don't think I'm the best example to follow, do you?
Look at me! I'm a wreck. Separated, living with my sister and her wife, soon to
be unemployed, with no real prospects and hell, I can't even tell you what
other crazy shit I've got myself into." He huffed out a breath, then patted
Clara's hand. "I know she still loves you."
"I don't think it's enough anymore." She sighed and pulled him down to sit next
to her. "And you're not a wreck John. I've never met someone so strong and
driven. You can move on now. Do what you couldn't while you were together."
John fidgeted, feeling somewhat uncomfortable discussing this. "And there's
something else. I've been offered a job in New York and I think it's the fresh
start I'm going to need."
 
Screaming, stomping and throwing remote controls was all the incentive John
needed to up his effort for flat hunting. He guessed it was for the best, while
he still had a job and salary to write down on any application form.
John was still a little stunned by his chat with Clara, and the ensuing
explosive argument with Harriet. Harry had blamed him, of course, putting ideas
in her wife's head. To be fair she wasn't entirely wrong, but Clara was quite
capable of making up her own mind about her neglectful, and often inebriated
partner. The situation and Clara's words had, at least, given him the shove he
needed. She was right, he needed to move on and decide what he really wanted.
"Lovely little place for a bachelor, don't you think Mr Watson? Our agency
manages the place, so no need to worry about dodgy landlords." The squat
balding man grinned.
No just smarmy agents. John looked around the cold and dreary bedsit. In his
situation, it was the best he could hope for. The rent was minimal, and would
not eat too much into his savings; his half of the savings that had been
earmarked for buying a house with Mary. John groaned internally. Why had his
life become so complicated?
"I'll take it. Where do I sign?" John's forced enthusiasm tasted bitter.
While the agent groped about in his suitcase, John meandered around the little
flat again, checking that drawers opened and taps functioned. When he came to
the bedsits front aspect window, to check the locks worked, he noticed a
familiar individual skulking about on the street below. The young man looked a
little different out of his school uniform. Even from three floors up, the boys
signature unruly curls (that John had been fondling the day before) were clear
to see, bouncing about, as Sherlock marched up and down the snow covered
pavement outside the converted Victorian terrace, determinedly puffing on a
cigarette.
John frowned, surprised to see his student, fling, lover, gorgeous shag, I'm
going to hell, freezing his magnificent arse off outside John's, soon to be,
sad excuse for a home.
"Here you are Mr Watson. Just fill these out and bring them back to the office
as soon as possible and, once all the checks have gone through, this little
palace will be yours." The agent held out the pile of forms for John to take,
and smiled his sickening fake smile.
"Wonderful. Thank you Mr Barrett, I'll do that." John took the stack and rolled
them, then inserted the roll into his jacket pocket.
 
Exiting the building, John could not help but grin when Sherlock turned to see
him and smiled broadly, his eye lighting up as they settled on John. The young
man's nose and cheeks were flushed red from the cold, despite wearing a heavy
winter coat and thick scarf around his neck. John found the look quite
endearing. John politely thanked the agent and shook hands. He waited until Mr
Barratt had driven off before he approach the teen, who leant up against the
garden wall.
"Filthy habit that." John stood next to Sherlock against the brickwork.
"I have a few." Sherlock drawled, grinding the cigarette butt out under his
boot. "Dirty habits that is." He shifted closer to John, searching out the
other man's body heat. "I find I have a somewhat addictive personality."
"Oh really?" John turned in towards his student and placed a tentative hand at
the boys waist.
"Mmm... Well I seek pleasure where I can get it." Sherlock moved forward, and
splayed his gloved fingers over John's, jumper covered, stomach.
"Ah, so that's why you followed me here. You couldn't help but seek your
pleasure?"
"I did not follow you here. I merely tracked your trail and found you."
Sherlock grinned and inserted his arms under John's coat.
John laughed heartily.
"Quite the blood hound aren't you."
The disgust that twisted Sherlock's face was comical.
"Although a grossly unflattering metaphor, I am willing to concede it relevance
in this case. Rather than sniff you out, I aquired your records to find your
next of kins address, since I knew that would most likely be your sister, with
whom you are staying. When you were not at home."
"You went to my sister's house?" John exclaimed.
"Yes, and as I was saying, when you weren't at home I asked your sister, who I
might add was well on her way to being off her face, informed me that her
interfering twat of a brother was off flat hunting to get away from her, just
like her wife had."
John rubbed his hand over his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I noticed one of the local estate agents letter headed paper on the hallway
table, so from there it was just a matter of convincing the agent at the office
that I needed to know where you were, since you'd left your phone at home and
there had been a family crisis."
"That was amazing, utterly and entirely inappropriate, but bloodily brilliant
actually. For a eighteen year old you sure do have a lot of"
"I'm not." Sherlock interjected.
"Sure you are! I've never met someone so bright at your age."
"No, not that John, I know my intelligence far surpasses my peers. I was
referring to my age. I'm not eighteen, I'm sixteen."
John jerked back from Sherlock like he had been burned. "What are you talking
about? You just had your birthday and you're in the Upper Sixth!" John waved
his hands in an uncharacteristic panicked flap. "You're taking your A-Levels in
the summer!"
"I told you my intelligence far exceeds my peers. Is it so hard to believe I'm
capable of taking them early? I took my first GCSE at eleven." Sherlock crossed
his arms and scowled.
John's mouth flapped open and shut, until he decided a face palm slap was a
better way to express his stupidity.
"Sherlock I... Christ I'm an idiot."
"I won't hold it against you." John gave Sherlock a warning look.
"Sherlock, don't you realise how much I've fucked up? It's bad enough I'm
shagging my student but, fuck it, Sherlock you're not even legal!"
"Sixteen is legal!" Sherlock retorted, growing increasingly frustrated with
John's tantrum.
"Not when it's a student teacher relationship it's not. You ever heard of a
position of trust?"
"I'd trust you in any position." Sherlock smirked and reached out for John, but
was firmly held at arms length.
"This isn't a joke, Sherlock! They're going to lock me up and throw away the
key. Look, I've got to go. We can't do this here, in the street. I need to
think. Go home. I'll see you on Monday.
 
Sherlock watched John drive away. He shoved his hands into his pockets and
slowly trudged back towards the high street. He was half way up the road, when
a black Bentley pulled up beside him. Sherlock continted walking, his coat
pulled tight around him. The snow began to fall and flutter around his head.
The teenager heard the electric window wind down, but did not look up while the
car crawled along beside him.
"Get in Sherlock." The man, sat in the car, calmly stated, while the driver
continued to match Sherlock's walking speed.
Sherlock pulled his scarf tighter around himself, burying his face further into
it.
"Mummy will be upset if you're late for supper, again."
"Piss off, Mycroft."
"And let Mummy's little cherub freeze to death? God forbid. Get in, or I will
have to tell her what you've been up to." Sherlock halted and glared at his big
brother.
Sherlock climbed in and flopped down on the black leather upholstery.
"Don't you think it's about time you gave up on your little obsession, brother
dear?" The elder brother said.
Sherlock determinedly stared out the window at the white world. He worried his
bottom lip in his teeth, and considered how he could shield John from Mycroft's
attention. It was bad enough that John had reacted so badly, but to have his
brother interfering was a guarantee to destroy any hope he had of winning the
man round to his way of thinking.
"My, I really don't..." Sherlock pressed his lips together, then drew in a
steadying breath. "Please, My. Could you for once, leave me be?"
"I've indulged this interest for long enough. It's time you transferred to a
school with a bit more, refinement."
Sherlock fort hard to repress his smile. The relief that Mycroft did not know
about his relationship with John was quite overwhelming. He managed to hide his
glee.
"I was pleased that you had finally found something to focus your mind on
Sherlock, but I will not let your education suffer."
"Oh, very well. I bow to your authority on this." Sherlock acted out a
convincing huff.
Mycroft blinked and frowned, but quickly schooled his expression, clearly
surprised with Sherlock's immediate and painless agreement. He had got what he
wanted, and he did not like it. Mycroft made a mental note to up Sherlock's
surveillance. The boy was clearly up to more than investigating a suspicious
death.
 
John was in no mood to deal with Harry's baiting and self deprication. He had
been home for no more than five minute, before he threw his coat back on and
stomped up to the high road, in a blizzard, to his local pub.
It was warm and noisy and exactly what John needed to escape from his troubles.
He downed his first two pints and ordered a third at the bar. A pretty blond
woman, who was leaning against the bar, smiled at John, then sidled up beside
him.
"Hey." She budge up closer. "I'm Lucy. I've seen you in here before haven't I?"
John smiled and turned towards her. She smelled lovely. Sweet perfum and soap,
and the smell of a spicy liqueur on her breath. It was nice, but he was
immediately reminded of how amazing Sherlock smelt and how good he tasted.
"Sorry Hun, I'm kind of seeing someone." Even if what was going on with
Sherlock was wrong, he could not deny his feelings. John certainly wanted to
avoid making things more complicated, before he had the chance to sort out what
he was going to do about Sherlock.
"Suit yourself." The woman turned back to her mates.
John left his pint half finished, and headed off home. He got out his phone on
the way and texted Sherlock.
Sorry I reacted badly. Will you meet me tomorrow in town?
He did not have to wait long for a reply.
Meet me outside the Hunterian Museum at 11. SH
John frowned at his phone. He had heard of the place, but had never been. He
supposed the choice was very Sherlock. Odd, but fascinating.
Okay, see you then.
Chapter End Notes
     I know that particular museum is not open on a Sunday, but I had to
     use it. Check out their website and visit if you ever get the chance.
     It's free!
     http://www.medicalmuseums.org
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Please excuse and inform me of any grammatical errors. Not been Beta
     read.
Peering into the glass cabinet with morbid fascination, John could not help but
gawp a little. The display was disgustingly intriguing, and he had barely
stepped across the museums threshold. He had already been quite taken by the
War, Art and Surgery pastels in the foyer, which graphically depicted scenes he
wished he could have been part of.
Second floor gallery. Come at once. SH
It had taken John longer than usual to get into the city, due to the weather.
It was ten passed the hour, when he had arrived outside the imposing gothic
building. His phone pinged again at the arrival of another message.
You're late. SH
Jogging up the stairs, John felt Sherlock's gaze following him. John did not
look up towards him until he was almost at the top. Lifting his eyes, his
stomach twisted when they settled on Sherlock's elegant frame. It was
ridiculous that seeing him could cause such a sensation. He knew it was
perverted, but could not help but lust over the beauty and strength in the boy.
Sherlock grinned at John as their eyes met. When John reached the top step and
stood next to the teenager, he suddenly felt awkward. John's brain stalled. He
stuffed his hands in his jean pockets, to stop himself from touching, and
fidgeted on the spot.
Grabbing his elbow Sherlock tugged.
"John, I wanted to show you. It's quite interesting. I've seen it before of-
course, but I think you will appreciate it."
In the next room, Sherlock deposited John in front of the first of many
cabinets containing every kind of surgical instrument from history.
"Do you like it?"
John soaked in the room and smiled. "Yes, thank you Sherlock." He paused a
moment. "I wish I knew what all these things did and how I would use them."
"Here try this. It's a keyhole surgery training machine."
Manipulating John's hands, Sherlock showed him how to hold the instruments.
When the video started, John attempted to grasp the diseased organ and laughed
at himself. A moment later, he felt Sherlock against his back, wrapping long
arms around him and gently guiding his hands.
"I love your hands." Sherlock's warm breath wafted against John's ear. "I have
had some very pleasant thoughts pertaining to them." Sherlock pressed closer.
"I bet you could do amazing things with hands like yours John."
"Sherlock..." John stepped back from the game and once again put his hands into
his pockets. "We need to have that talk now."
"Oh, talking's boring John." He stated glibly, and huffing in an exasperated
whirl of coat, strode into the next exhibit and peered into the microscope
display.
"If you expect me to conveniently forget how old you are, Sherlock," John
lowered his angered tone when a medical student, walked passed. "maybe, just
maybe, you should stop acting like a fucking child. I didn't leave one
dysfunctional relationship just to jump straight into another one."
Inhaling sharply and standing straight, Sherlock whipped around to face John.
The broad smile that was flashed at John was disarming. He moved into John's
personal space and placed his hands on John's hips.
"A relationship John!?" He breathed, eyes searching John's.
"Oh for! Sherlock! You missed the point!"
"Did I?" The teenager smirked. "Perhaps a conversation would be best. Come
John. I don't live far from here. Well, my brother's flat anyway." Taking
John's hand in his, he lead him out of the building and at the curb, hailed a
cab.
"Is this wise?" John queried after a few minute into the ride.
"Oh, my brother Mycroft will be at work, I have a key." He jangled the
aforesaid bunch of keys in front of John's eyes.
"On a Sunday?" John frowned.
"I don't think he understands the day of rest concept. Everyday is a weekday to
Mycroft."
"And he won't notice you've been there?"
Shuffling closer in the back seat, Sherlock put his hand on John's knee.
"I usually stay with him at the weekends. He likes to keep an eye on me. Bit of
a nuisance, but I can handle him. Just here cabby, after the post box."
Sherlock jumped out, paid the man and sprinted up the steps to the large glass
entrance doors to the lavish looking apartment building. John followed behind,
eyebrows rising into his hairline at the obvious expense of the place.
"Nice." John commented as they boarded the lift. Sherlock shrugged.
"Mycroft likes it. Bit extravagant for my tastes, but the location is
excellent. When I start up my consulting agency, I'd like somewhere with a
central location like this."
John quirked a questioning eyebrow.
"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job."
"What does that mean?"
"It means whenever the police are out of their depth, which is always, they
consult me."
John smiled warmly.
"Guess that makes sense. I'm glad you're planning ahead. It's good to have a
dream."
"Sorry John, I wasn't thinking. You would have been an amazing surgeon."
"Yeah, about that. How did you know I was interested in studying medicine
before I was shot?"
"Would you believe me if I said it was your strong but caring manner, and the
way you hold your clipboard?"
"I'd say you were talking bollocks."
Sherlock smothered a grin. The lift doors opened out to the top floor hallway
and they stepped out together towards the only door in the corridor.
"I might have overheard a conversation where the subject was mentioned."
"Who? Not Harry?"
Sherlock shook his head as he turned the key in the door.
"No actually, it was Mary."
John stopped, arm half out of his coat and glared at Sherlock.
"You met Mary?"
"Of course not John. I believe she was unaware of my presence."
John seemed to relax and removed his coat fully, while Sherlock continued to
explain.
"I was investigating for my current case and needed to gather information
through background checks and overheard a conversation in a coffee shop. She
mentioned to a friend, that it was something you had wished to pursue with army
funding. She seemed..."
Sherlock flapped his hand in a vague gesture.
"emotional. Something about you never really getting over it, or something or
other."
Sherlock hung their coats up in the hallway, then lead John to his room at the
end of the long mahogany panelled corridor.
"I'll make no comment about the snooping." John stated with a reproachful
stare. "But i'd rather not talk about that subject at the minute, if you
don't..." John paused when a body pressed up to his, and an arm reached out
behind him to shut the bedroom door. "mind."
"So about this talk." Sherlock's voice rumbled, as he smiled and nipped at
John's neck. "I assume that, since you came all this way, then followed me back
here, and are currently in my bedroom, that you have no intention of breaking
things off?"
"You're a cheeky bugger." Shaking his head in mirth, John extricated himself
from the lanky teen and went over to the large bed in the centre of the room
and slumped down onto it. "Okay, so I'll admit I have no clue what I'm, what
we're doing. This is so many kinds of wrong, I shouldn't want you like this,
but I'm not sure if I can stop now."
"I told you John. I don't want you to stop." He began to pace the grey carpet,
gesturing with his large hands. "It doesn't have to be complicated. I'm moving
schools after the Easter break and will be finishing my secondary education at
the end of the summer term. You're leaving the profession. We can be discrete,
if it suits you, until then. I suppose we could wait a few months to be
together, if that is what you'd prefer, although I'd rather not. I'm not very
patient. After that, I cannot perceive any further barrier to our relationship.
My brother might be difficult, but once he meets you I am certain he will
eventually approve. I'm taking a year out next year, to hone my deductive
reasoning, before I start a chemistry with forensic science degree at St Mary's
University. You could even study with me. Obviously not chemistry, but
medicine. I hear Bart's is excellent and it's actually a part of St Mary's. It
should be achieveable for you now, with your savings as a starting point. Just
think about it John. It would be perfect."
John looked stunned by Sherlock's entire speech.
"You've really thought this through haven't you? I never assumed you actually
wanted more than something casual. I mean, you're so young still, and might
meet someone."
"No John. I know. I feel it, here." To John's surprise and amusement, Sherlock
pointed to his head. "Don't frown at me like that. It means something. I don't
ever, ever feel things like this. What happened the other night was incredible,
but I felt this before that happened, and even though I didn't want to
acknowledge it, it was there. You see me, John, for who I am, and you aren't
repulsed. It's an incredible gift, one I can't bear to part with."
John stopped Sherlock's pacing by taking his hand and drawing him down next to
him on the bed. He pulled the teenager down to lay on the white sheets and
kissed him gently, tracing his lips with his tongue, and caressing Sherlock's
angular face with his fingertips. Sherlock wrapped his arms around broad
shoulders, as John shifted his body to hover over him. The kiss deepened until
they were both panting and struggling to remove layers of clothing. John hummed
when slick skin slid against his.
"John, I want to feel you, inside me."
John stopped moving and straightening his arms. He looked down on the flushed
face of his lover with concern clear in his expression.
"So soon? You really want that?"
"Yes John." Sherlock sat up, his face now inches from John's. "I would really,
(kiss) really (kiss) love to feel your thick cock (kiss) slid into my very
tight arse (kiss) and pound into me until we both come. (Kiss) Would that be
acceptable? Hmm?"
"Fuck yes. Lube? Condom?"
"Top drawer." Sherlock smirked as John leaned over to retrieve them.
John located the lube quickly and began to prepare Sherlock virgin hole. He had
done this before with Mary, once or twice, but had never enjoyed this part as
much as he was enjoying it now. The sounds coming from Sherlock's mouth were
indecent and making John's cock twitch with every moan.
"Beautiful!" He murmured, his eyes drinking in the sight of Sherlock's lithe
body writhing on the crumpled sheets.
John dipped his head down between the slim, but muscular legs, and tongued at
the slick entrance where two of his fingers were sliding in and out slowly.
Sherlock arched his hips and mewed. His already hard erection now growing
stiffer and bobbing against his stomach. A small patch of pre-come smeared his
belly. Removing his fingers from Sherlock's tightness, John ran them through
the little puddle, scooping some up and pushed it inside Sherlock's body.
Sherlock watched enraptured.
"John, I can't. In me. I want you John."
John sucked on his fingers, while Sherlock watched. Eyes wide and black. He
slipped on the condom and slicked it more. Slowly, raising Sherlock's hips and
resting the youngsters ankles on his shoulders, John pushed, gently but firmly,
against the boys fluttering hole.
"Relax. Don't tense. Oh! That's it!" He sighed, when the guardian muscle gave
way and he slipped into the warmth. He rocked slowly, eyes shut, pushing in,
bit by bit, until he felt himself bottom out.
He looked at Sherlock then, and was upset to see tears in the teenagers eyes.
"Oh god! Did I hurt you?" He moved to back away, but Sherlock grabbed around
his neck and pulled him down.
"Sorry, sorry. So stupid. I never thought it would be like this. Don't stop
John. Perfect." He whispered.
Stretching to kiss one another, they rocked together until Sherlock gasped and,
bracing his arms against the headboard said:
"Let me feel it John. All of you."
Withdrawing almost completely, John slid back in slowly. Building up speed he
began to fuck into Sherlock with enthusiasm, taking Sherlock's breath away.
"Ah ah ah mmmm ah. Yes John. Harder."
Taking Sherlock's ankles in his hands John spread the teenager, then letting
go, leaned into him. The sound of slapping flesh echoed in the room in sync
with Sherlock's breathy cries.
To John's delight, come pulsed from Sherlock's prick in ribbons over his
stomach and chest, and within seconds John climaxed to the sensation of
Sherlock squeezing and pulsing around his cock.
John flopped down beside Sherlock and caught his breath. His cock still
tingling as he removed the condom.
"I think that might have been a bit amazing." John said, turning on his side
and resting his head on his hand.
"It was okay then? You enjoyed it?"
"You were brilliant."
Sherlock beamed and looked so young wrapped in the duvet.
"When will your brother be home?"
"Oh don't say his name! Not while I'm naked and all post coital. It might put
me off forever." Sherlock exclaimed with a scrunched up nose.
John laughed.
"I'm sure he's not that bad."
"You'll understand when you meet him. However, I think it's best if that's not
today. We have about an hour before he leaves the club. Shower?"
"Mmm." John nodded.
 
The sound of the front door shutting was loud enough to hear over the pouring
water. Sherlock tensed in John's arms.
"Mycroft!"
"Crap! I'm dead." John uttered into Sherlock's hair. "Is your brother a big
guy?"
"A little over 6 foot, rather round, but not remotely threatening. I've always
out run him. He's got a mean umbrella though."
John sniggered.
"Shh don't make me laugh. He'll hear us."
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Notes
     Very short chapter. Some direct quotes from SIP
It had been an inordinate relief when the two of them had heard Mycroft almost
immediately exit the apartment. Sherlock thought perhaps Mycroft had merely
returned to grab a file. After a very pleasant farewell, John quickly realised
Sherlock’s error.
When exiting the building, he had immediately found himself ushered into an
unfamiliar posh looking black car, containing a young man fiddling with an
umbrella.
John at least was relieved that Sherlock’s description had been accurate. The
man in front of him look somewhat like a banker. Clearly John’s age, although
his hair was already thinning, and stiff looking, with a sourness to his
expression that was barely being suppressed.
The car began to move and the occupants sat in silence. Mycroft did not look at
John, instead preferring to glance over a note book he had in one hand.
“Hello? I’m John. So you’re Mycroft, Sherlock’s brother..” John ventured,
crossing his arms high on his chest.
“You can confirm you’re connection with Sherlock Holmes then.” Mycroft said
passing a manila folder, an inch thick over to John.
John opened the file and was immediately confronted with an image of Sherlock
and himself holding one-another, from earlier that day. He flicked through the
file, noting his education and employment details, the newspaper articles from
the incident in New York, in addition to his bank statements and marriage
certificate. Finally, and to his utter mortification was a transcript of
Sherlock and his conversation and activities in Mycroft’s apartment that
afternoon.
John looked up at the steely eyes trained upon him and stared back with a
determination he did not really feel.
“You don’t seem very afraid.” Mycroft commented.
“You don’t seem very frightening.” John retorted. Mycroft sat back in the plush
leather and looked at John sternly.
“Mr Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I’m sure your situation is
quite clear to you. Your association with my brother cannot continue. It would
be highly inappropriate. Don’t you agree?”
“Hmm.” John stared out of the window at the moving traffic and people on the
streets. He determinedly pushed down the nausea that threatened him.
“I don’t need to tell you that Sherlock isn't one to form friendships easily,
and I must admit myself surprised at this development. I am not surprised,
however, at the speed at which he has attached himself to you and invested a
great deal emotionally into your future together. I need not remind you he is
an adolescent, Mr Watson. Sherlock is starved of affection and has clearly
grasped onto the first person to show him any genuine interest. It is a child’s
infatuation and will inevitable end badly, as his whims and fancies often do.
I’m frankly astonished that you would risk your reputation and even liberty on
a teenage boy with a flair for the dramatic.”
Johns phone pinged and he drew it from his pocket and read the text.
Being with you today was incredible.
SH
John groaned into his cupped hands in his lap. Replacing his phone, John sighed
and looked up at Sherlock’s brother.
“What are you going to do?”
“Although your actions should be brought to the attention of the authorities, I
do not wish to draw unwanted attention to my brother, or the family.”
Mycroft paused. John licked his lips nervously.
“I'm willing to overlook this relationship, provided it end immediately, and in
the manner that I stipulate. If you comply with my wishes, I’d be happy to pay
you a meaningful sum of money to ease your way into medicine.”
“No.” John glared, fists clenched at his sides.
“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”
“Don’t bother.”
“You mean to continue with him then?” Mycroft frowned. “Are you so stupid?”
“No, I’m not.” John grit his teeth. “I’m just not interested in your offer.
I’ll end it, okay, but I wont be bought off. I’ll do it because it’s the best
thing for Sherlock.”
“We agree then. Good." Mycroft took back the folder that was clenched in John's
hand and lay it back down on the seat beside him, then continued. "I must
insist it is managed very carefully. I would prefer, for various reasons that
my involvement go unmentioned. We have what you might call a… difficult
relationship. Do not contact Sherlock until you have received instruction as to
how this should be dealt with. Understood?”
John grudgingly nodded. Looking around, he realised that they had arrived
outside the station carpark he had used.
“Are we done?”
Mycroft looked down his substantial nose at John.
“You tell me.”
John looked at Mycroft for a beat, then opened that car door and climbed out
and walked away. As he did so, his phone pinged again.
You excite me like nothing else does. See you tomorrow 
SH
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Notes
     Short chapter. Significant time has elapsed since previous chapter.
     All will be explained later. Still Unbetaed.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
John started awake when the staff lounge door slammed open. He sat up rubbing
his aching shoulder.
“There you are John!” A red headed nurse exclaimed, throwing up her hands.
“Quick! Up. Up. Male, late twenties, cocaine overdose, just brought in by some
homeless person!”
“What! Here? Bloody hell.” John jumped up and hurriedly followed the nurse to
the treatment room.
“Guy says that he found the patient unconscious and then started convulsing.
We’ve administered 10mg diazepam intravenously. Came in with a GCS of 3,
breathing spontaneously with a supplemental bag and mask ventilation. Heart
rate at 163 beats per minute supraventricular and ventricular arrhythmias. His
BP was 115 over 38. Both pupils dilated and sluggishly reacting to light. He’s
stopped seizing now with GSC of 4.”
John pushed through the double doors to the scene of his staff struggling with
the patient on the trolley.
“Off me. Fucking bastards… I’m fine. Nuffin…nuffin wrong wit me. Bugger off.”
The man barked at them in scratchy deep voice and struggled to sit up as two
orderlies pushed him back down. “Get off me, you hear. My brother will get you
sacked. Bastards all of you.”
John approached the patient with the intention to assist in calming him down,
but stopped at the end of the trolley, and promptly froze in place. That face,
older and more drawn, dark curly hair dampened down by sweat and dirt, but
undeniably recognisable.
John’s breathing stopped when Sherlock’s hazy eyes settled on him. Sherlock
ceased struggling for a moment, then his eyes widened and with a pained look
began struggling again.
“No! No, no, no. Please not again. God no.” Sherlock began to scramble up the
trolley away from John, tears gathering in his eyes. “No more. I can’t!”
“He’s getting delirious.” The other doctor stated. “Nurse Bridge. Please
prepare 0.5mg of Naloxone.”
Sherlock sat at the head of the trolley, arms wrapped around his knees,
muttering. His stare fixed unblinking on John.
John snapped out of his daze and strove to stop nurse Bridge from accessing
Sherlock’s IV.
“He’s not delirious. It's me. I’m agitating him. I’ll leave and you reassess
him then. Okay? It’s my fault.”
With that, John all but ran out of the treatment room, down the corridor and
out of the drug treatment and rehabilitation unit into the cold night air.
“Fuck!” He shouted into the night. “Fuck!” John paced. He ran his hands through
his hair, then scrubbed over his face. His hand shook uncontrollably. He
observed his hand then clasped it with the other and breathed deep.
Someone coughed politely behind him and he spun to be confronted with a young
man, clearly homeless from his apparel and most probably a user from the look
of the reddened bags under his eyes and scruffy stubbly beard.
“You okay mate?” The tall man approached cautiously. He didn’t wait for a
response before asking, “Shezza doing okay in there? Couldn’t leave ‘im like
that. No other buggar was paying a blind bita attention to him. He alright now?
I’d ‘av called his brother, but couldn’t find his phone. Weird that. Always on
him usually. Some Cunt at the house probably swiped it while he was having a
fit. He’s fine now though, yeah?”
“Erm… Er.” John blinked slowly as he processed the mans ramblings. “Improved.
More alert. Beyond that I’m not at liberty to say really, since you’re not
family.”
“Cool, cool. No problem mate. Glad he’s better. Handy having a place like this
so close to the house. No chance I’d ‘av got ‘im to the hospital. He ain’t
heavy none, but the blighter’s all gangly legs and all, and a bastard to drag
any place far. You alright Doc? You’re looking peeky.”
“House?” John frowned at him.
“You know. That big empty place two streets over. I’d’a thought you being the
rehab bloke, you’d’a known about all the usual haunts and that. Anyway, better
go. Bloody freezing init? Thanks Doc. See ya.”
John slumped and sat on the cold tarmac and leaned against the nearest car.
He had been here, for God knew how long, shooting up just two streets away,
slowly killing himself. Where was Mycroft? Why wasn’t the creepy arsehole
looking out for Sherlock? He had looked so fragile. Thin and ill.
John’s stomach rolled and tightened around the sugary coffee he had gulped down
a few hours before. He retched to the image of terror that had been on
Sherlock’s face when he had seen John. He vomited bile onto the ground and
moaned as his chest clenched. What had happened to Sherlock? Why was he
terrified to see John?
“Fucking hell!”
Chapter End Notes
     I am clearly not a Doctor of any kind, so if this is hilariously
     inaccurate I apologies. Helpful prompts from those in the know are
     welcome.
     If wondering, GCS means Glasgow Coma Scale, used to assess how alert/
     conscious someone is.
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