pipmer1: (Default)
Title:  Last Breath
Author: PipMer
Rating:  G
Characters:  Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Genre:  Friendship, angst, 221b ficlet
Warning:  Major Character Death
Wordcount:  221
Disclaimer:  I don't own, no money is being made.

Summary:  He knows it isn’t physically possible, but he swears that he can feel his heart breaking.


A/N:  Written, quite literally, in a ten-minute fit of madness.  Hopefully it isn't too awful.  I am truly sorry. Don't hate me too much.   Meant to be friendship only, but can be seen as slash if you're so inclined.  




Last Breath )

pipmer1: (Default)

Title:  Tea and Conversation, Part 4
Author:  PipMer
Rating:  PG
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft
Pairing:  Sherlock/John, Lestrade/Mycroft
Genre:  Humour, texting, slash, friendship
Warnings:  Some swearing, sexual innuendo
Wordcount:  1039
Disclaimer:  I don't own, no money is being made from this.

Summary:  Back by popular demand, a continuation of the Tea and Conversation series.  John has problems with his phone, Sherlock changes ring tones, and Greg and Mycroft are caught in the middle.  Shameless usage of the 'autocorrect' trope.  


A/N:  This is a continuation of the Tea and Conversation and Series; the previous part is found here: Tea and Conversation, Part 3.   All spelling, grammar and punctuation errors in Lestrade's texts are intentional, due to the Inspector's inebriation. 


Read more )

pipmer1: (Default)
Chapter 3


Title:  Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 4 of 6
Author:  PipMer
Rating:  PG-13
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson, "Killer" Evans
Genre:  Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount:  1990 this part
Warnings:  Non-graphic violence and possible (?) minor character death in this part, for-real minor character death in another part.
Disclaimer:  I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary: What the title says.

A/N:  Chapters don't follow any sort of linear timeline.

Chapter Summary:  Sometimes not having a heart can be a good thing, especially when dealing with someone who has harmed the person you love most.


Chapter 4: "Killer" Evans )


pipmer1: (Default)
Chapter 2


Title:  Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 3 of 6
Author:  PipMer
Rating:  PG
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson
Genre:  Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount:  1043 this part
Warnings:  A spot of violence in one part, minor character death in one part
Disclaimer:  I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary: What the title says.

A/N:  Chapters don't follow any sort of linear timeline.

Chapter Summary :  Mycroft bears the brunt of Sherlock's cruelty.

Chapter 3: Mycroft Holmes )
pipmer1: (Default)
Chapter 1




Title:  Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 2 of 6
Author:  PipMer
Rating:  PG
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson
Genre:  Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount:  1104 this part
Warnings:  A spot of violence in one part, minor character death in one part
Disclaimer:  I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary: What the title says.

A/N:  Some minor changes have been made to the first chapter.

Chapter Summary:  Sherlock has a hard time surviving without his heart.

Chapter 2. John Watson )
pipmer1: (Default)

Title:  Five Times Sherlock Didn't Have a Heart, and One Time He Did, Part 1 of 6
Author:  PipMer
Rating:  PG
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Original Characters, Harry Watson
Genre:  Friendship, angst, hurt/comfort
WordCount:  959 this part
Warnings:  A spot of violence in one part, minor character death in one part
Disclaimer:  I don't own, no money is being made from this.
Summary:  What the title says

A/N:  Chapters don't follow any sort of linear timeline.

Chapter Summary:  Sherlock 'helps out' Mrs. Hudson, not out of the kindness of his heart, but because he's bored and needs the distraction. He ends up being more than a little cruel. Although everything does work out alright in the end.


Chapter 1: Mrs. Hudson )
pipmer1: (Default)
Chapter 1: So It Begins





Title: If You Should Die Before You Wake, Chapter 2 of ?
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mike Stamford, Molly Hooper
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers: for the entire show
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3492 this part, 8960 so far
Genre: Drama, angst, epic Sherlock/John friendship. 
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Hiatus/Empty House fic. This is how I see episode 1 of season 3 playing out. What happens to Sherlock and John in the time between Sherlock's Fall and his return? Expect lots of angst.

pipmer1: (Default)

Title: Failure
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock, John
Spoilers: The Reichenbach Fall
Rating: G
Wordcount: 221
Genre: Friendship, angst, 221b
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this

Summary: Sometimes - not often, but sometimes - Sherlock fails.



Failure )


pipmer1: (Default)
Title: Tea and Conversation, Part 3
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft
Pairing: Sherlock/John, hints of Lestrade/Mycroft
Spoilers: Subtle reference to TRF
Rating: PG
Warning: Some swearing.
Wordcount: 1121
Genre: Friendship, pre-slash, humour, angst
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Sherlock has been shot, and feelings get aired.

A/N: Unbeta'd. This is a continuation of Tea and Conversation, Part 2. You need to read that in order for this one to make sense.

So many apologies for the delay in updating.  I hope there's at least someone who's still reading.  Enjoy, I hope.  This turned out a bit angstier than originally intended, but all's well that ends well.



Tea and Conversation, Part 3 )
pipmer1: (Default)
Title:  It Burns
Author:  PipMer
Wordcount:  221
Genre:  Angst, friendship, 221b
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Moriarty
Pairing:  John/Sherlock
Rating:  PG
Spoilers:  The Reichenbach Fall
Disclaimer:  Not mine, just taking them out to play.

Summary:  Moriarty has won the battle.  Sherlock must make sure that he doesn’t win the war.

A/N:  My very first attempt at a 221b.  Unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.



It Burns )
pipmer1: (Default)
Prologue: Homecoming


Title: If You Should Die Before You Wake
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers: for the entire show
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3505 this part
Genre: Drama, angst, epic Sherlock/John friendship. 
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Hiatus/Empty House fic. This is how I see episode 1 of season 3 playing out. What happens to Sherlock and John in the time between Sherlock's Fall and his return? Expect lots of angst.


A/N:  Grateful thanks go out once again to my beta/britpickers [livejournal.com profile] susako and [livejournal.com profile] fawsley whose awesomeness made this chapter so much better than it would have been if left to my own devices.  Also thanks to [livejournal.com profile] holyfant, who looked over the first part and made crucial suggestions.

Many thanks to all the comments and kudos I have received so far; they give me confidence and motivate me to keep writing, so if you enjoy this, please let me know :)



Chapter 1: So It Begins )
pipmer1: (Default)
Title: If You Should Die Before You Wake
Author: PipMer
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson
Pairing: John/Mary
Spoilers: for the entire show
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1953 this part
Genre: Drama, angst, epic Sherlock/John friendship. 
Disclaimer: I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary: Post-Reichenbach/Hiatus/Empty House fic. This is how I see episode 1 of season 3 playing out. What happens to Sherlock and John in the time between Sherlock's Fall and his return? Expect lots of angst. 

A/N: This is a work-in-progress.  Many thanks go out to my awesome betas/britpickers [livejournal.com profile] fawsley and [livejournal.com profile] susako.  [livejournal.com profile] fawsley gave me helpful hints on how to 'show, not tell'. [livejournal.com profile] susako went out of her way to visit the actual hospital I use here, so that the layout I describe is accurate. Thank you so much, ladies.

Thanks also to [livejournal.com profile] morganstuart and [livejournal.com profile] holyfant for their suggestions and cheerleading.


Prologue: Homecoming )

pipmer1: (Default)

Title:  Mirror Image
Author:  PipMer
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Mycroft
Spoilers: Mild ones for Series 2
Rating:  G
Wordcount: 928
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach (of a sort), angst, slight AU, friendship
Disclaimer:  I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary:  A Post-Reichenbach fic, with a twist.


A/N: Not beta'd, this just clawed its way out in the middle of the night. 


He stared at his reflection, barely recognising himself. The bags under his eyes were bigger than they had been yesterday, purplish and bruise-like. The skin on his face was sallow and translucent; it reminded him of the onion-skin parchment that was used for airmail correspondence. He thought if he touched it, it would disintegrate underneath his fingertips like brittle leaves. He tested this by lifting a weary finger to the tip of his cheek. Poking, it felt just as smooth as it ever had. His finger lingered on the point, creating an area around the tip that was even whiter than the surrounding skin. Bringing his finger back, the blood rushed back into place, adding slight colour to the region.

His eyes, once vibrant and full of life, were dead and lustreless. The hair that women so often wanted to run their hands through, normally so soft and silky, now lay dull and lifeless upon his skull. The hands, once so calm and steady, well-suited to his profession, were both trembling uncontrollably.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image of himself from his mind. He needed to pull himself together. This unending grief was debilitating and useless. He needed to get on with life, at some point. Maybe today, after he picked up his friend's ashes and joined them with the sea, he would find some kind of closure, and as a result, some peace as well.

He highly doubted he would find either.


"Are you sure that all this is absolutely necessary?" Mycroft Holmes's expression was carefully blank, the tone of his voice and his tight grip on the mobile pressed to his ear the only clues to his state of mind.

"Yes, I am aware of the necessity for deception and secrecy, but couldn't you have told him?... No….. I think you underestimate your significance to him… You know what happened with Irene, why would you put him through that… He's not stupid, you know, he will figure it out…"

Mycroft sighed, as if he were used to these kinds of conversations, trying to talk sense into an intransigent mind. "As long as you promise that you will wrap things up within a reasonable timeframe. He's not doing well, you know. I fear that before too much time elapses, he will join you, either by his own hand or by a more indirect route. No. No. He won't even speak to me, let alone accept any overtures of concern. He blames me for everything. Rightly so, I agree."

Mycroft's mouth twists into a frown. "Don't say I didn't warn you. When you come back, don't be surprised to find a shattered shell of the man you left behind. Some things you can't come back from." He huffed at the person's response, and finally gave in to his frustration by ending the call.

Mycroft stared out of the window of his home office, barely registering the scene of bucolic tranquillity. His insides churned as he contemplated all that his brother must be going through, and the helplessness that he felt at the fact that he could do nothing to ease his way. Sherlock was enduring this alone, and it was all so unnecessary. Those two were always better together than they ever were on their own, and it took an outsider looking in to see that.

He wasn't sure how this was all going to end; even if things ended with the result he hoped for, the situation could still be irrevocably damaged beyond repair. If Sherlock and John were to lose each other because of this, Mycroft didn't want to be around to pick up the pieces.

It was out of his hands; all he could do was hope for the best.


He stood at the edge of the English Channel, wooden urn clutched tightly to his chest. His friend had left specific instructions as to where his ashes should be spread, and by whom. He still couldn't quite believe that he had been the chosen one, the one to whom a sacred trust had been delivered. The thought had quite literally saved him. If he were worthy of this, then his continued existence must be of some importance. He couldn't just throw his life away, even for the purpose of following the one he couldn't seem to live without. And what good would that do anyway? It certainly wouldn't bring him back.

He closed his eyes and listened to the waves crashing to and fro. He soaked everything up that he could of this moment, and filed it away into a safe, dark corner of his mind, where he would be able to call it up any time he needed to, in order to keep the memory alive. He could hear the screaming of the gulls; he could taste the salty tang of the water upon his lips. His bare feet dug into the wet, gritty sand, water periodically washing them clean. He didn't know how long he stood there, until he was sure that everything about his surroundings had been burned deep into his subconscious. Until he was sure that he would never forget.

He let out a soft sigh as he opened his eyes. He blinked once, valiantly holding back the unfamiliar sting of moisture. Slowly he unscrewed the cap to the urn and gently tipped the contents out onto the gently lapping waves. He left a small bit remaining; he would keep it on the mantel, alongside the skull. Two friends, sitting side by side.

"Good-bye, John," Sherlock whispered.

pipmer1: (Default)

Title: Tea and Conversation, Part 1
Author:  PipMer
Characters:  Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Pairing:  Sherlock/John
Spoilers: Series 1 and 2
Rating:  PG
Wordcount: 2496
Genre: Friendship, pre-slash, humour, angst
Disclaimer:  I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary:   Sherlock is out of town on a case.  John is snowed in and can't find the tea.  Text messaging ensues.  Can be read as a sequel to It's for an Experiment although can also be read on its own.

This fic is in the process of being translated into Spanish by one of my Chilean readers, Catalina.  The first chapter is done, and can be found here: 

http://ifwebake-youbakewithus.tumblr.com/post/25139413421/te-y-conversacion-capitulo-1




A/N:  A kind reader of my first texting story said she'd read more in this style, so I decided to write a second one.  The first story was strictly gen; this one veers into pre-slash, although nothing remotely explicit.  Let me know if this works; I intended for the emphasis to be more on friendship than on actual romance.  I've never attempted pre-slash or slash before. 

Totally unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine. 




Sherlock, where did you put the tea?

Sherlock?

Dammit it, there’s the storm of the century blowing outside, I’m trapped inside this flat, and I can’t find the bloody tea.  Where did you put it?

Why would the fact that you can’t find the tea be my problem?

Because I always put it back in its proper place.  Since it’s not there, the only conclusion would be that you’re the one who last used it, and didn’t put it back.  I’m stuck in the flat due to the snow storm, so I can’t go out and buy more.  You better have put it somewhere that I can access within the next five minutes.  So help me, if you used all of it in an experiment, I’m going to throttle you. 

How were you planning to go about ‘throttling’ me?   I am currently 300 miles away.   And I still fail to see how your situation is in any way my problem.

So, you did use all of it in an experiment.

I didn’t say that.

If you hadn’t, why would you respond to my threat by asking how I planned on doing it?  There would be no need for me to do it if you were innocent, would there?  Ergo, you used the last of the tea in an experiment.

Very good, John.  I’m happy to see that my influence has not entirely been wasted on you.

I didn’t get to be a doctor by being stupid, Sherlock.

Of course not.  I never meant to imply otherwise.

So that means that, for however long this storm lasts, I’m not even going to be able to enjoy the simple pleasure of a hot mug of tea.  Lovely. Thanks for that, Sherlock.  Funny how even when you’re not here, you still manage to ruin my day.

Really, John, isn’t that a bit harsh?  How often is it that I actually manage to ‘ruin your day’?

Stop using quotes to ridicule my words, Sherlock.  I’m not using hyperbole, I’m stating the simple fact.

Give me one example of when I truly ruined your day.

You really want to do this, Sherlock?

Why not?  I’m comfortably ensconced in my hotel room; I have nowhere to be for the next few hours.  Go on, then; how many examples can you come up with?  What I think you’ll find is that I’ve saved the day more often than I’ve ruined it.

It never ceases to amaze me  how truly massive your ego is. 

It’s only the truth.

Jesus.  Alright, fine.  You ready?

Of course.  To quote one of your horrid idioms, ‘hit me with your best shot’.

During the Blind Banker case ALONE, I can name two days that were ruined because of you.  One, the day I got an ASBO.  Two, the day where you not only ruined my date, but got me and her kidnapped and nearly killed.

One:  As you already know, I got Mycroft to get rid of that ASBO for you.  Two:  Sarah was dull, and she ended up dumping you in the end anyway.  Three:  I’m the one who found you and rescued you.

All true, but the point is that the fact that I found myself in those situations to begin with was because of you.  You saved the day only in the sense that you fixed what you yourself had broken.

John, just the very fact that we are associates, that we work together, puts you in the position where things like that are bound to happen.  It’s the nature of our profession.   It’s not like I set out to intentionally ruin your day.

How is the fact that I got an ASBO the result of the nature of YOUR  profession?   You abandoned me and let me take the fall!

OUR profession, John.  You are my partner, my colleague.   And if you had run like Raz and I did, you would have been fine.  You should have followed my lead, like you always do.

Alright, then.  I’ve got a non-case related one.  Remember the Christmas when Irene Adler supposedly died?   I had to cancel my date with Jeanette… which, by the way, resulted in my being dumped… in order to babysit you and make sure you didn’t relapse.  My holidays were a total wash that year.  All because of you. 

Sherlock?

Can’t come up with an “I saved the day” for that one, can you? 

The great Sherlock Holmes can’t admit that I came up with a legitimate example.  Mature, Sherlock, very mature.

Alright, since you’re giving me the silent treatment, I’ll just leave you be until you get back.  And once you do, you’re going to buy me a month’s supply of tea which I will keep in my room under lock and key.  Not that that will stop you, of course.

It’s been two days.  Are you okay?

Are  you still upset that I won our little argument?

This is childish.  If you don’t respond within the next five minutes, I’m calling Mycroft and telling him that you’re missing.

I thought you had done those things because you were my friend.

What?

Staying with me over Christmas and New Year’s.   I didn’t realise that you felt obligated and resentful about doing so.

Oh Christ… is this why you’ve been avoiding me for two days?

I’m actually up here working, I don’t have time to sit around and make small talk with you over texts.   And I certainly don’t have the time to sulk over something that happened years ago.

Right, that’s why it was the first thing you brought up after two days of silence.

Now that you know I’m alive, I’ll thank you to not contact me again while I’m away.  I’m very busy trying to solve a case, and I don’t need the distraction. 

Really, Sherlock, for a genius, you really are clueless.  Trying to deflect is not going to work, especially with me.

You are insufferable.

Alright, fine.  I won’t text or call anymore for the remainder of your trip.  I hope you enjoy being a git in Scotland as much as you enjoy being one here.

…                                                                                                                                                                                   

John.

Sherlock?  Are you still in Edinburgh?

Waiting for train.  ETA in London, five hours.

I’m sorry, Sherlock.  I realised why you were so upset over what I said.

What?

When I said that looking after you ruined my holidays.

It did.

It didn’t, not really.  I was cross because Mycroft practically ordered me to cancel my plans and make sure you weren’t left alone.   But I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I hadn’t been concerned.  You’re my friend, Sherlock.  It could never ruin my day by taking the time to make sure you’re alright.  I’m sorry.

Is that what I am, your friend?

Of course.  You’re my best friend.  I thought I was yours as well.

Is that all I am?

What do you mean?

Not important.   It’s alright, John, I understand.  I concede, I am a difficult person to live with.  I have no doubt that I have, at times, ruined your day.  It is never intentional. 

Well, except for the time you thought you had drugged my coffee.

That was for an experiment.

Yes, we’ve been over that before, no need to rehash it.  Anyway, you said you’d be home in, what, five hours?  Fancy Angelo’s when you get back? My treat.

Certainly.  I take it the snowstorm has abated, and you’re able to leave the flat?

Yes, it ended days ago. 

Were you ever able to procure some tea?

Yes, actually, Mrs. Hudson had some.  You’re still buying me a month’s supply, by the way.  Don’t think you’re going to get out of that one.

Fine.

I’m really glad we both have unlimited text plans, by the way.  This would cost a bloody fortune otherwise.

We could just stop.

No, that’s fine.  I don’t want to stop.

Good.  That’s good.

What did you mean, by the way?

When?

 When you asked if that’s all you were, my best friend.  How could you be anything more than that?

I think what we have goes beyond mere friendship, don’t you think, John?

Sorry, I don’t follow. 

We had an almost instant connection.  You killed a man for me the day after we met.  You offered to give up your life for me at the pool.  I was willing to sacrifice my reputation and my life in order to save yours.  What do you call that, John?  Friendship seems too small a word. 

I don’t know, then.  What would you call it?

I have a word for it, if I didn’t know myself better.  However, I am not capable of such a thing.

What word are you talking about?

Doesn’t matter.  Like I said, I am incapable. 

Are you still going on about being a sociopath?  Because I have evidence to the contrary.

That was my official diagnosis, John, from three different professionals.  I was seventeen at the time.  Personalities are ingrained by that age, they don’t change.

No greater love, Sherlock.

What?

Oh right.  You deleted it.  Of course you did.

What are you going on about?

“No greater love has a man than this; that he lay down his life for his friends.”  That’s what you did, Sherlock, or as good as.   You didn’t die, but you gave up your life as you knew it.  You were alone; no work, no friends, no home, for a solid year.  Don’t you dare feed me that sociopath bullshit.

So you agree that friendship does not adequately describe our relationship?

I agree with that, yes.

How would you describe it?

You’re putting me on the spot here, you know. 

Irene said that we were a couple.

Well, we’re obviously not.

Aren’t we?

Of course not!  We’re not romantically involved.

Does that matter?

Of course it does!   That’s the definition of a couple.

We could be.

We could be what?

“Involved”, as you say.

I’m not gay, Sherlock.

And Irene was.   What’s your point?

What’s YOUR point?

Don’t be obtuse.

You want me to describe our relationship.

Yes.

We’re like brothers, Sherlock.  Closer than brothers, if your relationship with Mycroft is anything to go by.  But there’s no physical attraction.

Perhaps not.  But that’s not the most important part of a relationship, is it?  Sex is just so dull.  What we have is not dull.

How would you know it’s dull?

Not you too?  I’m not a virgin, John.  Neither am I celibate.

You’re not?  I’ve known you for three years, and I’ve never known you to be with anyone. 

I was gone for an entire year when I was beyond your observation.

Oh god… I don’t even want to know.

Men or women?

I thought you didn’t want to know.

You and I are cut from the same cloth.  I’m not gay either.

Then why did you say we could be involved?

Because, as Irene so kindly pointed out to both of us, our friendship goes beyond labels.

 And I’ve heard it said that physical desire often follows emotional intimacy.  Lack of initial attraction doesn’t preclude the development of such.

I’ve never been attracted to another man.

I haven’t before, either.

Before what?

Oh god.

Are you saying what I think you’re saying?

What do you think I’m saying?

I think you’re saying that you’re attracted to me.  Physically.

Are you?

I’m certainly attracted to you intellectually and emotionally.  Sometimes a physical connection takes more time to manifest. 

John?

Obviously, the word couple scares you.  Brothers, then.  Brothers is an apt description.  

John?

John, please don’t do this.

Three hours later:

Brothers is a horribly inadequate word.

Is it?

Yes.  Definitly.

“Definitly”?

Indubitaebly.

How many beers have you had?

Not beer.  Whisky.

There’s whisky at the flat?

Not at flat.  At pub with Greg.

Greg who?

Greg Lestrad, you idiot.

Lestrade, you mean?

Is what I said.  Typed.  Whatever.

If brothers is an inadequate word (which I’m surprised you spelled correctly, given your obviously inebriated state), what would be an adequate one?

Soul mate.

I actually laughed out loud at that one.  Seriously, are you a fourteen year old girl?

Is the only adeguate word.  Nothing else fits.

That’s almost as bad as the word ‘lovers’.

Not lovers.  Soul mates.

Why did you take three hours to respond?  I thought you were angry with me.

Not angry.  Thinking.  And drinking.  Ha!  I’m a poet, Sheirlock.

Our relationship doesn’t have to change in any way, John.  I’m perfectly content with the way things are.  More than content, actually.

I want things to change.

In what way ?

Greg says I should talk to you in person, not over text.

Tell Lestrade to mind his own business.  This is between you and me.

Yes.  I’m between a rok and a hard place.

You’re not making any sense, John.

If I tell you, I’m screwed.  If I don’t, I’m screwed.

Tell me what?

That I’m in

That I love you.

Have ever since you came back.  From the ded.

Not in a sexual way.  Plutonic.  Purely plutonic.   I thought.  Not so sure now.

I imagined it.  Kissing you.  Was not unplesent.  What does thyat MEAN?

Sherlock?

Dammit, if you don’t answer him, Sherlock, I will personally come down to the train station when you arrive and haul you into a cell for the night.  –GL

Lestrade.  To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?

Your childish actions.  Have you been leading him on or what, you total arsehole? –GL

What. Are. You. Talking. About.

He’s in love with you, Sherlock!  How could you have missed it? –GL

Impossible.  He told me himself that he’s never been attracted to a man. 

I didn’t say he was attracted to you… I said he was in love with you!  And now, apparently you’ve said something that’s making him reconsider the former. –GL

We were discussing the nature of our relationship.  He stopped talking to me, went and got himself plastered, and now he thinks we can have a coherent conversation about the nature of his feelings for me?  Please, Lestrade.  The man just needs to sleep it off.  Take him home, put him to bed.  I’ll talk to him in the morning. 

Damn right, you will.  This is too much like how it was while you were gone.  Evenings spent babysitting John Watson while he got pissed and cried in his beer over you.   Fix this, Sherlock.  –GL

I have every intention of doing so. 

And thank you, Greg.

For what?  --GL

For watching over him.  Both then and now. 

It was never a burden, Sherlock.  –GL

I know.  I just wanted to make sure you were thanked.  If you can, hold off on any cases for a day or so.  I think John and I need some time to chat. 

Will do.  And good luck.  I have a feeling you’re going to need it.  –GL

Part 2
pipmer1: (Default)

Title:  It's for an Experiment
Author:  PipMer
Characters:  Sherlock, John
Spoilers: Series 1 and 2
Rating:  PG
Wordcount: 947
Genre: Gen, friendship
Disclaimer:  I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary:   Sherlock and John texting :D.  That's it.  
A/N:  Unbetae'd, all mistakes are mine.

John.


John.

John.

John.

John.

For Christ’s sake, WHAT??

I need you.

I’m busy.

It’s important.

I’m at work.  It’ll have to wait.

This is more important.

More important than earning rent money?  Not likely.

I need to know the time of your last bowel movement.

Oh my g… why in the world would you need to know that, Sherlock?

It’s for an experiment.

Of course it is.

Well?

Well, what?

When was it?

When was what?

Your last bowel movement.

Why do you need this information, Sherlock?

I told you, it’s for an experiment.

What kind of experiment?

It’s a double-blind study, so if I told you that, it would skew the results.

Really.

Yes, really.

Wait a minute.  That doesn’t make any sense.  If it were a double-blind study, then you wouldn’t be privy to the conditions of the experiment either.  Who’s the third party?  

Sherlock?

Never mind that, the fact that you must have dosed me with something to affect my bowel movements is A BIT NOT GOOD!!

Sherlock!!

Sod this, I’m turning my phone completely off.  I’m off to the pub after work, don’t expect me back at the flat until after midnight; if I see your face before then I’ll punch it into next week.

No, don’t turn your phone off.  What if there’s an emergency and I need you?

Not bloody likely, Sherlock.  Piss off. 

Don’t be like that, John, I would never do anything to endanger your health.

You’re kidding, right? 

Turning my phone off now.

John.

John?

John, please.

Where are you?

It’s 12:05.  You said you’d be back after midnight.

Is your phone still off?

What if Harry needed to get in touch with you?

What if something happened to Mrs.  Hudson?

What if something happened to ME?

Dammit it John, stop being childish.

If you must know, Mycroft is the third party.

And he has reliably informed me that you were in the group that was given the placebo, so no harm done.

Really, John, what purpose does it serve to ignore me?  You’re going to have to come home and face me sometime.

Fine.  Don’t expect me to come running when you’re kidnapped by thugs and in need of rescuing.

Or when you’re kidnapped by a criminal mastermind and wrapped in enough explosives to bring down Parliament.

Or when an American CIA agent puts a gun to your head and threatens to blow your brains out.

Or when an imaginary hound stalks you in a darkened lab and corners you in a cage.

You also shouldn’t expect me to fall to my death when a sniper’s rifle is set to snuff out your life.

What more could I possibly do to convince you that your safety and well-being is of paramount importance? If I conduct an experiment on you, you can rest assured that it will be done in the safest manner possible.

Being a doctor, you’re also a man of science.  You know how stringent the parameters of clinical trials are.  All precautions are taken to guarantee safety and efficacy.

Bloody hell, Sherlock, can’t you go one evening without texting me endlessly?

No.

I suppose  you’re sulking now.

I do not sulk.

Yes you do.

Are you coming home?

I’m on my way.

Are you still angry ?

We’ll talk when I get home.

That’s a ‘yes’, then.

Sherlock, this is the second time you’ve dosed me with something... or rather, thought you’d dosed me with something.  You promised that it wouldn’t happen again.  I took you at your word.  So yes, I’m still angry. 

I cheated.  I made sure that you were in the control group.  There was never any chance of you being given an active drug.

Still doesn’t make it better, Sherlock. 

Why not?

You still experimented on me!   At Baskerville you didn’t actually give me the drug, either, but you still used me as a guinea pig.  Not appreciated, Sherlock.

I’m sorry, John.

Yes, well, you’ve apologized before, usually as a means to the end of being able to continue to use and manipulate me for your own purposes.  Forgive me if I doubt your sincerity. 

And lord knows, I let you do it, too.  Each and every time. 

Guess I can’t blame it all on you.

After all, I’m still living with you, aren’t I?  Even moved back in with you when you came back after… after.

Damn it!  Apology accepted, you wanker.  I guess if I can forgive you for faking your death for a year, then I’ll probably forgive you anything else.

Never going to let that go, are you, John?

No, and I shouldn’t, either.  Some things go way beyond a bit not good.  But I still forgave you.  And I’m still here. 

You’re not here, though.  Where are you?

Five minutes from Baker Street.

Cab?

No, Sherlock, not a cab.  Cabs are expensive.  Walking.

It’s seven degrees outside.

I’m well aware, Sherlock.

It’s 23 degrees in the flat.

Thank you, Sherlock.

It wouldn’t do for you to get sick, what with the holidays coming up.                                                                      

I won’t get sick just by being out in the cold weather, Sherlock; as a scientist, you should realise that.

I’m not a scientist, I’m a consulting detective.

Says the man conducting an experiment on bowel movements.

Technically it’s for a case.

Wonderful. 

We’re still talking about this when I get home.  It’s still not okay to experiment on me without my knowledge.

Fine, we’ll talk.

Alright.  Good.  Just remember that you have to listen as well. Agreed?

Yes.

Good.  I’m at the front door now, am coming up.

See you soon.

pipmer1: (Default)

Title:  Realisation
Author:  PipMer
Characters:  Sherlock, John
Spoilers: Reichenbach Fall
Rating:  G
Wordcount: 1638
Genre: Gen, friendship
Disclaimer:  I don’t own, no money is being made from this
Summary:  Sherlock finally comes to understand what role he plays in John’s life.

A/N:  My very first Sherlock fic!  Many thanks go out to my betas/britpickers [livejournal.com profile] ceruleanblue312 and [livejournal.com profile] cakewallaby.  Special thanks go to [livejournal.com profile] morganstuart for her help with wording/phrasing and her encouragement.  Quotes in italics are directly taken from “The Reichenbach Fall” transcript which was created  by Ariane Devere and is located in her LJ here:  http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html


Finally, after twenty-four months, he understands.  Finally, he realises.

God, he's been such an idiot!

If he had known how badly this was going to affect John, if he had known how utterly devastated John would be, he wouldn’t have … But no.  It had to be done.  It had been the only way.

That didn't mean that Sherlock couldn't regret the necessity of it all.

Especially now.  After he had seen, first hand, what this game had done to his friend.

He had known that John considered him to be his best friend.  The feeling was mutual, considering that John was his only friend, despite Moriarty 's intimations to the contrary.  Mrs. Hudson was more of a surrogate mother than anything, and although he and Lestrade shared a mutual respect and regard, they hadn't really been friends.  But John, John had been his friend.  Sherlock had never doubted that, not for one moment.

He simply had never realised how deep John's loyalty ran, how strong their bond actually was...until this very moment.

Not until this moment, as he stood in the shadows, watching John cry over his grave.

                                                                                                                                                                                         

=============================================================


The signs had been there, almost from the very beginning.  The almost instant connexion that had drawn the two men together had been indefinable, and yet undeniable.  Less than forty-eight hours after meeting, John had shot a man for him.  Had almost certainly saved Sherlock's life.  Saved the life of a virtual stranger.  Saved the life of a man who had proclaimed with his own lips that he was a high-functioning sociopath, who had acknowledged the existence of an arch-enemy but not that of a friend. 

Unwavering loyalty, from the very beginning.  Without Sherlock doing anything to earn that loyalty. 

I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

He couldn't actually hear the words, but he could read lips.  And the effect on him was absolutely devastating.  Wasn’t that what Sherlock should be telling John, not the other way around?  How had he so severely underestimated John’s attachment to him?  How had he been so blind, that he hadn’t seen what was right in front of him?  That somehow, he had garnered the affection of a man who was worth ten of himself?  A man who, after knowing Sherlock for barely two months, had been willing to die so that Sherlock could live.  It had taken Sherlock eighteen months to get to the point where he would do the same.

 And now, Sherlock had gone and broken John’s heart.

How could this man be telling Sherlock that he owed him anything?


=============================================================


“It really bothers you.”

“What?”

“What people say.”

“Yes.”

“About me? I don’t understand – why would it upset you?”


He thinks that he understands now.

He had thought at the time that it had upset John because what people said about Sherlock also reflected on himself.  Guilt by association.  If the press turned on Sherlock, they would also turn on his closest associate, on his blogger, making both of their lives a living hell.  It would make it that much harder to shake his own epithet, “confirmed bachelor”. 

Now he doesn’t think that was it at all.  Now, he’s pretty sure that John had only been concerned about Sherlock’s reputation and image, because that’s what friends do; they protect each other, they put the other person’s well-being above their own, they exhibit unconditional acceptance and loyalty, without regard to their own interests.  Sherlock isn’t surprised that he hadn’t recognised it for what it was at the time; he had never before experienced such a friendship.


“Sherlock, I don’t want the world believing you’re ...”

“That I am what?”

“A fraud.”

“You’re worried they’re right.”

“What?”

“You’re worried they’re right about me.”

“No.”

“That’s why you’re so upset. You can’t even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You’re afraid that you’ve been taken in as well.”

“No I’m not.”

“Moriarty is playing with your mind too.  Can’t you see what’s going on?”

“No, I know you’re for real.”


Once again, Sherlock had been wrong.  It hadn’t even crossed his mind that John would be more upset on his behalf than he would be about any reflection on himself.  John had been the only person... the only person... who had never once, throughout the whole smear campaign, doubted Sherlock’s integrity.  Not even when confronted with almost indisputable proof by the man calling himself Richard Brook.  John had stood by him, defended him to anybody who dared hint at the possibility that the accusations may be true. 

John didn’t want the world believing that Sherlock was a fraud, because John himself didn’t believe it.  He didn’t want his friend’s name dragged through the mud because he knew, with the certainty that comes with utmost faith, that it was all lies, that there wasn’t a kernel of truth in any of it, and he didn’t want to see an innocent man – his friend - ruined because of it

Unbreakable faith.  Unshakeable loyalty. 

Sherlock doesn’t deserve any of it.


==============================================================


He had known, when he first set his plan in motion, that he would be hurting John.  He knew that he would be hurting himself as well, because he didn’t want to be separated from his only friend, for God knew how long.  He didn’t want to do it, but he didn’t see any other option.   Mycroft had agreed, and had promised to look after his friend while he was gone.  John would be fine; there was never any doubt of that.  Yes, John will be hurt, John will grieve, but John is a soldier.  He has lost friends before.  This will be no different.  At least, that’s what Sherlock had told himself.  It had allowed him to follow through with his plan without being bothered too much with the consequences.  There would be no lasting repercussions; Sherlock wasn’t really going to die, nothing was being done that couldn’t be set right later.

John. Would be. Fine.

Except that he wasn’t, that much was clear.

Six months.  It had been six months since Sherlock’s fall, and Mycroft’s reports were no longer enough.  On the surface, John was doing as well as could reasonably be expected after having lost his best friend to violence.  He had got himself a job; he had moved out of Baker Street into his own, smaller flat.  (This last fact made something inside Sherlock’s chest twist painfully).  He seemed to have renewed a semblance of a social life, going out with friends to the pub every now and again. 

And yet, Mycroft had left little clues in his correspondences, never coming right out and saying that things weren’t quite right.  John was back to seeing his therapist again, once a week.  This wouldn’t have been all that unusual, just someone reaching out for help while going through a rough patch.  But he was still going after six months.  He had an intermittent limp, something that wasn’t noticeable most of the time, but that would flare up whenever John had had a particularly bad day.  He hadn’t written one entry in his blog after the one proclaiming to the world his steadfast loyalty. 

John should be moving on.  The man had only known him for eighteen months.  Why was he still stuck?

Although, come to think of it, Sherlock himself had grown quite attached during those eighteen months.  But that was different, Sherlock had no other friends.  John was outgoing, likeable, popular.  He had many friends he could fall back on to help him cope with his loss.  Why was he still having such a hard time?

So Sherlock had risked coming back briefly to see for himself how John was doing.  And as a result, the realisation, the understanding came crashing down on him. 

Sherlock had always been the one to berate people for seeing but not observing.  He should have taken his own advice.

He watched John talking to his gravestone.


“You told me once that you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I’ve ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so ... There.

I was so alone, and I owe you so much.

No, please, there’s just one more thing, okay, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t ... be  ... dead. Would you do ...? Just for me, just stop it.  Stop this.”

As John unsuccessfully tried to control his weeping, Sherlock felt a lump form in his throat that he had trouble swallowing around.  He nearly lost it when John switched into soldier mode, subtly giving his grave a hero’s salute, and turning with military precision to walk away.

Twenty-four months.  Twenty-four months since he had first met John Watson, and he finally realised what his role in the man’s life had been.  He had been the centre around which John’s entire world had revolved. 

For several seconds, Sherlock’s eyes tracked John’s movement.  He blinked once as he tried to bring his thoughts into some sort of order.  Hurry up and finish, he told himself.  Hurry up and do what you have to do, so that you can come back and fix this.  The initial estimate of three years is much too long; it has to get done sooner.  Make it so.

Finally clear in his mind as to what he had to do, Sherlock walked away from his grave and from John, determination speeding up his steps towards what his life was to be like for the next few months.  Whipping out his phone, he texted Mycroft his new plan of action.

Stay safe, John.  I’ll return as soon as I can.

Profile

pipmer1: (Default)
pipmer1

November 2021

S M T W T F S
 123456
78910111213
1415161718 1920
21222324252627
282930    

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated May. 26th, 2025 01:47 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios