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Sherlock Fanfiction - John's Meta: Dressing Wounds
Title: John's Meta: Dressing Wounds
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saki101
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mary/John
Rating: Between PG-13 and R-ish
Genre: Slash, metafiction
Word Count: ~2.5K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: In the months between the shooting and Christmas, John reflects.
A/N: More musings about Series Three and how it might connect to things that went before. Dressing Wounds may be read alone or together with John's Meta: Your Life and Mine.
Excerpt:
The light is fading. The bit of blue in the sky is gone, the wind picking up again. You should be back soon from Bart’s.
A taxi stops outside. I listen. I listened for months after you fell, hoping, hoping, strangled by hope. I hear the door shut, your foot on the stair. I glance at my laptop screen. I haven’t written much, deleted most of what I did write. It’s hard for me to tie this down in words. I was really just waiting for you to return.
Also posted on AO3. (A further set of coordinating photos may be found here.)
John's Meta: Dressing Wounds
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The light is fading. The bit of blue in the sky is gone, the wind picking up again. You should be back soon from Bart’s.
A taxi stops outside. I listen. I listened for months after you fell, hoping, hoping, strangled by hope. I hear the door shut, your foot on the stair. I glance at my laptop screen. I haven’t written much, deleted most of what I did write. It’s hard for me to tie this down in words. I was really just waiting for you to return.
I’ve done that since I met you, waited to rest my eyes on you again, every absence a short bereavement. It angered me that you didn’t understand how difficult the waiting always was for me. It was worse when I didn’t know I was doing it. You’d appear, a glimpse of blue amidst the grey, and then you'd be gone again. Bewildered, I lived in vague resentment, ready to snarl and bite at the least provocation and you were so provocative. Always provocative, but now I know and don’t struggle against it. I let it build from the moment I find you gone. It’s building now as the day wanes, as you exchange a few words with Mrs Hudson in the hall, as you resume mounting the stairs.
There’s a mug of cold tea on the table. I take a sip. You’ve gone straight to the kitchen from the hall. I hear you checking on your experiment, replacing the lids on the Petri dishes. I can’t see whether you glance in here. The room is twilit, my screensaver gone dark. I set the cup down without a sound. You’ve gone to your bedroom. I don’t hear the door close, only the creak of the wardrobe hinge.
The wind rattles the windowpanes. A draft seeps in around the casements as the streetlights blink to life. I don’t turn on the lamp yet.
The bathroom door clicks. The shower runs. A messy afternoon at Bart’s, then. I shift the computer to the table alongside the cold tea. I walk to the hearth, kneel to light it. Your skin will still be damp when you stretch out in the chair and open your robe, pull up your vest. You leave so little for me to do except look. I move the floor lamp near, make sure the light illuminates the seat cushion, a circle of yellow in the grey. It will leave your face in shadow if you tilt your head back rather than lean forward to watch me. I’m not sure which I prefer.
I like it when you watch, your breath warm near my temple. I like to admire the curve of your throat when you rest your head on the back of the chair and I glance up to see if I can go on a little longer. I always do when you lie back like that. I watch you swallow and then stare a little harder at your scar.
The pattern of my breathing is changing. I step away to survey the scene, ready for our little ritual.
It started in the hospital, the second time I almost truly lost you, third time if I count when you tricked me. I remember taking a deep breath of disinfectant-laden air and glancing through the window in your door to a corridor half lit in what passes for night in an intensive care unit. It was nearly silent. No one was being summoned to ward off death.
In your room, the machines hummed, breathing extra oxygen into you, pushing elixirs through your veins. They cast a gloating glow over you. I resented their intimacies, was grudgingly grateful for them.
I remembered that I had called you a machine. In frustrated, uncomprehending anger, I had called you that. You had led me to misunderstand. Led me to a dark place, made it darker still and left me alone in it. It was fitting that your gravestone was black. I could see my reflection in it.
But your blood was red. You bled for me.
The blood on the pavement was a trick. I didn’t know it though. It shone bright in my dreams, matting your hair, staining your skin. I would wake up wet from those dreams, wet and weak in the dark.
I made you bleed for real when you came back. I couldn’t see the hurt in your eyes, didn’t understand that you couldn’t tell me why. Everything was coloured dark red with my rage.
You left me too long and I survived by thinking about me. Me first. Just me.
I had twisted into another shape around the wound you left in my life; I closed it off, sealed it in. It was a bloody business unbending and I couldn’t see how it could even be done. Wasn’t sure I wanted it to be done.
You showed me a way by allying yourself with Mary, the one light that had made its way into my darkness. By her light I began to see you again.
I don’t know what colour her light is. I had thought it was golden, but in the darkness, any light seems bright.
I should punch you again for letting me marry her, but you have bled enough, far too much, for me. I wouldn’t have listened to you if you had tried to stop me.
Other doctors saved you again. I will treat the gift as precious this time.
I feel unsteady. I retreat to the sofa and take another sip of old tea.
You were nearly as white as the sheets in the fluorescent light from over your bed. I thought you were unconscious. The morphine level was high. I could see your heartbeat on the monitor. Mine was loud in my ears and more erratic. I eased away the surgical tape and lifted the dressing. The wound was larger after the surgery. I stared at it, neatly closed, pale skin and pink edges, the damage beneath carefully repaired. I memorised contours and colours. I promised myself that I would be vigilant this time, that I wouldn’t fail you again. I watched the wound rise and fall with your breathing. I was loath to cover up this proof that you were alive even though you had almost died. When I did smooth the tape back in place and look up, you were staring at me.
You didn’t speak. With your eyes I suppose you were asking me whether I finally saw. I hadn’t noticed you fading right before my eyes. Hadn’t noticed a lot of things right before my eyes. I was too tied up. Apparently you do need to jump off buildings for me to notice what you’re feeling, that you’re dying. I’ll try not to be so oblivious now.
I hear you turn the shower off. It won’t be much longer. I continue sitting, one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other on the cushion next to me, eyes on the fire.
Every day after that night in the hospital, I checked your wound. Even when you’d been transferred to Bart’s and I felt you were much safer, still I checked. It became a routine. You pushed down the sheet for me if you were awake. Sometimes I stood while I examined that small patch of healing skin, sometimes I sat, knee pressed against the metal supports of your bed. Sitting was better, I was closer. There were times I put my head down on the edge of the mattress after I replaced the dressing. I fell asleep that way a few times. Once I thought I felt your hand on my hair. It was never there when I awoke and you never spoke while I checked. Often you watched, sometimes you lay back and closed your eyes.
The first night at home, I paced in the sitting room once you were settled into your bed. You were well enough to be at home, there was no need to check. There wasn’t even a dressing anymore. You had stayed in hospital that long.
I had left your door ajar in case you needed something. Of course, you could text, we have modern conveniences, but I wanted to hear. I had decided I would sleep in the sitting room so I could.
You called my name. I ran to your room, bumped my thigh on the corner of the kitchen table on the way past. You had pushed down the sheet, unbuttoned your pyjama top, but not opened it.
“Don’t you need to check the wound?” you asked.
I nodded. The wound didn’t need checking, but I had needed to check it. You understood and our ritual began in earnest.
That night you closed your eyes and I re-buttoned your pyjamas without touching your skin. I wanted to. I was very careful not to. I pulled up the covers and tiptoed away as though you might really have been asleep. Perhaps you were. I may have remained, crouched over your wound, longer than I realised.
Weeks passed. You no longer needed bed rest. It was a miracle that you stayed resting as long as you did. I tucked my fear at that away. You began to go out. I went with you. You began to go out alone. I waited for you. Sometimes we were both away from Baker Street doing our separate tasks. The first evening that happened, I ran up the stairs. I was out of breath when I pushed open the door. You were reading in your chair. When you moved the book away, I saw that your shirt was undone. As I stepped closer, you pulled it aside. I leaned forward to check the pink pucker of flesh. I had to tilt my head not to block the light. My breath gusted across your chest, ruffled the edge of the silk. I stood up and nodded, reassured. You buttoned up your shirt and resumed reading.
You’re usually on the sofa or in your chair now when I check. I find kneeling the most convenient position from which to inspect the site of the wound. I wash my hands first. I don’t recall when I started doing that. You always bare your skin for me. I have not touched yet. I have been thinking about it.
The bathroom door opens. There is a sweet smell on the air as you stride into the sitting room, robe billowing behind you. You turn and settle into your chair. You have lost weight during your convalescence, despite my best efforts. It makes you seem even longer than you are. I catch a glimpse of your half smile before you turn your face towards the fire. Almost as an afterthought, you ruck up your vest with one hand, let the other fall to your thigh. It has the effect of drawing my eye with it.
I wasn’t sure whether I would go through with it, but the curve of that pale hand decides me. I snatch a container from the table. You don’t move when I lean over you to study the scar. You’re breathing lightly, eyes half-shut, gaze seemingly on the flames. I wonder if the hot shower has made you sleepy. I explain that since the wound is closed, massaging and moisturising it will lessen the scarring and that I’ve brought cocoa butter for the purpose. You murmur and close your eyes completely. I ask whether you would like to apply the emollient. A sigh is the only reply I get.
I’m not sure whether you’re impatient at my question or simply don’t care about scarring. I realise I care. For myself. I wish it could disappear completely. That I could erase what Mary has done. I uncap the cocoa butter, push the stick up past the sides of the container, try to ignore its phallic shape and crouch down in front of your chair. Your hand moves slightly along your thigh, the fingers splaying. There is a temptation to brush my lips across the back of your hand. I resist it and touch the butter to your skin. Your other hand hangs limp over the side of the chair, fair skin reflecting the firelight, the hand on your thigh is still. I draw a small circle over the scar, pressing so the stick will massage the area as well. Two minutes is the recommended time. I may exceed that. The fragrance of the cocoa butter is pleasant, the circular motion hypnotic. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and our breathing, mine more laboured than yours although I do a good job of regulating it. Finally, I stand, recap the slightly shorter stick of cocoa butter and pull down your vest. You draw up your legs and curl into the chair. I always marvel at how you do that, the grace and flexibility of the motion. I try not to think of it in more lascivious contexts. I don’t succeed.
I stretch out on the sofa. I don’t sleep well upstairs unless it’s a short nap while you’re out. If you’re home, I feel restless there. It is too far away. When I awake, the fire has burnt down to ash and embers, your chair is empty. As I get ready to sleep for the night, I notice you’ve left your door ajar. I listen at it for a moment. The room beyond is quiet. I fetch a pillow and a duvet from my bedroom, return to the sofa with them. I can still smell the cocoa butter. I find it soothing. I had wanted to taste it as it melted on your skin. I refrained. I still haven’t touched you. If you continue to let me massage the scar, I may. There aren’t many weeks before Christmas and our plan will bring a change. Perhaps one change at a time is best. I refuse to think more about it for the moment. When sleep comes, I dream of a sweet taste on my tongue.
In the morning, you’ve gone to the Yard. I see the text from Greg commending me for getting you to show up on time for some paperwork before I’m awake enough to realise you aren’t here. I inform Greg that I had nothing to do with it and get ready to go to the surgery. Sarah needing cover for someone’s annual leave had been perfectly timed. What will come in the new year, I cannot say, but as I walk to the clinic I focus on the first stirrings of this day’s anticipation low in my belly and the first glimmer of blue sky above the rooftops in the east.
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John, Mary/John
Rating: Between PG-13 and R-ish
Genre: Slash, metafiction
Word Count: ~2.5K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: In the months between the shooting and Christmas, John reflects.
A/N: More musings about Series Three and how it might connect to things that went before. Dressing Wounds may be read alone or together with John's Meta: Your Life and Mine.
Excerpt:
The light is fading. The bit of blue in the sky is gone, the wind picking up again. You should be back soon from Bart’s.
A taxi stops outside. I listen. I listened for months after you fell, hoping, hoping, strangled by hope. I hear the door shut, your foot on the stair. I glance at my laptop screen. I haven’t written much, deleted most of what I did write. It’s hard for me to tie this down in words. I was really just waiting for you to return.
Also posted on AO3. (A further set of coordinating photos may be found here.)
The light is fading. The bit of blue in the sky is gone, the wind picking up again. You should be back soon from Bart’s.
A taxi stops outside. I listen. I listened for months after you fell, hoping, hoping, strangled by hope. I hear the door shut, your foot on the stair. I glance at my laptop screen. I haven’t written much, deleted most of what I did write. It’s hard for me to tie this down in words. I was really just waiting for you to return.
I’ve done that since I met you, waited to rest my eyes on you again, every absence a short bereavement. It angered me that you didn’t understand how difficult the waiting always was for me. It was worse when I didn’t know I was doing it. You’d appear, a glimpse of blue amidst the grey, and then you'd be gone again. Bewildered, I lived in vague resentment, ready to snarl and bite at the least provocation and you were so provocative. Always provocative, but now I know and don’t struggle against it. I let it build from the moment I find you gone. It’s building now as the day wanes, as you exchange a few words with Mrs Hudson in the hall, as you resume mounting the stairs.
There’s a mug of cold tea on the table. I take a sip. You’ve gone straight to the kitchen from the hall. I hear you checking on your experiment, replacing the lids on the Petri dishes. I can’t see whether you glance in here. The room is twilit, my screensaver gone dark. I set the cup down without a sound. You’ve gone to your bedroom. I don’t hear the door close, only the creak of the wardrobe hinge.
The wind rattles the windowpanes. A draft seeps in around the casements as the streetlights blink to life. I don’t turn on the lamp yet.
The bathroom door clicks. The shower runs. A messy afternoon at Bart’s, then. I shift the computer to the table alongside the cold tea. I walk to the hearth, kneel to light it. Your skin will still be damp when you stretch out in the chair and open your robe, pull up your vest. You leave so little for me to do except look. I move the floor lamp near, make sure the light illuminates the seat cushion, a circle of yellow in the grey. It will leave your face in shadow if you tilt your head back rather than lean forward to watch me. I’m not sure which I prefer.
I like it when you watch, your breath warm near my temple. I like to admire the curve of your throat when you rest your head on the back of the chair and I glance up to see if I can go on a little longer. I always do when you lie back like that. I watch you swallow and then stare a little harder at your scar.
The pattern of my breathing is changing. I step away to survey the scene, ready for our little ritual.
It started in the hospital, the second time I almost truly lost you, third time if I count when you tricked me. I remember taking a deep breath of disinfectant-laden air and glancing through the window in your door to a corridor half lit in what passes for night in an intensive care unit. It was nearly silent. No one was being summoned to ward off death.
In your room, the machines hummed, breathing extra oxygen into you, pushing elixirs through your veins. They cast a gloating glow over you. I resented their intimacies, was grudgingly grateful for them.
I remembered that I had called you a machine. In frustrated, uncomprehending anger, I had called you that. You had led me to misunderstand. Led me to a dark place, made it darker still and left me alone in it. It was fitting that your gravestone was black. I could see my reflection in it.
But your blood was red. You bled for me.
The blood on the pavement was a trick. I didn’t know it though. It shone bright in my dreams, matting your hair, staining your skin. I would wake up wet from those dreams, wet and weak in the dark.
I made you bleed for real when you came back. I couldn’t see the hurt in your eyes, didn’t understand that you couldn’t tell me why. Everything was coloured dark red with my rage.
You left me too long and I survived by thinking about me. Me first. Just me.
I had twisted into another shape around the wound you left in my life; I closed it off, sealed it in. It was a bloody business unbending and I couldn’t see how it could even be done. Wasn’t sure I wanted it to be done.
You showed me a way by allying yourself with Mary, the one light that had made its way into my darkness. By her light I began to see you again.
I don’t know what colour her light is. I had thought it was golden, but in the darkness, any light seems bright.
I should punch you again for letting me marry her, but you have bled enough, far too much, for me. I wouldn’t have listened to you if you had tried to stop me.
Other doctors saved you again. I will treat the gift as precious this time.
I feel unsteady. I retreat to the sofa and take another sip of old tea.
You were nearly as white as the sheets in the fluorescent light from over your bed. I thought you were unconscious. The morphine level was high. I could see your heartbeat on the monitor. Mine was loud in my ears and more erratic. I eased away the surgical tape and lifted the dressing. The wound was larger after the surgery. I stared at it, neatly closed, pale skin and pink edges, the damage beneath carefully repaired. I memorised contours and colours. I promised myself that I would be vigilant this time, that I wouldn’t fail you again. I watched the wound rise and fall with your breathing. I was loath to cover up this proof that you were alive even though you had almost died. When I did smooth the tape back in place and look up, you were staring at me.
You didn’t speak. With your eyes I suppose you were asking me whether I finally saw. I hadn’t noticed you fading right before my eyes. Hadn’t noticed a lot of things right before my eyes. I was too tied up. Apparently you do need to jump off buildings for me to notice what you’re feeling, that you’re dying. I’ll try not to be so oblivious now.
I hear you turn the shower off. It won’t be much longer. I continue sitting, one hand on the arm of the sofa, the other on the cushion next to me, eyes on the fire.
Every day after that night in the hospital, I checked your wound. Even when you’d been transferred to Bart’s and I felt you were much safer, still I checked. It became a routine. You pushed down the sheet for me if you were awake. Sometimes I stood while I examined that small patch of healing skin, sometimes I sat, knee pressed against the metal supports of your bed. Sitting was better, I was closer. There were times I put my head down on the edge of the mattress after I replaced the dressing. I fell asleep that way a few times. Once I thought I felt your hand on my hair. It was never there when I awoke and you never spoke while I checked. Often you watched, sometimes you lay back and closed your eyes.
The first night at home, I paced in the sitting room once you were settled into your bed. You were well enough to be at home, there was no need to check. There wasn’t even a dressing anymore. You had stayed in hospital that long.
I had left your door ajar in case you needed something. Of course, you could text, we have modern conveniences, but I wanted to hear. I had decided I would sleep in the sitting room so I could.
You called my name. I ran to your room, bumped my thigh on the corner of the kitchen table on the way past. You had pushed down the sheet, unbuttoned your pyjama top, but not opened it.
“Don’t you need to check the wound?” you asked.
I nodded. The wound didn’t need checking, but I had needed to check it. You understood and our ritual began in earnest.
That night you closed your eyes and I re-buttoned your pyjamas without touching your skin. I wanted to. I was very careful not to. I pulled up the covers and tiptoed away as though you might really have been asleep. Perhaps you were. I may have remained, crouched over your wound, longer than I realised.
Weeks passed. You no longer needed bed rest. It was a miracle that you stayed resting as long as you did. I tucked my fear at that away. You began to go out. I went with you. You began to go out alone. I waited for you. Sometimes we were both away from Baker Street doing our separate tasks. The first evening that happened, I ran up the stairs. I was out of breath when I pushed open the door. You were reading in your chair. When you moved the book away, I saw that your shirt was undone. As I stepped closer, you pulled it aside. I leaned forward to check the pink pucker of flesh. I had to tilt my head not to block the light. My breath gusted across your chest, ruffled the edge of the silk. I stood up and nodded, reassured. You buttoned up your shirt and resumed reading.
You’re usually on the sofa or in your chair now when I check. I find kneeling the most convenient position from which to inspect the site of the wound. I wash my hands first. I don’t recall when I started doing that. You always bare your skin for me. I have not touched yet. I have been thinking about it.
The bathroom door opens. There is a sweet smell on the air as you stride into the sitting room, robe billowing behind you. You turn and settle into your chair. You have lost weight during your convalescence, despite my best efforts. It makes you seem even longer than you are. I catch a glimpse of your half smile before you turn your face towards the fire. Almost as an afterthought, you ruck up your vest with one hand, let the other fall to your thigh. It has the effect of drawing my eye with it.
I wasn’t sure whether I would go through with it, but the curve of that pale hand decides me. I snatch a container from the table. You don’t move when I lean over you to study the scar. You’re breathing lightly, eyes half-shut, gaze seemingly on the flames. I wonder if the hot shower has made you sleepy. I explain that since the wound is closed, massaging and moisturising it will lessen the scarring and that I’ve brought cocoa butter for the purpose. You murmur and close your eyes completely. I ask whether you would like to apply the emollient. A sigh is the only reply I get.
I’m not sure whether you’re impatient at my question or simply don’t care about scarring. I realise I care. For myself. I wish it could disappear completely. That I could erase what Mary has done. I uncap the cocoa butter, push the stick up past the sides of the container, try to ignore its phallic shape and crouch down in front of your chair. Your hand moves slightly along your thigh, the fingers splaying. There is a temptation to brush my lips across the back of your hand. I resist it and touch the butter to your skin. Your other hand hangs limp over the side of the chair, fair skin reflecting the firelight, the hand on your thigh is still. I draw a small circle over the scar, pressing so the stick will massage the area as well. Two minutes is the recommended time. I may exceed that. The fragrance of the cocoa butter is pleasant, the circular motion hypnotic. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire and our breathing, mine more laboured than yours although I do a good job of regulating it. Finally, I stand, recap the slightly shorter stick of cocoa butter and pull down your vest. You draw up your legs and curl into the chair. I always marvel at how you do that, the grace and flexibility of the motion. I try not to think of it in more lascivious contexts. I don’t succeed.
I stretch out on the sofa. I don’t sleep well upstairs unless it’s a short nap while you’re out. If you’re home, I feel restless there. It is too far away. When I awake, the fire has burnt down to ash and embers, your chair is empty. As I get ready to sleep for the night, I notice you’ve left your door ajar. I listen at it for a moment. The room beyond is quiet. I fetch a pillow and a duvet from my bedroom, return to the sofa with them. I can still smell the cocoa butter. I find it soothing. I had wanted to taste it as it melted on your skin. I refrained. I still haven’t touched you. If you continue to let me massage the scar, I may. There aren’t many weeks before Christmas and our plan will bring a change. Perhaps one change at a time is best. I refuse to think more about it for the moment. When sleep comes, I dream of a sweet taste on my tongue.
In the morning, you’ve gone to the Yard. I see the text from Greg commending me for getting you to show up on time for some paperwork before I’m awake enough to realise you aren’t here. I inform Greg that I had nothing to do with it and get ready to go to the surgery. Sarah needing cover for someone’s annual leave had been perfectly timed. What will come in the new year, I cannot say, but as I walk to the clinic I focus on the first stirrings of this day’s anticipation low in my belly and the first glimmer of blue sky above the rooftops in the east.