sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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(Sorry this one is so short. John will interact with him next, and that should be up in the next few few days, I hope. Real life is demanding again)

Sherlock heads down the small jetway and into the airport terminal. The seats vanish and the room is suddenly large and sunny. There are many lush, green plants, a fish tank, and a piano in the corner. It is quiet, but the garish color of the paintings on the walls, indeed the walls themselves, are far too distracting, and shatter the peacefulness of the room.

Sherlock sees a small child sitting at a table which is more or less proportioned to his size. More accurately, he sees a mop of unruly dark hair and the back of a chair.

Scattered all over the table are pieces to the game Mouse Trap, only the boy has disregarded the rules of the game and is merely shuffling around pieces. In fact, there are no other children around to play with, even if he wanted to, though Sherlock is very sure he doesn't. He has chosen to reconstruct the trap and attempt to engage it. It is built hastily, and not entirely level, Sherlock observes, but he knows the child can not hear him, so he doesn't attempt to offer advice. He merely watches as the marble falls off the incline.

The child tries again, and, still not properly aligned, it misses the chute.

A third time, the marble with the pole doesn't dislodge the ball above.

A fourth, and the diver doesn't fall into the tub.

A fifth, and the tub doesn't dislodge the cage.

The child pounds on the table in frustration and it collapses. He rebuilds it. Checks every alignment, every detail. Every point of potential failure checked and rechecked. Sherlock looks at it over the boys shoulder and nods. There are no errors. The boy launches the marble.

The cage gets stuck on the barbed pole part of the way down.

The child wants to cry, but he doesn't. He looks at Sherlock, and two sets of cerulean eyes lock. Sherlock has nothing to say, as the boy begins construction again. As he turns to leave the room, the boy calls out after him, "Someone is calling you. You better hurry. You don't want to be late for supper."

So happy you updated! Please more! <3

As soon as I can! Thanks!

Every time you post another part I immediately stop doing whatever I do and start reading it. Amazing story!

Oh my! Thank you so very much!
I redid this chapter ( just a smudge) for people who don't know anything about Mouse Trap.

more please!

:) sorry that one was so short! Sherlock's 'waking up' soon as I get a good chunk of writing time. Thank you!

Sherlock heads down the small jetway and into the airport terminal. The seats vanish and the room suddenly expands and fills with sunlight. It now contains many lush, green plants, a fish tank, and a piano in the corner. It is quiet, but the garish color of the paintings on the walls, indeed the walls themselves, are far too distracting, and shatter the peacefulness of the room.

Sherlock sees a small child sitting at a table which is more or less proportioned to his size. More accurately, he sees a mop of unruly dark curls and the back of a chair.

Scattered all over the table are pieces to the children's game Mouse Trap, only the boy has disregarded the rules of the game and merely shuffles the pieces around. In fact, there are no other children around to play with, even if he wanted to, though Sherlock knows for certain he doesn't. He has chosen to reconstruct the trap and attempt to engage it. It is hastily built, and not entirely level, Sherlock observes, but he knows the child cannot hear him, so he doesn't attempt to offer advice. He merely watches as the marble falls off the incline almost immediately... barely down its pseudo-Rube Goldberg path toward its destiny: triggering the cage to drop on the mouse.

The child tries again, and, still not properly aligned, it misses the chute.

A third time, the marble with the pole doesn't dislodge the ball above.

A fourth, and the diver doesn't fall into the tub.

A fifth, and the tub doesn't dislodge the cage.

The child pounds on the table in frustration and it collapses. He rebuilds it. Checks every alignment, every detail. Every point of potential failure checked and rechecked. Sherlock appraises it, peering over the boy's shoulder, and nods. There are no errors. The boy launches the marble.

The cage gets stuck on the barbed pole part of the way down.

The child wants to cry, but he doesn't. He looks at Sherlock, and two sets of cerulean eyes lock. Sherlock has nothing to say, as the boy begins construction again. As he turns to leave the room, the boy calls out after him, "Someone is calling you. You better hurry. You don't want to be late for supper."

Sorry...did not title or nest properly. (Sporadic for the next couple of weeks... on vacation. Will keep it going doing smaller bits when I can)

John is about to walk away, leaving the strongest smelling curry he can find and a fresh cup of tea alongside Sherlock, when he sees fluttering eyelids on the edge of his field of vision. He leans in slightly, so he is right at Sherlock's eye level, and waits. It occurs to him that perhaps this is a bit much, waking up to someone staring straight at you, so he backs off a bit, sits in the chair opposite Sherlock, and-- waits.

The fluttering goes on longer than John anticipates, but then those piercing eyes pop open and John inhales sharply.

The moment stretches out impossibly long, neither of them knowing quite what to say.

"Would you like some curry?" says John.

Sherlock almost laughs, but cuts it short in his throat. His eyes are still smiling. "Would I... like some curry?" He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head down slightly.

"Well, I thought it was a good starting point. Neutral."

"Hmm. I suppose one should always listen to one's inner child," he smirks. "Yes. Yes, I would like some curry."

Even with the somewhat cryptic comment, this is almost normal. This John can handle, eating Indian carry away in their flat. He can almost forget the full day's worth of frantic worrying about his best friend, lying on the sofa, unresponsive.

"Sherlock. Please. Just answer this. Am I meant not to ask what you were up to in there? Because, I think I did the wrong thing, by not spelling out that you can talk to me about any of this."

"That was unnecessary."

"Right, then. Good. I..."

"This is... also, unnecessary."

John felt a surge of anger at the dismissal, but managed to keep it in check. There were more important things at stake than his pride.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry, John. That was the wrong thing to say wasn't it?" His head dropped into his hands, and for a moment, John was petrified he would lose him to his Mind Palace yet again. He was relieved to see him look up, though he turned away quickly and grabbed the bowl of curry, picking at it listlessly.

"You don't have to eat it, you know. You did eat yesterday." Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck wrong thing to say entirely, that. They had all eaten some of the goose, as a lark, that morning, before the plane. That's what he meant, not... He considered saying something almost like 'I meant... if you're not hungry... don't feel as if you should eat something... just to make me feel better...even though it does... make me feel better... but...' Thank God he hadn't opened his mouth and started that sentence to nowhere. As it was, the dark flush on his cheeks telegraphed his embarrassment. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't have even picked up on the inappropriateness of his word choice. Not bloody likely.

Sherlock glared at John. "Perhaps I am meant to find solace in not being the only one who has acquired a talent for saying precisely the wrong thing."

"Well, it's, difficult to know what to say to each other right now. But still, a fair bit better than the silence. We don't have to apologise for that. Got it. No harm, no foul."

John relaxed, but Sherlock tensed up.

"A shame it's not all so inconsequential."

Thanks for updating! Have a good time during your holidays!

I really love this!

Look forward to more.

Thank you so much, Nonnie! The pace will slow down the next two weeks but then I should be back at it !

The sentence almost sailed right past John without a second thought, but something about it catches. Since when does Sherlock Holmes care about the consequences of being rude? Hell, rude was Sherlock's default setting. And John is still endlessly amused that, for the first time in his life, he is the 'polite' one, if only by comparison. But now, Sherlock is concerning himself with the consequences of saying the wrong things. Instead of heading over to the kitchen to grab some curry for himself, he stays seated and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

"I understand it isn't necessary, Sherlock... the offering help, or the apologising for not offering it, but I will say it was bloody terrifying seeing you damn near catatonic for the better part of a day. Are you going to do this again?"

"Probably"

"And assuming you do, are you going to be out-of-pocket for hours upon hours?"

"Perhaps not quite so long next time."

"And since you have no case right now, what am I to assume you are doing in there?"

Sherlock was silent for nearly a full minute. "Assumptions are problematic, John."

"Fine. Then tell me. What are you doing in there?"

"I have a case." The slightest movement in his face as his jawline tightens is Sherlock's only visible sign of emotion. "Hijacking and sexual assault," he states, matter-of-factly.

"That case was already solved. Albert Gruner." John takes a deep breath and looks right at Sherlock, determined to be direct, honest, unflinching. "There were multiple witnesses, and the confirmed suspect is dead. The case is closed."

"Still, some compelling features remain unexamined."

"Compelling... what the hell are you talking about Sherlock? Everything was spelled out at the scene. Albert Gruner wants money. Hijacks an aeroplane to get it. Intimidates and threatens everyone on the plane and is killed. End. Of. Story. What is so compelling about that?"

"What influenced his course of action. Understanding the criminal mindset." Sherlock takes a spoonful of curry, then returns it to the bowl without eating it. "Cause and effect. I considered different scenarios. I played them all out," he points to his head, "in here."

"That's what you've been doing? Sherlock, there is no one better than you at analyzing behavior based on predictable patterns, but there's a major flaw."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "If you are about to say I can't be objective because I am contemplating myself as well, I'll have you know I have figured out far more complex things about myself than most are capable of. I reviewed the scenario in great detail several times."

"No. No. I mean you can't predict crazy. But you've been trying to haven't you?" John stops for a moment and stares at Sherlock. "You've been... replaying this?"

Sherlock ignores the attempt at clarification.

"Of course you'll claim I am blameless. That's what you're supposed to say. Full marks for your bedside manner, Doctor. You can drop the script now. I know my behaviour was the catalyst. The bit about 'not predicting crazy' was quite good, though. Much better than the boring "it's not your fault" I had been expecting."

John sighed. "Sometimes someone, even the occasional genius consulting detective, needs to hear that it wasn't their fault. People do blame themselves, try to pinpoint precisely where something went wrong, what they missed, what should have been done differentły-- so they can be sure it won't happen again-- but..."

"John. This is not 'maybe my skirt was too short' or 'maybe I shouldn't have gone out for a late-night walk'. I wasn't targeted at random because I was convenient. I caused this. I provoked him. People say a rapist has no self control. I had no self control, John. I asked for this, and I deserved it." He turns toward the bookshelf, and skims the spines. He rises, and pulls a book out of its place and reshelves it. "I deserved worse than that. My verbal assault was unnecessary and only served to escalate the situation. As a result, I endangered everyone. That is unforgivable." He continues to keep his back to John and fiddles with seemingly random things on the shelf.

"Sherlock, you pissed off a man with a weapon, in your own unique way. You have a special, god-given talent for pissing people off, I'll give you that. No one can piss people off the way you can. No. I take that back, you and Mycroft were playing bloody ping pong with a very pissed off me when you were telling each other all about how I spent the night on Sarah's bloody lilo, or sofa, or whatever the hell it was. So. You pissed him off in the most pissing-offest way possible. Why? Because you always say the wrong thing? No! To create a bloody diversion and you bloody well know it." Sherlock turns back to face John, watching the expression on his face, the motion of his hands, scanning. "You think I don't know that every move you made on that plane was for a purpose? Buy time to notify people on the ground, get him flustered enough to make some reckless decision." John's voice cracks and his eyes grow more glassy with every word. "Get him to move away from the passengers, ...distract... him enough to get the fucking gun out... out... " John chokes back sobs, "out of your hair so I could shoot the fucking bastard!"

Sherlock slinks back to the couch, avoiding John's gaze. He stares down at the end table. "I'm not that noble, John. I'm no hero. I didn't do all those things deliberately. I didn't even know what I was saying until it was coming out of my mouth."

"But you knew you were saying something wrong, and you deserved even worse than what happened? Sherlock! Can't you see the faulty logic?" Sherlock closes his eyes. "Blaming yourself for the actions of a man who was clearly unstable, did who knows what to his wife, thought nothing of terrorising an aeroplane full of people.... Do you think rapists are normal people Sherlock? Do you think that was a perfectly reasonable thing anyone might have done when insulted? You knew he wasn't keen on actually firing that gun, I sensed that too, though I have no idea how... somehow you knew, but I bet he would have tried to smash your skull with it, and I bet some part of you would have been anticipating that, waiting for it. I'm not saying what came out of your mouth was appropriate, Sherlock. I'm not. You could stand to learn some tact in normal situations. But to blame yourself for this? Don't you dare punish yourself for the acts of a lunatic!"

"I already did."

OMG! This is perfect! I absolutely love John as the voice of reason.

Thank you, Nonnie! Very glad you like John here! I have a tendency to go for a bit of St John (and that may change a bit as he hits some conflicting feelings about how Sherlock copes), but it's important to me to ( I like how you put it ... The voice of reason!) show he knows his Sherlock well enough to be aware of some things to say and some things not to.

<3...
John is the best.

Awwww.. glad you like John!

Coming back to this! Thank you for your patience!
-authoranon

John took in his words. "Okay. Okay. You already did... how? Are you refusing treatment, counseling, because you think you are not deserving it? You saved everyone on that plane, Sherlock. You were a bloody hero, if you believe in that sort of thing, which I know you don't. But I do. And you were. So, if you are denying yourself care, then, then, well this shows what a fucking lousy therapist I would be, because you are not supposed to say things like this, but... do it for me. Go. Talk to someone. Anyone. Get it all out and do it for me."

Sherlock shook his head. "There's a right way to have done it, and I can't seem to find it. I found the wrong way, that's true."

"What were you doing in there, Sherlock? Trying new solutions? Did anything actually work? Were some of them even worse?"

Sherlock looked down, remembering, and nodded silently.

"Sometimes there are no right solutions. No perfect path."

"This was my fault. My choices had these consequences. I deserved them. I deserved worse than what actually happened. I saw to it that was remedied."

"Explain." John was clenching his fist and forcing his voice to be calm. "Explain what that means, Sherlock. What you mean by 'remedied' because I don't understand."

Sherlock only stared.

"Goddamn it, don't you go back in there without answering me! What the hell did you do, Sherlock? Did you go somewhere? Did you... offer yourself up for something? I don't see when you... no, you have been right here ever since... not counting the station, and I was with you there, so, in your head? In your head, did you? You made it worse?"

"Not enough pain, John. Not enough suffering. You ended it quickly."

"Whatever you are doing to yourself to make things worse... well, whatever that was, it didn't happen. You made a better choice there. I ended it entirely too far in, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I couldn't get a clear shot. I should have done it differently, too. I've spent all this time wondering the same thing. How I could have stopped it sooner. So whatever the hell you are doing to punish yourself, I deserve it, too."

"Don't be stupid, John. You didn't cause anything. I did. I should have known better."

"Oh. That's what this is about. You have decided deducing everyone is not good enough for you. You need to be bloody psychic? What did you do, Sherlock. Whatever else you did, even if it was just in your own mind, is a form of trauma. A second trauma you need to heal from as well. If you think you deserved it, than you shouldn't have a problem telling me what you did." John stopped and thought for a moment. "Consider it part of your penance. To tell me."

so glad you updated!

John is awesome! =)

Please more!

Finally! A story where John is not an oblivious person who doesn't understand a thing and is not capable of thinking. While John isn't a particularly complicated man, he's obviously not an idiot either. People often forget about it.
I like him in this story. )))

So glad you guys are still out there reading! Thank you!
John Watson is a ton of things, and many of them are contradictory, but stupid is not one of them. I have a pet peeve against dumb John. (Your comment is really interesting, because this John is so good, trying his best to help in an impossible situation, whereas another John I'm writing at the same time is so twisted. It is nice to have balance between them where this John is so... kind) I think I'm back to my regular schedule of updating every few days. Thanks again!

FILL 10/? Above the Clouds

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Ok here's the real fill! 10/? Above the Clouds

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FILL 11/11 END Above the Clouds

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(Sporadic for the next couple of weeks... on vacation. Will keep it going doing smaller bits when I can)

John is about to walk away, leaving the strongest smelling curry he can find and a fresh cup of tea alongside Sherlock, when he sees fluttering eyelids on the edge of his field of vision. He leans in slightly, so he is right at Sherlock's eye level, and waits. It occurs to him that perhaps this is a bit much, waking up to someone staring straight at you, so he backs off a bit, sits in the chair opposite Sherlock, and-- waits.

The fluttering goes on longer than John anticipates, but then those piercing eyes pop open and John inhales sharply.

The moment stretches out impossibly long, neither of them knowing quite what to say.

"Would you like some curry?" says John.

Sherlock almost laughs, but cuts it short in his throat. His eyes are still smiling. "Would I... like some curry?" He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head down slightly.

"Well, I thought it was a good starting point. Neutral."

"Hmm. I suppose one should always listen to one's inner child," he smirks. "Yes. Yes, I would like some curry."

Even with the somewhat cryptic comment, this is almost normal. This John can handle, eating Indian carry away in their flat. He can almost forget the full day's worth of frantic worrying about his best friend, lying on the sofa, unresponsive.

"Sherlock. Please. Just answer this. Am I meant not to ask what you were up to in there? Because, I think I did the wrong thing, by not spelling out that you can talk to me about any of this."

"That was unnecessary."

"Right, then. Good. I..."

"This is... also, unnecessary."

John felt a surge of anger at the dismissal, but managed to keep it in check. There were more important things at stake than his pride.

Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry, John. That was the wrong thing to say wasn't it?" His head dropped into his hands, and for a moment, John was petrified he would lose him to his Mind Palace yet again. He was relieved to see him look up, though he turned away quickly and grabbed the bowl of curry, picking at it listlessly.

"You don't have to eat it, you know. You did eat yesterday." Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck wrong thing to say entirely, that. They had all eaten some of the goose, as a lark, that morning, before the plane. That's what he meant, not... He considered saying something almost like 'I meant... if you're not hungry... don't feel as if you should eat something... just to make me feel better...even though it does... make me feel better... but...' Thank God he hadn't opened his mouth and started that sentence to nowhere. As it was, the dark flush on his cheeks telegraphed his embarrassment. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't have even picked up on the inappropriateness of his word choice. Not bloody likely.

Sherlock glared at John. "Perhaps I am meant to find solace in not being the only one who has acquired a talent for saying precisely the wrong thing."

"Well, it's, difficult to know what to say to each other right now. But still, a fair bit better than the silence. We don't have to apologise for that. Got it. No harm, no foul."

John relaxed, but Sherlock tensed up.

"A shame it's not all so inconsequential."

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