Little Catherine Things: Can’t Drive
”Have you got to drive? ‘Cos I can’t drive.” - Genius; Episode One
THAT’S IT, DRIVELESSNESS RUNS IN THE WATSON FAMILY
John’s and Harry’s parents were hippies who only taught them to ride bikes. They were proud of John’s medical career, but so disappointed when he left to war in Afghanistan. “It’s like Vietnam all over again, we should dump those American asses!” his father said, and his mother just shook his head. Harry was the only one actually going with him at the airport before he left, and the one he wrote to the most. Their parents weren’t really impressed with her too, as they hoped to have nephews. But they wanted her to be happy after all, and that’s why the alcoholism was like a stab in the back. But when their Johnny came back and she was at rehab they were so happy they forgot everything and had a proper family reunion, and both their sons remembered why they loved their parents so much.
Sherlock didn’t reply. He just sighed and looked down, to the street he already saw once from that spot.
He smiled bitterly. He had defeated Moriarty, and yet he was defeated.
He had nowhere to go back to.
No one to wait for him.
No one to love him.
Mycroft knew that. He wouldn’t blame him, would he?
Probably not.
So, he closed his eyes and jumped.
Just another case, a dull one. The son of some rich and influent person had been kidnapped, and as Sherlock supposed at the very beginning, the author of the crime was his nanny, who apparently wished some days of quietness without the spoiled brat around wracking her nerves.
So, Sherlock and John were heading back to 221B Baker Street for another quiet evening of blogging, and playing the violin and yelling at the telly, wasn’t it for a little inconvenience.
A big black hole opened beneath Sherlock’s feet, and he saw nothing else but darkness.
———————————————
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he was lying on the cold pavement of London. There were no cars in sight, nor people, when he sat up and looked at his clock to see what time it was. Ten p.m.
How was it that John let him faint like that in the middle of the street without taking him back home? Did something happen to him? Most unlikely, since there wasn’t traces of fight anywhere and he, in the first place, was unharmed.
He stood up, founding his legs trembling ever so slightly, and he took in a couple of deep breaths into the cold December air. He looked up at the sky when he noticed some snowflakes falling to the ground, and frowned.
How was that possible? He had been lying there for what must have been less than thirty minutes judging by the time, and there were no clouds when he fainted. Moreover, there was no wind, so it was improbable that they gathered all together in that short amount of time.
Sherlock brushed his coat and decided that it was better to go back home, speeding his pace so that he could get to the flat in the shortest time possible. Once he got there, he produced his key from his pockets. Usually he would have knocked and waited for someone to open, but since he wasn’t sure that John was there and alright he had to do things this way, the “common” way.
The door opened and Sherlock stepped in, quickly going upstairs to their shared flat. There he found the second door strangely closed, and with a irritated huff he took his keys out again, opening it.
“John, why did you lock the door?” he asked, annoyed when he entered, founding the army doctor sitting in his usual armchair beside the fireplace, wearing a pair of glasses and a newspaper in his hands.
But he also noticed that the flat was oddly tidy, and that none of his things was there, not even the skull on the mantle. But he had no time to question it, as the other man had stood up to approach him, looking quite angered.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house, how did you get in?” he yelled at him, and Sherlock’s mouth went agape in surprise.
“Because I have the keys to my flat, like any normal person!” he replied, still confused.
At this, John seemed to calm down and he nodded as if he was getting something. Then, a female voice came from the kitchen, followed by the figure of a slender, blond woman who crossed her arms as well. “Is this a friend of yours, dear?” she asked, confused, but with a kind smile on her face.
Sherlock eyes widened when John nodded and grabbed him by his arm, pushing him out of the door. “Yes, an old friend… But he was leaving, don’t worry!” he says, closing the door behind him.
“John, what’s going on?” the detective asked, brows knitted together in confusion.
“No, I’m asking you, who exactly are you?” came the angered question.
Sherlock’s mind went blank at that, hands trembling out of shock. He wasn’t serious, was he?
“What kind of question is it? John, what’s going on, who’s that woman?” Sherlock yelled, pointing his finger towards the door of the flat.
He only obtained a puzzled look.
“That’s my wife, Mary Morstan and I would appreciate it if you could stop yelling, you could wake up our son.”
For a moment, Sherlock’s world stopped and he looked at the doctor as if he wasn’t really seeing him. Wife, son, what…?
“If you’re a former renter and you’re here because you left something here, you could just tell me what it is and…” John started, but Sherlock stopped him abruptly by grabbing the sides of his face, staring him right in the eyes.
“John, what is going on?” he asked, threatening. But the smaller man didn’t seem threatened in the last. He just shook the other off himself and stepped back.
“I don’t know who you are, but this is Doctor Watson to you. I am a primary to Saint Bartholomew’s and you are probably just a drunk bloke with this ridiculous prank in mind.”
“No, I’M NOT!” Sherlock just roared, unable to contain himself. “We are flatmates, John, we both live here! I’m a consulting detective, you are a former army doctor and we solve crimes together for Scotland Yard!”
The only think he got back was a scowl and that pout he knew so well, followed by a shook of the other’s head as he withdrew in the flat.
“Yes, sure. Now go back home to mommy kid, before I call Scotland Yard to let you solve crimes with them.”
With that, he closed the door in his face, and Sherlock for the first time in his life had no idea about what was going on, nor what he was going to do.
His mind was blank and his chest throbbed as if someone stabbed his heart.
“You are my friend…” he whispers to the closed door, before backing toward the staircase, stopping right before the first step. He then turned and rushed out of the building, almost running to get away from there, the snow swirling furiously around him as if he was in the middle of a storm.
When he stopped he found himself in a dark alley, leaning against the wall, frozen trails of waters on his face as he stared hard into the pavement. He let out a sob, just one, before roughly shaking his head, feeling a couple of tears falling onto the ground. What happened?, he thought to himself.
Then, a voice came from behind him. A woman’s voice, who startled him and almost made him jump.
“Are you alright?” the voice asked, and when Sherlock turned he found himself facing a blond girl, a twenty years old probably, with a Tesco’s bag in her hand.
“Go away.” Sherlock growled, not wanting to talk to some random stranger. But the girl didn’t leave, and approached him.
“You know, the first thing I noticed when I got to this world is that there was no you - no Sherlock Holmes.” she said, causing Sherlock to spin his head so fast that his vision blurred for a moment.
“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled, standing upright again.
“I mean what I said.” the girl didn’t add anything, and Sherlock approached her with an angry expression on his face.
“Explain yourself! What did you mean by ‘this world’?” he asked, angered.
“What I said. I’m not from this world, I was never born here, as you never were.” she said quizzically, causing the detective to laugh out loud.
“Are you trying to say that this is some sort of parallel universe?” he said bitterly amused, but the girl remained serious.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. My name is Rose Tyler, and I come from the same universe as you do.”
————————————————
OK, SO, I’LL HAVE TO STOP NOW BECAUSE IT’S LATE, BUT KNOW THAT WRITING THAT SCENE JUST BROKE MY HEART, OK? OK.
Tell me what you think about it, and if I should continue (otherwise my laziness won’t let me)!
“Sh-Sherlock…” John huffed uncomfortably in the dim light of the living room, watching carefully as the other worked on him.
“Stay still, John, or it will hurt more…” the consulting detective tried to calm him, obtaining just the opposite result.
“No, please Sherlock, I’m scared.” the doctor tried, wiggling around and trying to escape the other’s grip, who had him pinned on the couch.
“You have to keep calm, I promise that I won’t hurt you. I’ll go slow, ok?” Sherlock tried once again, brows knitting in concentration as his free and stroked the other’s arm, in another tentative of calming him.
“No, sorry, I can’t-“
“Please, trust me.”
At that plead, John silenced himself and closed his eyes, taking deep breaths to actually try and stay still as the other said.
Sherlock smiled at this efforts, and kissed lightly John’s forehead as a small reward, before moving to his ear to whisper reassuringly: “I’m going to put it in, ok?”
John took in a breath and nodded, turning his head so that he could hide against the couch’s pillows, body trembling slightly; Sherlock repeated to relax, and when John seemed to do just that he started to push the tip in.
“Sherlock-!” John squeaked, shaking violently his head as if he wanted to deny what was happening.
The detective stopped at that strangled moan, closing his eyes and exhaling air trough his nose, exasperated.
“Please, John, do you think we could move on?” he asks, almost irritated, patience running short.
After some moments of silence, he resumed what he was doing, trying to put it in - and at the same time the doctor resumed his wrestling against him as well as his girly whines.
“Sherlock, no, it hurts too much and I’m scared, stop!”
“But John, for the love of science!” he hissed, trying to force it in anyways.
“V-Vatican Cameos, VATICAN CAMEOS!” John whimpered, and Sherlock reluctantly withdrew.
Then he stood up, beyond exasperated, and looked down at the still whimpering doctor on the couch.
“John, you are a doctor, you know how childish this behaviour is? And then you call me immature? Ha!”
“B-but Sherlock, I’m scared…” John tried to defend himself, embarrassed: after all he knew the other was right.
“Oh, please! How hard can that be to tolerate? Never mind, I’ll go ask a blood sample to fucking Anderson, John.” he fumed, and with this stormed out of the flat.
“I TOLD YOU THAT I WAS SCARED OF NEEDLES, SHERLOCK!”
————————————-
So, yes.
It was a trap.
I think John Watson (BBC’s one) is one of the most difficult characters to portray and to role/write about. I noticed that in roleplays he usually is grumpy, too much to be right. Like he’s only annoyed by Sherlock and doesn’t enjoy their friendship at all. That’s wrong, isn’t it…?
a christmas day
“they all have gone to the party, bear”
“They all have gone to the party, bear.” Sherlock whispered, staring out of the large window of his room. Unopened presents spread across the floor, neatly organised. The moon shone down on both presents and Sherlock as he stared aimlessly into the garden. “They left me all alone.”
Sherlock stared at the bear as if he was actually replying to him. “They got me all these presents, bear, but I don’t want any of them.” His voice was sad as he tore his glance away from the bear. As if he was crying and refused to let the bear see his tears. “Nobody knew what I really wanted…”
Sherlock walked away from the window and fell onto his bed. The covers surrounding him like a sea. He didn’t bother kicking off his shoes or changing his clothes. Instead he just laid they, holding his bear close to him. “Do you want to hear a secret, bear?”
The bear’s head slowly moved up and down as Sherlock had planned.
“Good. Don’t tell anyone but all I wanted for Christmas was a friend.” Tears collected in his eyes before he quickly wiped them away. He never cried. Not at school when they picked on him for being different. Not when Mycroft stole his bear. Not even when Mummy told him off. This was stupid. “Well, least I have you, bear.”
He crawled under his covers, pulling his bear with him. “I just wish they’d stay with me.”
He was just starting to drift to sleep when a soft knock came from his door, and he rolled on his side, annoyed, facing the wall and hugging tighter the plushie.
His mother entered without his permission, used to the lack of a response from her son, and Sherlock presumed she was smiling by her voice, annoyed from her presence at the moment.
“Sherlock, darling, why don’t you come to the party with the rest of us?” she asked lovingly.
“Boring.” he mumbled, without turning around.
She sighed, expecting this answer and preparing her next right back.
“Don’t make me call Mycroft, or your father… They want you to be there too, you know?” she said, her voice caring, standing in the doorway.
Sherlock snorted a bit, and simply answered: “I highly doubt that. Mycroft is probably boasting about his school results with his fellow classmates, and the presence of his little brother would just be a burden, as for Father, who is probably discussing of business with his colleagues.”
Again, his mother sighed and shook her head, closing the door behind her, resigned. Or, at least, this is what Sherlock thought. He didn’t need to see it to know it.
She headed back to the party, looking for her elder son, but she stopped in her tracks when she noticed a very young couple of what looked like brother and sister. The younger one was standing behind his sister, almost hiding, and this made her smile.
Mrs. Holmes approached the couple, and noticed that the girl was talking to her parents’ friends. Once in front of the young man, she bent a bit to reach his eye level, and greeted him kindly.
“Hello, sweetie, what are you doing?” she asked.
The boy seemed confused by the sudden question, and a blush spread on his face as he grabbed his jumper’s edge.
“I am waiting for my sister Harry to stop ignoring me… I mean, I-I’m attending to this party-!” he corrected himself, without his sister even noticing. There was some age difference between them.
“If you are bored, I could introduce you to my younger son. You are older than him, but he’s quite smart, and much more interesting than this old men’s stuff.” she winked, smile still in place.
“But my parents told me not to trust strangers…” he said with a mumble, lowering his gaze in a cute way. What was him, eleven, twelve years old? And Sherlock was eight, not so much of a age difference!
“I’m not a stranger! This is my party, and I know who you are: if your parents are the Watson’s you must be young John!”
The boy beamed with surprise, and nodded energetically. Mrs. Holmes’ smile widened, and she stood upright again, holding his hand for the boy to grab.
John hesitated, but in the end accepted it and followed the elegant woman trough a long hallway, looking carefully at his rich surroundings.
They stopped in front of a black painted door, and the woman knocked again, four times. Then, without waiting for a response, she entered again.
“Honey, look! I brought you a friend.” she chirped, and when John peeked from behind her, he only noticed a dark room, enlightened by the full moon coming from the window, with a huge pile of unopened presents in a corner and a soft looking bed with a big bump on it. A person, maybe, sleeping under the covers?
When no answer came, Mrs. Holmes pushed John towards the bed, whispering: “He’s just pretending” before waving goodbye to him and adding a happy: “Have fun!”, closing the door behind her.
Suddenly in this awkward situation, John didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to disturb a potentially sleeping person, but leaving already could have disappointed the lady and-
“Who are you?” a high voice came from the bed, startling him.
“A-ah, I’m John-!” he shrilled, blushing right after, feeling like a fool.
“Tell my mother that her attempt was silly and utterly useless.” Sherlock said with a grave tone.
Sherlock was touched by that, in reality, but he didn’t want this stupid-looking boy to talk to him. He could have lowered his IQ.
When he didn’t hear neither a response or a movement, he sat on the bed, lifting the covers with his body, which then slipped from his face and on his Bear. His clear eyes were fixed on the older boy, studying him.
As for John, who was looking at the boy for the same reason, trying to understand why he wasn’t at the party with the rest of his family. Was he ill? He opened his mouth to voice his question, but when he was about to speak the other just shrugged and returned to his hid-spot under the covers.
“I’m not at the party because it’s dull, if you don’t want to go back there you can stay here, but don’t bother me.” Sherlock said, his high voice muffled by the bedsheets.
John closed his mouth, dumbfounded, without knowing what to say. In the end he decided to just approach the tall bed and put his arms on it, not touching the boy’s body.
He didn’t want to bother him, really, nor did he want to be disrespectful toward his mother ignoring the party, but he didn’t feel like going back either, so that in the end he decided to just try and talk to the other. It couldn’t go too bad, could it? He was a friendly lad, after all!
“Merry Christmas, by the way… Aren’t you going to open your presents?” the boy inquired, eying curiously the packages on the floor under the window.
“No, but you can open them if you like.” the other replied, sounding bored. Or maybe only tired.
John shook his head, grabbing the sheets and trying to climb on the bed, causing the other to sit up again.
“What are you doing?” he asks, irritated.
“I don’t want to open your presents, that wouldn’t be right, but we can open them together if you want! That would be better, wouldn’t it?” the boy shyly replied, stopping his efforts to get on the bed.
Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, something his father did and that he really didn’t understand, but that imitated out of admiration for his figure.
“I don’t need you to open them, I just don’t want to, and I won’t open them!” he almost yelled. “And tell my mother that I don’t need her compassion, nor her choosing friends for me! I can make friends on my own!”
At this, John stared at Sherlock, suddenly understanding what’s the problem with the younger boy, and with a smile he stretches his hand towards him.
“I’m John, nice to meet you. Would you like to be my friend?” he asked innocently, a big and bright smile on his face as the other looked at him almost frightened, and certainly startled.
“I… Suppose so?” Sherlock quietly mumbled, shaking hands with John, hesitantly.
At this, the future doctor beamed and happily run to the window to get the presents.
“See? You made a friend! And as friends now we’re going to open all this presents together!” he said happily, putting all the boxes on Sherlock’s feet and climbing on the bed next to his new friend.
The other didn’t reply at first, and just looked at the sincere smile of this strange (for him) boy. Why was he so friendly? He did notice that certain people used to be more easy-going than himself, but…
Why would he be nice to him? Nobody ever was.
Without voicing his concerns, afraid of what the answer might be, Sherlock started to unwrap a small box that the other handed to him, discovering in it a fancy pair of socks, from his brother.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the present, and John laughed.
Then they opened a big rectangular present, which revealed itself as a book entitled: The Hobbit, or There and Back Again. It was too dark to read anything out of it, and none of the boys wanted to turn on the light, but John liked the figure on the cover, who looked like a creature from the forests, the one his mother used to read him and Harry about. Sherlock didn’t really like fantasy stories, but he also trusted his mother’s tastes and decided he could try and read it one day.
The next package is from his father, a white handkerchief with his initials sewed on it. Mycroft and Father had one identical to this, and his heart beat a bit faster at the thought: this meant he was officially a man of the family, right? He didn’t say this out loud, but John looked at the silk handkerchief nearly in awe, as his family would have never had enough money to waste on such an object.
The next presents were all from family friends, adult ones, and only one of these was a toy, a remote-controlled car. The others were either nice clothes, other big books and some prints that Sherlock seemed to like.
Then, the last package, almost too small to be remembered, was opened. It contained a pair of cuff links, to which Sherlock huffed something.
“What?” John asked, confused.
“I said that I don’t need these, all my shirts have buttons!”
“Well, maybe you’ll need them one day, don’t you think?”
“No, but you can keep them if you like them.”
“Wha-!”
John was startled at Sherlock trowing the small box away as if it was worthless, and tried to catch it before it fell to the ground. Eventually he did, but he himself almost fell in the process, saved by the other grabbing his elbow.
When he sat upright again, he looked at the content of the small box, perplexed, and shook his head with a sigh.
“I don’t think I’ll ever need these… But I’ve got an idea! Why don’t you take one and I keep the other?” he said, smiling brightly.
Sherlock seemed to think about it, knitting his thin eyebrows together.
“What would be the sense in it?” he asked, tinting his head to the side the sightliest bit.
“There is no real sense in it, but… It would be a symbol!” John explained moving his hands in excitement at his own idea. He liked it really much.
“A symbol of what?” the other asked, more skeptical than before.
“Of our friendship!” John beamed, taking one cuff link and putting it on his sleeve, under his jumper.
Sherlock took the box that he handed to him and looked at its content, picking up the remaining jewel to put it on his own shirt’s sleeve. Then he looked at the other boy, who smiled at him.
“Are we really friends?” Sherlock asked, curious.
“Of course! We’ll ask our mothers to let us play together, so we will see each other again soon!”
The younger of the two nodded and stretched his hand once again towards the other.
“It’s a promise?” he asked, with the small voice of an unsure child without friends.
This melted John’s heart, as he nodded and took the other’s hand to shake firmly, almost adult like.
“It’s a promise!”
An hour later their mothers found them fast asleep, the presents scattered in front of them and also on them, as John had decided to use one of Sherlock new jacket’s as a blanket.
When the boys woke up, there was no trace of the other as John’s mother had took him back home with her.
When John tried to contact the other boy, he found out that he didn’t know his name, and when he asked his mother she replied that the family threw that party to celebrate their moving somewhere else.
The only thing they had left was one cuff link and a promise.
—-
“You know, you remind me of a boy I knew.” the military doctor says, thoughtfully. “He didn’t want presents, he was smart and not very sociable. He also had a teddy bear, if I’m not wrong.” he smiled at the memory of his long lost friend, the mysterious boy without a name.
Sherlock didn’t reply as he was in the other side of the room, under a cover on the couch, facing the wall.
“We opened his Christmas presents together and I promised to be his friend, but his family moved and I’ve never known where he went. I hope he’s happy now, though I’m sad that he didn’t look for me…” he went on, smiling fondly.
“John?” the deep voice of the consulting detective rose from under the duvet, so different from the high-pitched one he used to have when he was eight years old.
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“I had another friend, once. He disappeared all together, even though he had promised to be my friend. I pretended he was dead when Mycroft gave me that skull, and decided to pretend it was his skull. That hurt less than the thought of him breaking that promise.” he explains slowly, giving John time to reflect.
“Wait… Do you mean…?”
“I only know his name. His name was John.”
—-
what is this ok, another headcanon, ignore me“I don’t have friends. I’ve always only had one.”
EDIT: here is the same story completed by other authors I unfortunately don’t remember (sorry)!
reblogged from letmartyhandlethis source: doublenegativemeansyes
I dreamt an episode of Sherlock, after the return (so after the first of season 3) which started with newspapers titles (just like Reichenbach ended with them) that read: “The Hero’s back and innocent!”, “Hat-man’s return”, “Great detective proves his innocence” and this kind of stuff.
Then there is a ‘known fact’, there which you get in dreams without actually acquiring them, so that we know that some psychotic guys (both fans of Richard Brook, Jim Moriarty and ex clients of his, plus generic criminals) want to kill Sherlock and John for good.
Once known this, there is a scene with John walking down the street and stopping to talk to a man in a car who asks him direction, so that you get “omg he’ll try to kill him”, but then he’s a journalist so asks a couple of small things and leaves.
Then John heads back to the flat and he had left the door open. When he arrives in front of his door, he founds a man there. He greets him with his kind “How can I help you?” and the guy turns around and stabs him right in the chest. He stutters a bit, wide-eyed, then falls backward on a chair and faints, bleeding.
After that, the man enters, finds Sherlock on his microscope and approaches him, stabbing him in the neck (near the shoulder) and leaves as him collapses on the table.
Then the scene changes and there are John and Sherlock at dinner, probably celebrating they’re still alive, with an angry Mycroft who tells them to be more careful and says “You’re lucky that someone came to visit you” (I don’t know who that was, but I thought of Irene).
After a while of then dining and talking about stuff (also kind of fluffy one) they leave the restaurant and it’s Christmas and John stops in front of a window because he saw a coat and was talking to Sherlock about how his old one is ruined by the time and spends 20 minutes there convincing Sherlock to tell him which one he preferred so that he could buy it to him for Christmas.
Then the phone rang and fuck you dad.
I want to write a fic out of this!
