Fanfic: Goethe Before
Nov. 9th, 2011 07:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverSo, a long time ago (January) I placed myself up for auction at Help Queensland, and then had a massive case of writer's block that's lasted until, well, now. However, I have finally pummeled my brain into completing those fics. Therefore, without making poor ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marill_chan wait any longer, I give to you her Sherlock fic. Enjoy!
Title: Goethe Before
Author: Piplover
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1258
Summary: Sherlock was always very graceful. Until he's not.
Warning: none
Author's Note: Fluff. Pure fluff. With some h/c for good measure.
The fall was spectacular, even by Sherlock’s standards. He prided himself on being graceful and well coordinated, but even he had to admit he had his clumsy moments. The time he tripped over his shoe laces at age nine, for example, was one of his better efforts.
But this…
In a distant corner of his mind, he was almost proud to have witnesses to such an unprecedented show of flailing limbs and undignified squawks.
For John and Lestrade, it was a unique chance to watch their friend go arse over teakettle.
***
“I’m fine!” Sherlock protested, scowling as his words had the same effect they had the previous times he had uttered them. None at all. “Ogden is getting away this minute, Lestrade!” he tried, hoping that perhaps a different tact would produce a new result.
“Then we’ll just have to track him down again, won’t we?” Lestrade asked genially, a smirk playing around his lips as he maneuvered Sherlock’s large frame, with John’s help, into the nearest chair.
The waiting room was predictably nearly empty on a Thursday evening. The only two occupants, besides Sherlock and his entourage, were an elderly woman and her granddaughter (going by the shoes and charm bracelet) huddled on the other side of the room. The little girl was curled up in the woman’s lap, absently sucking on her thumb as she gazed listlessly around the room with fever bright eyes as her grandmother watched the three men, mildly curios.
Sherlock scowled at her, trying not to wince as Lestrade and John removed their supporting arms from around his shoulders, absently holding his right arm closer to his bruised ribs.
“Why am I here?” he demanded, turning his fierce expression on Lestrade, as John had abandoned them to talk to the receptionist and fill out the paperwork. “I live with a doctor, I don’t need to be here.”
“Because you took a spectacular tumble, well done, by the way, and fell down two flights of stairs. Even if nothing is broken, you need to get checked out to make sure you’re not bleeding internally or something.” At Sherlock’s continued scowl, Lestrade added, “And John thinks you busted your foot, so here we are. Deal with it.”
“I really hate you, Greg,” Sherlock said, sinking back into his chair to await John’s return.
“Back atcha.”
***
His foot was not broken, only strained, and perhaps a bit pulled, but not broken. The boot was entirely unnecessary, in Sherlock’s opinion. A black monstrosity that seemed to weigh at least a stone and made a dull clunking noise as he navigated the stairs.
He studiously ignored John’s presence behind him, as it had been his insistence that he wear the monstrosity in the first place.
“This or crutches, Sherlock,” John had said, arms crossed over his chest as the doctor on call watched them with amusement.
Sherlock had scowled and given in, knowing it was the most expedient way to get out of that hellhole and return home. Expedient being relevant, as the case turned out. It had taken close to three hours to be fitted for the dratted thing before being released with a heavier pain killer than was available over the counter and orders to rest.
Now, navigating his way up the stairs, John hovering just behind him, his only wish was to settle on the couch and not move for a few days. Possibly even a week.
“John, although I’m grateful for your concern, I think I’ve reached my quota for falling down stairs in a single day,” he finally snapped, grimacing as his attempted stomp resulted in more pain than he was willing to admit to. His hand rested against the wall as he fought to keep his composure.
“Of course,” John murmured, his voice holding the particular tone that Sherlock had come to associate with long married husbands appeasing their wives. “Once we get inside, sit down and I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I’m not an invalid!” Sherlock growled, limping with as much dignity as he could muster up the final steps and entering the flat with an internal sigh of gratitude.
“I didn’t say you were,” John agreed, steering Sherlock to the couch with a hand to his lower back. “There’s some Chinese left over from yesterday, I’ll heat that up and you can have some of your pills. Get settled, and for God’s sake, elevate that foot. You can take the boot off while you’re resting.”
Sherlock scowled at his friend’s back, but dutifully did as he was told. Although he may chafe at the orders, he did understand the need for them, and gratefully removed the boot with a sigh.
His ankle was starting to turn a horrendous shade of purplish blue, swollen around the bone and his upper foot. It was tender to the touch, and he grimaced as he arranged his long body lengthwise on the couch, tucking a pillow beneath his foot.
“Oh, that looks painful,” John said as he came back into the room, plate of greasy food and cup of tea clutched in his hands. “Sit up a bit and get some of this inside you.”
“I’m really not feeling particularly hungry,” Sherlock admitted, eyeing the food dubiously.
“Just have a bit. Trust me, you don’t want to take these pills on an empty stomach,” John warned.
Sherlock grumbled as he wiggled and shifted, trying to ignore the pain which was slowly becoming more pronounced, and settled once more with his back against the arm of the couch and the plate in his lap.
John took his usual seat by the fireplace, sipping from his own cup of tea as he turned on the telly and started flipping through the channels, watching form the corner of his eye as Sherlock nibbled at his food.
Only after a decent amount had been eaten did he stand up, retrieving the prescription bottle from the kitchen and doling out the medicine with a fond smile.
“They’ll make you sleepy,” he warned as Sherlock swallowed them with the last of his tea, handing his mug to John without comment.
“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes as he waited for the slight nausea to pass and the pain to ease, easing his length down the couch until he comfortable.
It wasn’t long before the drowsy, floating feeling he had come to associate with pharmaceuticals began to leaden his limbs.
“Scoot down a bit,” John murmured off to his side, and then gentle hands were repositioning his leg, covering him with a blanket and taking his temperature.
Sherlock blinked sleepily, finding himself smiling dopily at John’s amused expression.
“Get some sleep,” John laughed, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “I doubt you’ll be feeling any pain for a while.”
“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asked, his words slurring slightly as he fought for a few more minutes of lucidity.
“Watch telly, have another cup of tea, and watch you drool. It will be amazing,” John answered, running his hand along Sherlock’s cheek before leaning over to kiss him gently on the forehead. “Now go to sleep, you’re high.”
“Am not,” Sherlock said, but there was no heat to his words, and within moments he was drifting off, warm and safe in the knowledge that John was there to watch over him.
A sudden thought occurred to him just before sleep descended, and he struggled valiantly to open his eyes and glare at John.
“No pictures!”
John’s laugh, familiar and warm, followed him down.
marill_chan wait any longer, I give to you her Sherlock fic. Enjoy! Title: Goethe Before
Author: Piplover
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1258
Summary: Sherlock was always very graceful. Until he's not.
Warning: none
Author's Note: Fluff. Pure fluff. With some h/c for good measure.
The fall was spectacular, even by Sherlock’s standards. He prided himself on being graceful and well coordinated, but even he had to admit he had his clumsy moments. The time he tripped over his shoe laces at age nine, for example, was one of his better efforts.
But this…
In a distant corner of his mind, he was almost proud to have witnesses to such an unprecedented show of flailing limbs and undignified squawks.
For John and Lestrade, it was a unique chance to watch their friend go arse over teakettle.
***
“I’m fine!” Sherlock protested, scowling as his words had the same effect they had the previous times he had uttered them. None at all. “Ogden is getting away this minute, Lestrade!” he tried, hoping that perhaps a different tact would produce a new result.
“Then we’ll just have to track him down again, won’t we?” Lestrade asked genially, a smirk playing around his lips as he maneuvered Sherlock’s large frame, with John’s help, into the nearest chair.
The waiting room was predictably nearly empty on a Thursday evening. The only two occupants, besides Sherlock and his entourage, were an elderly woman and her granddaughter (going by the shoes and charm bracelet) huddled on the other side of the room. The little girl was curled up in the woman’s lap, absently sucking on her thumb as she gazed listlessly around the room with fever bright eyes as her grandmother watched the three men, mildly curios.
Sherlock scowled at her, trying not to wince as Lestrade and John removed their supporting arms from around his shoulders, absently holding his right arm closer to his bruised ribs.
“Why am I here?” he demanded, turning his fierce expression on Lestrade, as John had abandoned them to talk to the receptionist and fill out the paperwork. “I live with a doctor, I don’t need to be here.”
“Because you took a spectacular tumble, well done, by the way, and fell down two flights of stairs. Even if nothing is broken, you need to get checked out to make sure you’re not bleeding internally or something.” At Sherlock’s continued scowl, Lestrade added, “And John thinks you busted your foot, so here we are. Deal with it.”
“I really hate you, Greg,” Sherlock said, sinking back into his chair to await John’s return.
“Back atcha.”
***
His foot was not broken, only strained, and perhaps a bit pulled, but not broken. The boot was entirely unnecessary, in Sherlock’s opinion. A black monstrosity that seemed to weigh at least a stone and made a dull clunking noise as he navigated the stairs.
He studiously ignored John’s presence behind him, as it had been his insistence that he wear the monstrosity in the first place.
“This or crutches, Sherlock,” John had said, arms crossed over his chest as the doctor on call watched them with amusement.
Sherlock had scowled and given in, knowing it was the most expedient way to get out of that hellhole and return home. Expedient being relevant, as the case turned out. It had taken close to three hours to be fitted for the dratted thing before being released with a heavier pain killer than was available over the counter and orders to rest.
Now, navigating his way up the stairs, John hovering just behind him, his only wish was to settle on the couch and not move for a few days. Possibly even a week.
“John, although I’m grateful for your concern, I think I’ve reached my quota for falling down stairs in a single day,” he finally snapped, grimacing as his attempted stomp resulted in more pain than he was willing to admit to. His hand rested against the wall as he fought to keep his composure.
“Of course,” John murmured, his voice holding the particular tone that Sherlock had come to associate with long married husbands appeasing their wives. “Once we get inside, sit down and I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I’m not an invalid!” Sherlock growled, limping with as much dignity as he could muster up the final steps and entering the flat with an internal sigh of gratitude.
“I didn’t say you were,” John agreed, steering Sherlock to the couch with a hand to his lower back. “There’s some Chinese left over from yesterday, I’ll heat that up and you can have some of your pills. Get settled, and for God’s sake, elevate that foot. You can take the boot off while you’re resting.”
Sherlock scowled at his friend’s back, but dutifully did as he was told. Although he may chafe at the orders, he did understand the need for them, and gratefully removed the boot with a sigh.
His ankle was starting to turn a horrendous shade of purplish blue, swollen around the bone and his upper foot. It was tender to the touch, and he grimaced as he arranged his long body lengthwise on the couch, tucking a pillow beneath his foot.
“Oh, that looks painful,” John said as he came back into the room, plate of greasy food and cup of tea clutched in his hands. “Sit up a bit and get some of this inside you.”
“I’m really not feeling particularly hungry,” Sherlock admitted, eyeing the food dubiously.
“Just have a bit. Trust me, you don’t want to take these pills on an empty stomach,” John warned.
Sherlock grumbled as he wiggled and shifted, trying to ignore the pain which was slowly becoming more pronounced, and settled once more with his back against the arm of the couch and the plate in his lap.
John took his usual seat by the fireplace, sipping from his own cup of tea as he turned on the telly and started flipping through the channels, watching form the corner of his eye as Sherlock nibbled at his food.
Only after a decent amount had been eaten did he stand up, retrieving the prescription bottle from the kitchen and doling out the medicine with a fond smile.
“They’ll make you sleepy,” he warned as Sherlock swallowed them with the last of his tea, handing his mug to John without comment.
“Hmm,” Sherlock agreed, closing his eyes as he waited for the slight nausea to pass and the pain to ease, easing his length down the couch until he comfortable.
It wasn’t long before the drowsy, floating feeling he had come to associate with pharmaceuticals began to leaden his limbs.
“Scoot down a bit,” John murmured off to his side, and then gentle hands were repositioning his leg, covering him with a blanket and taking his temperature.
Sherlock blinked sleepily, finding himself smiling dopily at John’s amused expression.
“Get some sleep,” John laughed, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “I doubt you’ll be feeling any pain for a while.”
“What are you going to do?” Sherlock asked, his words slurring slightly as he fought for a few more minutes of lucidity.
“Watch telly, have another cup of tea, and watch you drool. It will be amazing,” John answered, running his hand along Sherlock’s cheek before leaning over to kiss him gently on the forehead. “Now go to sleep, you’re high.”
“Am not,” Sherlock said, but there was no heat to his words, and within moments he was drifting off, warm and safe in the knowledge that John was there to watch over him.
A sudden thought occurred to him just before sleep descended, and he struggled valiantly to open his eyes and glare at John.
“No pictures!”
John’s laugh, familiar and warm, followed him down.