January 2011

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Thursday, January 6th, 2011 11:02 pm
Story: Bored
Author: The If-I-Stick-My-Fingers-In-My-Ears-And-Go-LALALALALA-Will-All-The-Bad-Stuff-Go-Away? [personal profile] loveslashangst
Beta: the buried-under-felines-because-it’s-COLD [personal profile] ophymirage
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson
Rated: R for fluffy mature content, sexually suggestive thoughts and behaviour, language, references to drugs and drug use, mild med-fetishism. Also rated SC for “Serious Crack”.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, I just play with them for my (and your) amusement.
Spoilers: I pretty much assume that you’ve seen all three episodes of the new “Sherlock”. This is also unrelated to any of my other Sherlock fic.
Summary: Sherlock is bored. John proposes a solution. Literally.

Author's and Beta's Note:

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock, in all your incarnations. May you always get exactly the Watson you need most."



Sherlock is bored.

It happens. He admits this, though completely denies that he should need to “accept that it happens," as Mycroft used to point out sententiously. Thoughts of Mycroft make him sniff disdainfully. He squidges his toes against the armrest of the sofa and nestles down deeper, his fingers steepled beneath his nose.

John is typing. Slowly. Two-fingers, hunt-and-peck, as if he were some reject who never finished his A-levels, let alone med school. Blogging again. Ridiculous waste of time, though Sherlock’s long since abandoned any hope of talking sense into his flatmate.

Sherlock looks up at the ceiling, reads the stains there like tea leaves, and heaves a deep and mournful sigh.

John stops typing for a moment -- surely he recognizes his cue to do something entertaining -- but then he continues pecking away. Boring. Boring. Boring.

Sherlock sighs again, even more loudly.

"You, erm, you want something for that?" says John, voice casual.

When he glances over, the doctor’s eyes are still on the screen, his index fingers still cocked and ready for the next peck.

"For what?" Sherlock asks.

"The boredom,” John says. Peck. Peck. Peckpeckpeck. “I AM a doctor, you know."

Hope flares, then fizzles at the ludicrousness of the offer. "There aren’t any prescription medications to cure boredom."

John shrugs, dismissive. "Suit yourself. Just thought I'd offer."

Peck peck. Peck. Peckpeckpeck. How can that man get ANYTHING done with such glacially miserable typing skills?

Sherlock determinedly and pointedly turns on his side, putting his back to John. Honestly, the stupid suggestions the man comes up with. As though he’s more bored than Sherlock.

Peck. Peck. Peck.

Sherlock’s index finger is tapping against his knee in time with every keystroke. Bugger it. "There simply isn't! I mean, assuming that such a thing weren't medically laughable and chemically impossible, I certainly would have heard of it if someone were even capable of inventing it.” He flops partway over. “And Mycroft would've brought it to my attention. If only out of sheer self-defense."

John gives a noncommittal shrug. Peck. Peckpeck. Peck. Peck.

The possibility has taken hold of his brain and now won’t leave off. Possibly some manipulation of the serotonin levels of the brain? Surely boredom and depression must be kissing cousins. And he supposes that licensed physicians, especially those in service to Her Majesty’s army, might have access to…

Intrigued, Sherlock sits up. "Oral?"

Startled, John looks up. "What?"

He smirks at his flatmate. "The medication, doctor. Oral or intravenous? I wasn't offering to suck you off."

John gives him an unnervingly measuring look. Sherlock’s not used to being evaluated like this. Whatever John sees makes a frown tug at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea."

Sherlock leans his forearms on his knees, determined to pursue it, now that he’s being denied. “Oral or intravenous?" he repeats.

John cocks his head, considering. "It hasn't been officially approved."

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him. "I used to shoot up street drugs, John, government approval can get buggered."

John heaves a reluctant sigh. Shuts the laptop. Reaches down for his med kit.

Sherlock tries to play it cool, but if he’s honest, he’s watching every move.

With another reluctant exhale, John pulls up a stool and his best bedside manner. "It sets in quickly. You should notice the change instantly."

He looks into John’s eyes. Sees only the honest man he’s come to rely on. Whatever John’s about, it’s nothing threatening. He rolls up his sleeve. Lays his bared arm down, veins exposed. Looks expectantly at John.

His breath catches when John leans in. Brushes smooth fingers over the scarred tracks along the vein, testing. Nods decisively to himself.

John’s touch is feather-light. Ticklish and delicate against the skin of his forearm. A ghost of a flush heats Sherlock’s cheeks.

John reaches into the case and withdraws a very large syringe.

And the liquid in the cylinder is unmistakable. "That's bloody saline."

John’s eyes never waver. He flicks the side of the syringe, bleeding off air. "Is it?"

He waits. John holds his gaze, face neutral, eyes serious. Sherlock’s curiosity gets the better of his logic and he relents. “Fine, he says. “It's magic anti-boredom serum."

John neatly and professionally administers the shot. The needle slides in so smoothly Sherlock can hardly feel it.

He breathes out in a moment of bliss, anticipating. Then the familiar taste expresses outward through the pores in the roof of his mouth. Salt, almost ocean. He glares, furious. "It WAS bloody saline! You LIAR!"

John dispassionately disposes of the paraphernalia. Reaches into the bag, and comes out with something he’s folding into Sherlock’s hand. "Are you still bored?"

He can’t be serious. “No, but--“

John kisses his forehead in benediction as he stands. “Works pretty well, doesn't it?"

Sherlock gapes at the cherry-flavored lolly in his fingers.



Crossposted as usual to [profile] 221b_slash, [community profile] sherlockbbc

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