madimpossibledreamer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2017-07-28 11:13 pm
madimpossibledreamer) wrote2017-07-28 11:13 pm
Entry tags:
Fallout
Main Points:
BBC's Sherlock, Standverse (John has a Stand)
Summary: Sherlock has to catalogue the relevation about his flatmate. Set after Human Trigger.
Word Count: 765
Rating: Gen
john doesn't appear in this fic but it's about him so he's tagged.
BBC's Sherlock, Standverse (John has a Stand)
Summary: Sherlock has to catalogue the relevation about his flatmate. Set after Human Trigger.
Word Count: 765
Rating: Gen
john doesn't appear in this fic but it's about him so he's tagged.
It’s a fortunate thing that he’s supposedly dead, Sherlock thinks vaguely, because he doesn’t have to have others asking him if he’s all right ridiculous question, his world’s turned inside out, there are truths that he didn’t see, couldn’t see because he didn’t have all the facts in his possession, next time he’ll know better, if there even is a next time and why is his brain going there, it most certainly shouldn’t be going there because a future without johnjohnjohn is—
He scowls at the computer and doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t dare.
He doesn’t know how to catalogue this.
Your mind palace, John supplies helpfully, and he turns and about thanks the good doctor before he realizes John is not here.
Damaris, or whatever her name is this week, meets his gaze, entirely unimpressed.
“No brilliant thoughts to share, then?” he sneers, and she shrugs and goes back to typing on her phone.
Of course, she doesn’t respond, she never responds. That’s why he’s stopped trying to get a reaction out of her, because she never responds, she’s worse than the skull, she just absorbs anything he throws at her like a black hole and why is that in his mental palace, why hasn’t it been deleted? John?
He sighs, steeples his fingers, and closes his eyes, hearing the war in the background as Mycroft’s network relays out of place explosions, assassinations, and the like.
It’s not that hard to add an extra room. It takes a few mental calculations to determine a good location and the architectural changes that need to be made, but it’s—well, it’s child’s play, really. No trouble at all.
If he were here, John would say something about it being ‘brilliant’, but he’s not here.
The colour of the room…it’s not quite what he’d chosen, but it’s the cream of John’s favorite jumper. Warmth, comfort.
The gun, displayed prominently. Because that’s true, too, isn’t it? Comfort, a loyal friend, but unbending steel beneath it all.
It seems the abilities defy scientific fact, but they must have some sort of internal logic. He can work that out with more data, but at the moment…
John sees himself as a monster. That’s why he’d reacted to the comments like ‘freak’. Not that anyone had ever applied them to him; his sister, yes, but not John. None, that is, but himself. He’s terrified of himself, and yet, before now, he hadn’t used his abilities, not directly, at any rate; too dangerous for London, he’d said, and he hadn’t had the ability while he’d been in the army, the arrow, so clearly, never used before in combat.
More dangerous than other abilities of the same kind, even if many of them were dangerous, enough to earn Mycroft’s respect. So, lack of control. Not for lack of trying; after being wounded, he’d gone to learn, so, innate nature of the ability. Well, of course. If it was no fanciful turn of phrase that he could take the battleground with him, a bomb or mine or cannon didn’t discriminate. It just destroyed.
John made the mistake of thinking that war, immoral or amoral in his experience, meant that he too was evil. When Mycroft spoke, though, he mentioned protection, as had John. There was no true protection even from a man with a gun on the battlefield, so, therefore, there had to be something more to it, and the way he’d spoken…his tone of ‘I hold a secret’, unfortunate familiarity with it. Keeping Sherlock alive with another aspect of his ability, unaware, forgets about it despite the fact that he relies on it, yet it’s not scientific to throw out facts that don’t agree with a hypothesis, you should be aware of this John.
John is forgetting that he is not just a soldier. He is also a doctor. Destruction, creation, two sides of John, two parts that make him whole, that make him John H. Watson, that make him important.
Right now, his wrecking havoc with Moriarty’s network, the utter, surgical precision…
It’s fascinating. It scares him as well, but the thought that anyone other than Mycroft would go to such lengths for him…
Well, the next time he called, Sherlock would thank him. Try not to distract him, but tell him that he’s also not the monster he believes. He really would have preferred to be told before now, especially not by Mycroft, but on the other hand, perhaps, without this, he would’ve been too interested, too likely to experiment, too oblivious of the danger when the danger was clearly present.
He scowls at the computer and doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t dare.
He doesn’t know how to catalogue this.
Your mind palace, John supplies helpfully, and he turns and about thanks the good doctor before he realizes John is not here.
Damaris, or whatever her name is this week, meets his gaze, entirely unimpressed.
“No brilliant thoughts to share, then?” he sneers, and she shrugs and goes back to typing on her phone.
Of course, she doesn’t respond, she never responds. That’s why he’s stopped trying to get a reaction out of her, because she never responds, she’s worse than the skull, she just absorbs anything he throws at her like a black hole and why is that in his mental palace, why hasn’t it been deleted? John?
He sighs, steeples his fingers, and closes his eyes, hearing the war in the background as Mycroft’s network relays out of place explosions, assassinations, and the like.
It’s not that hard to add an extra room. It takes a few mental calculations to determine a good location and the architectural changes that need to be made, but it’s—well, it’s child’s play, really. No trouble at all.
If he were here, John would say something about it being ‘brilliant’, but he’s not here.
The colour of the room…it’s not quite what he’d chosen, but it’s the cream of John’s favorite jumper. Warmth, comfort.
The gun, displayed prominently. Because that’s true, too, isn’t it? Comfort, a loyal friend, but unbending steel beneath it all.
It seems the abilities defy scientific fact, but they must have some sort of internal logic. He can work that out with more data, but at the moment…
John sees himself as a monster. That’s why he’d reacted to the comments like ‘freak’. Not that anyone had ever applied them to him; his sister, yes, but not John. None, that is, but himself. He’s terrified of himself, and yet, before now, he hadn’t used his abilities, not directly, at any rate; too dangerous for London, he’d said, and he hadn’t had the ability while he’d been in the army, the arrow, so clearly, never used before in combat.
More dangerous than other abilities of the same kind, even if many of them were dangerous, enough to earn Mycroft’s respect. So, lack of control. Not for lack of trying; after being wounded, he’d gone to learn, so, innate nature of the ability. Well, of course. If it was no fanciful turn of phrase that he could take the battleground with him, a bomb or mine or cannon didn’t discriminate. It just destroyed.
John made the mistake of thinking that war, immoral or amoral in his experience, meant that he too was evil. When Mycroft spoke, though, he mentioned protection, as had John. There was no true protection even from a man with a gun on the battlefield, so, therefore, there had to be something more to it, and the way he’d spoken…his tone of ‘I hold a secret’, unfortunate familiarity with it. Keeping Sherlock alive with another aspect of his ability, unaware, forgets about it despite the fact that he relies on it, yet it’s not scientific to throw out facts that don’t agree with a hypothesis, you should be aware of this John.
John is forgetting that he is not just a soldier. He is also a doctor. Destruction, creation, two sides of John, two parts that make him whole, that make him John H. Watson, that make him important.
Right now, his wrecking havoc with Moriarty’s network, the utter, surgical precision…
It’s fascinating. It scares him as well, but the thought that anyone other than Mycroft would go to such lengths for him…
Well, the next time he called, Sherlock would thank him. Try not to distract him, but tell him that he’s also not the monster he believes. He really would have preferred to be told before now, especially not by Mycroft, but on the other hand, perhaps, without this, he would’ve been too interested, too likely to experiment, too oblivious of the danger when the danger was clearly present.