An actual fic. Surprising.

[limpbiskit.livejournal.com]

Yes, it's been a while since I actually done anything. So don't expect much.

Title: Mortal Mechanation.
Author: LimpBiskit
Series: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Warnings: Cursing, Injury and a touch of slashiness.

Just a little oneshot for my good buddy Moony. Because she has been very patient and I have produced exactly nothing to show for it. Her prompt: "Give me your hand, I want you to feel this."






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"Sherlock! If you're- Dammit, Sherlock!"



Hm. John sounded particularly put out today, he mused. For some reason, it seemed like he should formulate some type of response, but he was so very warm and comfortable..



And why not? The case was done, the suspect lying spreadeagle in the street only a few steps away from the entrance to the Underground that would have carried him away into anonymity had he reached it-



But why was John shaking him like that? He was usually so proper, always maintaining what he saw as a fitting distance between them. Sherlock could clearly feel the pressure of fingertips through the material of his coat, the sensation almost as painful as the burning tingle in his back...



Still, he was content enough, though he felt that the lights could perhaps flash less brightly, or that the people who insisted on commenting could keep their voices to something of a dull roar. Perhaps one of them could have loaned their umbrella as well, since the warm drops that struck his upturned face were less than pleasant as they trickled behind his ears to wet the collar of his shirt.



He frowned at the chill against his skin, annoyed that his comfort was disturbed. Now that he was denied his relaxation, he supposed he may as well get on with the rest of his night-



Or rather, he would, if he had been able to stand. Or able to move at all, really.



Curious.



And now John's hands were replaced by a multitude of others, all intent on causing him as much discomfort as possible, based on the sharp bolts that fired along his spine with each clumsy lurch of movement. Resigning himself to innumerable indignities, he allowed himself to drift into a place somewhere between dreaming and recollection, the image of headlights filling his most recent memories...



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John could have screamed from sheer frustrated rage, if it weren't for the presence of several critically ill people in the vicinity.



Why did someone who professed to be the most intelligent person in the known world persist in doing such thoughtless things? Did he presume that the laws of reality would simply ignore the fact that Sherlock Holmes was a mortal man like any other, allowing him to cheat death again and again until he was satisfied?



The urge to slap the man surfaced with alarming quickness, and he rose from his seat before the impulse could became fact. He wanted at least to wait until the other regained sufficient consciousness to benefit from the act. He made his way to the hospital cafeteria, hoping that the premade tea would settle his churning stomach. Why in the seven Hells did he put up with it? This went completely beyond the need to experience some kind of meaningful danger, so why did he still feel as though he would forgive anything to hear his name called over the PA system in a request to please return to the detective's room at once?



It was insanity of the worst kind.



If he took a moment to think his motives over in an unbiased manner, he could see that his admiration had sidestepped into something dangerously approaching infatuation, and the object of his affections was the worst possible choice for such things. The man was infuriatingly singleminded when it came to things he considered pointless, and love was most likely number one on his list of useless things.



In retrospect, he was probably just as much a fool as the focus of his attraction. Why else would he continue to play the part of the bumbling assistant, sometime bodyguard and general sounding board to the most ungrateful being on the face of the Earth?



Remembering the unnatural angle of the brunette's body on the pavement, he shuddered. A few feet further and he would have joined their quarry beneath the wheels of the bus, rather than simply being struck and thrown when the vehicle has careened sideways. As a doctor, John was amazed that someone so thin could withstand the force of such a double blow, but as a fellow mortal he could only be grateful.



He felt his pulse speeding with recalled fear, the pounding in his ears drowning out the crackle of the room's overhead speaker until someone nudged his shoulder.



Turning to glance at the woman beside him, he attempted to smile politely. "I'm sorry, Miss...?"



She returned his smile quickly, nodding toward his visitor's badge. "You're being paged. I thought you might not have heard, it seems like your mind was a million miles away."



He laughed shortly, shaking his head. "It was. Thank you for letting me know." Sighing, he returned to the nurse's station, waiting patiently until the receptionist noted his presence. "Sorry, I was called a moment ago?"



She scowled briefly, gesturing down the hall. "Mr. Holmes is awake. He... requested we send for you right away."



Her tone spoke volumes on the nature of the detective's request, so he shrugged sheepishly. "He's probably wanting to go home. I'll see about his release instructions and his forms when I come back." Following the corridor to the man's room, he steeled himself against the return of his futile anger. There would be time to express his displeasure when there were far less witnesses.



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The first thing Sherlock noticed was the dull scarlet of his flatmate's face, a clear indication that he was in for a spell of tedious lecturing and condemnation. Attempting to look contrite, he wondered how long he would need to get the milk before the whole thing blew over.



Before he could greet the blonde, he found himself almost nose to nose with him, his eyes widening at the unexpected closeness.



"What the streaking fuck were you thinking, Sherlock? Didn't anyone ever teach you that we don't chase things into midtown traffic?" He didn't wait for a reply, his voice lowering ominously. "Do you have any idea how close you came to being killed? How it felt to watch it happen and be able to do nothing but wonder if you would even know what hit you? Christ!" He forced his hands to open with obvious effort, the marks of his nails stinging as the air wafted over the cuts left behind. "We would have caught him anyway, you great twat. Lestrade and his team were already at the damned platform after I rang to tell him that we'd found the killer! I would have told you that if you'd given me ten fucking seconds!"



The detective's alarmed face somehow increased his rage, the knowledge that he had never considered the possibility leaving him shivering with the abject need to drive his point home, violently if necessary. "You never give anyone time! You expect us all to simply beam the words into your brilliant head without having to stop what you're doing to listen! I'm done, d'you hear me? No more haring off without a second thought, no more dodging trolleys and no more thinking that this time you've surely cashed it in!"



He was out of breath by the time he finished his declaration, his breath coming in shaky gasps as he watched the younger man's eyes narrow speculatively.



"John, you should sit down before you fall down. People tend to faint when they turn that particular color." Sherlock sighed at the other's mulish expression, waving a hand tiredly. "As you like, then. Don't blame me if you aquaint yourself with the floor." He pushed himself upright, adjusting the bed with practiced ease. "Firstly, I was thinking that it would be a shame if the fellow decided to take a hostage on the run. It was hardly farfetched, considering his utter disregard of human life." He ignored the older man's meaningful snort, raising an eyebrow. "Secondly, telepathy is completely ridiculous. You should know I expect no such conviniences. Finally, I've always known that I will 'cash it in', as you call it, alone. You were there, hence, no danger."



The doctor's astonished look made him smirk, and he shifted higher with a wince. "I assume that I'll be ordered to rest up once we get back to the flat. Are they going to let you arrange for my discharge, or do we need to make a fuss?"



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Blinking is disbelief, John leaned dangerously close. "Did you even hear what I said? I'm telling you that I'm not going to let you take anymore stupid risks. That includes not helping you leave the sodding hospital before the doctors think you're ready!" He grabbed the man's hand roughly, jerking it up to his chest. "Here, I want you to feel this. It's what we normal people call a heartbeat. It does that because we're alive. If you'd been struck just a little harder in the spine, your aorta would likely have torn, leaving you to bleed to death before anything could have helped you. Like it or not, you're just as human as the rest of us, Sherlock."



He would have continued, but the detective shook him off with a scowl. "I understood you perfectly, without the lesson in basic anatomy. You won't take me home unless I allow the staff here to poke and prod me to their heart's content, assuring you that I don't have some hidden injury." Rolling his eyes, he nodded. "Send in the clowns, then. You can finish your rant when we're home. Mrs. Hudson's used to the little domestics by now."



He laughed at the blonde's continued surprise, reaching over to press he call button himself when the other did not. "I'll try to be more 'careful' in the future, if it makes you feel better. After all, you have a horrid bedside manner. I would have to be an idiot to keep doing things that would require you to play nursemaid, yes?"



Hearing the sound of footsteps approaching, he settled back against the bed with an air of inevitibility. "And for God's sake, don't stop to call Lestrade when you're that far behind me. You know their response time is appalling." The doctor's indignant sound went unacknowledged as he took hold of his hand firmly, pulling him in for the quickest brush of lips in history. "And in the future, you could save time by simply saying 'I love you'. Then I could repeat the sentiment and be done with it." He drew the other man's palm upward to press against the center of his chest, smiling faintly when his dazed eyes widened at the gesture.



"There, see? I'm alive. And I'll stay that way as long as you're with me." He released the man with a short laugh, waving him back as the door opened. "Let's see if your esteemed colleagues feel that I'm well enough to sit in for your advanced anatomy lesson, shall we?"



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There it is. Hope it didn't kill anyone.