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Sherlock (BBC) - Deal
Apologies for being behind in comments (again). Now that LJ looks to be back up and running a bit more smoothly, hopefully I will be able to play catch up!
Title: Deal
Genre: Gen, Female!Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,500 words
Spoilers: Slight for Study in Pink
Warnings: Aftermath of violence, discussion of potential non-con
Synopsis: It’s not about gender, it’s about injury.
Author’s Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
schwarze_elster over at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sherlockbbc’s Make Me a Monday, who requested Female!Sherlock.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
“Sherlock, you can’t do this!” John exploded. The pale wrist wrenched free from his grasp and he did not fight it, did not wish to risk tearing open the so recently scabbed over wounds.
“I can do as I please, John,” Sherlock retorted. There was a huff of exasperation and what could have easily been called a flounce of dark curls before a barely audible, “As you well know.”
“Fine, whatever, take it as a challenge if that is what you want, just don’t be so bloody stupid about it,” John replied. He crossed his arms in front of him and watched as his flatmate and friend slowly turned to glare at him, eyes blackened and one already quite swollen.
“I am not stupid,” Sherlock ground out.
“Could have fooled me,” John baited, pleased to have stopped the mad dash off to yet another dangerous mystery before this one had even been fully sorted.
“I am brilliant. I am smarter than the best Scotland Yard has to offer and sure as hell am smarter than some misogynistic ex-Army physician who thinks he knows what’s best for me.” And there is was, the true reason why Sherlock was so upset, all frantic and kinetic energy, not wanting to take the moment so very much needed to deal with the aftermath of something that looked truly horrific, not wanting to risk looking weak in this of all things.
“Misogynistic?” John asked with raised eyebrows. “I have been called many things, most of them accurate to at least some extent, but never that. For someone who values the truth in all things, I have to call into question the validity of that statement.”
The glare was back, but the heat behind it flickered and faded, telling John that even Sherlock did not fully believe the accusation. “What would you call it then?” came the frustrated sigh. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have the same concerns, would be treating me the same if I were male instead of female?”
“Yes,” John answered simply. He noted the ghost of surprise that passed over his friend’s face before the stony façade was back and counted that as a possible success as well. “If you were a man I would still insist that you sit your arse down and let me treat those wounds before they risk infection. If you were a man, I would still tell you how stupid I think it is for you to run off on another quest while you are so clearly exhausted that you can barely see straight. If you were a man, I would still dig out the bottle of cognac your brother keeps replacing and pour you shot after shot until you pass out and get the rest you so clearly need.”
“I’m not a man,” Sherlock sighed. She ran her hands through her mess of curls, the dirt and grime and dried blood standing out in contrast to the pale skin of her fingers. The action tugged on the cuffs of her shirt and exposed the rope burn and abraded skin of her wrists again, and John tried not to twitch too obviously towards the waiting antiseptic.
“Which is why I must admit to an additional concern that likely would not come quite as much to the forefront if you were,” John admitted. At Sherlock’s questioning glance, he gestured towards the missing buttons of her shirt and the way her sensible plain white bra was just as stained as the rest of her. “You were alone, bound, and at least partially incapacitated if the gash on your head is anything to go by. The polite description of the men who took you would be to call them ‘unsavoury’ at best. Common sense dictates that I ask if they attempted something other than roughing you up a bit and, if so, if there are additional injuries that need to be seen to that may not be readily apparent at this time.”
Sherlock blinked a few times at that, possibly not expecting John to come right out and say it and possibly not having considered such implications herself. “The same considerations could and likely should be made for any male that was kept in similar conditions,” she finally said grudgingly.
“True,” John admitted, knowing all too well that it was a common degradation tactic used against prisoners of all genders. “However, very few males would respond to being cut free by kicking one captor in particular repeatedly in the groin with great force and repetition.”
A ghost of a smile graced her features at that. “Threats and nothing more,” she insisted as she began to pace. “Mister Cline in particular seemed most interested in escalating the situation to more than simple words, however,” she reluctantly allowed after far too long of a pause to be purely casual.
“Then Mister Cline may have additional charges brought against him by Inspector Lestrade if you so desire,” a new voice joined the melee.
John inwardly groaned. He had finally been able to make progress with Sherlock, almost to the point of actual medical treatment, so of course her older brother had to make an appearance and set that back.
“Much like your presence, that will not be necessary,” Sherlock advised him tartly.
“You look horrible, truly,” Mycroft commented as though his sister had not said a word. “Do let the good Doctor Watson take a look at those wounds before they scar horrifically and scare Mummy, yes?”
Sherlock really looked as though she was ready to beat her own brother with his ever-present umbrella, and John was not certain he wished to stop her. He did, however, prevent her from reaching his medical kit and the suturing needle within, not wishing to see the effects of such an item jammed into the eye socket of an adult male. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson would have a fit at the mess.
“Why are you here, Mycroft? It is obviously not to spread good cheer and I have already had quite enough of the pleasure of your company,” Sherlock commented. Even John did not miss the way her eyes darted about to look for another possible weapon.
Mycroft stopped her before she could get her hands on the broom that had been left in the corner of the kitchen by stepping soundly in her way. “I am here out of concern for my little sister,” he insisted with the forced and possible false sincerity that set John’s teeth on edge. When he received matching doubting expressions for his troubles, Mycroft amended, “And possibly to inform you that it would easy enough to arrange for Mister Cline and his associates to have a horrible accident on their way to detention should you so desire. The roads these days, you know how dangerous they can be.” He smiled pleasantly at the end and for a moment John truly could see the over-protective big brother in the meddlesome bureaucrat before him.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock assured him, though even John could hear the hint of hesitation to her tone. He briefly wondered if she had overheard Lestrade and his wishes towards the men’s fates while shoving off Donovan’s concern.
Mycroft sighed dramatically and said, “Very well then. I shall say my goodbyes and offer another bottle should you two finish the one in the cupboard this evening.” He stepped towards the door but turned back around to offer, “Oh, and Sherlock? Do not worry yourself with the little Monteblau case that so recently found its way to your doorstep as it is already settled. Rather disappointing and cliché, really: the butler did it.”
Sherlock frowned, either at having the case pulled out from under her or the mundane solution. Now she had no excuse to run off and would possibly acquiesce to John’s insistence upon medical attention. He might even get her to pass out enough to rest, something she so desperately needed but likely just as desperately did not crave.
Before Mycroft disappeared completely, he ducked his head back in and, with possibly the most sincerity John had ever seen the man express, requested, “Do try to stay safe? At least for the night?”
Sherlock nodded slightly in his direction in recognition of his concern. “I will try my best,” she promised.
“That’s all I can really ask,” Mycroft replied. After one last lingering look at his damaged sibling, he was gone.
John watched him go and watched the way Sherlock’s shoulders drooped ever so slightly at his departure. “Drink?” he offered, moving towards the kitchen and the cupboard in question. “If you hold it to your head I’ll pretend it’s an ice pack and that I’m not offering alcohol to a possibly concussed woman.”
Sherlock snorted at that, and finally sat down at the table with all the supplies laid out in neat little rows. She reached for some gauze and the bottle of antiseptic and even smiled as she said, “Deal.”
Feedback is always welcomed.
Title: Deal
Genre: Gen, Female!Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1,500 words
Spoilers: Slight for Study in Pink
Warnings: Aftermath of violence, discussion of potential non-con
Synopsis: It’s not about gender, it’s about injury.
Author’s Notes: For
schwarze_elster over at sherlockbbc’s Make Me a Monday, who requested Female!Sherlock.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
“Sherlock, you can’t do this!” John exploded. The pale wrist wrenched free from his grasp and he did not fight it, did not wish to risk tearing open the so recently scabbed over wounds.
“I can do as I please, John,” Sherlock retorted. There was a huff of exasperation and what could have easily been called a flounce of dark curls before a barely audible, “As you well know.”
“Fine, whatever, take it as a challenge if that is what you want, just don’t be so bloody stupid about it,” John replied. He crossed his arms in front of him and watched as his flatmate and friend slowly turned to glare at him, eyes blackened and one already quite swollen.
“I am not stupid,” Sherlock ground out.
“Could have fooled me,” John baited, pleased to have stopped the mad dash off to yet another dangerous mystery before this one had even been fully sorted.
“I am brilliant. I am smarter than the best Scotland Yard has to offer and sure as hell am smarter than some misogynistic ex-Army physician who thinks he knows what’s best for me.” And there is was, the true reason why Sherlock was so upset, all frantic and kinetic energy, not wanting to take the moment so very much needed to deal with the aftermath of something that looked truly horrific, not wanting to risk looking weak in this of all things.
“Misogynistic?” John asked with raised eyebrows. “I have been called many things, most of them accurate to at least some extent, but never that. For someone who values the truth in all things, I have to call into question the validity of that statement.”
The glare was back, but the heat behind it flickered and faded, telling John that even Sherlock did not fully believe the accusation. “What would you call it then?” came the frustrated sigh. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have the same concerns, would be treating me the same if I were male instead of female?”
“Yes,” John answered simply. He noted the ghost of surprise that passed over his friend’s face before the stony façade was back and counted that as a possible success as well. “If you were a man I would still insist that you sit your arse down and let me treat those wounds before they risk infection. If you were a man, I would still tell you how stupid I think it is for you to run off on another quest while you are so clearly exhausted that you can barely see straight. If you were a man, I would still dig out the bottle of cognac your brother keeps replacing and pour you shot after shot until you pass out and get the rest you so clearly need.”
“I’m not a man,” Sherlock sighed. She ran her hands through her mess of curls, the dirt and grime and dried blood standing out in contrast to the pale skin of her fingers. The action tugged on the cuffs of her shirt and exposed the rope burn and abraded skin of her wrists again, and John tried not to twitch too obviously towards the waiting antiseptic.
“Which is why I must admit to an additional concern that likely would not come quite as much to the forefront if you were,” John admitted. At Sherlock’s questioning glance, he gestured towards the missing buttons of her shirt and the way her sensible plain white bra was just as stained as the rest of her. “You were alone, bound, and at least partially incapacitated if the gash on your head is anything to go by. The polite description of the men who took you would be to call them ‘unsavoury’ at best. Common sense dictates that I ask if they attempted something other than roughing you up a bit and, if so, if there are additional injuries that need to be seen to that may not be readily apparent at this time.”
Sherlock blinked a few times at that, possibly not expecting John to come right out and say it and possibly not having considered such implications herself. “The same considerations could and likely should be made for any male that was kept in similar conditions,” she finally said grudgingly.
“True,” John admitted, knowing all too well that it was a common degradation tactic used against prisoners of all genders. “However, very few males would respond to being cut free by kicking one captor in particular repeatedly in the groin with great force and repetition.”
A ghost of a smile graced her features at that. “Threats and nothing more,” she insisted as she began to pace. “Mister Cline in particular seemed most interested in escalating the situation to more than simple words, however,” she reluctantly allowed after far too long of a pause to be purely casual.
“Then Mister Cline may have additional charges brought against him by Inspector Lestrade if you so desire,” a new voice joined the melee.
John inwardly groaned. He had finally been able to make progress with Sherlock, almost to the point of actual medical treatment, so of course her older brother had to make an appearance and set that back.
“Much like your presence, that will not be necessary,” Sherlock advised him tartly.
“You look horrible, truly,” Mycroft commented as though his sister had not said a word. “Do let the good Doctor Watson take a look at those wounds before they scar horrifically and scare Mummy, yes?”
Sherlock really looked as though she was ready to beat her own brother with his ever-present umbrella, and John was not certain he wished to stop her. He did, however, prevent her from reaching his medical kit and the suturing needle within, not wishing to see the effects of such an item jammed into the eye socket of an adult male. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson would have a fit at the mess.
“Why are you here, Mycroft? It is obviously not to spread good cheer and I have already had quite enough of the pleasure of your company,” Sherlock commented. Even John did not miss the way her eyes darted about to look for another possible weapon.
Mycroft stopped her before she could get her hands on the broom that had been left in the corner of the kitchen by stepping soundly in her way. “I am here out of concern for my little sister,” he insisted with the forced and possible false sincerity that set John’s teeth on edge. When he received matching doubting expressions for his troubles, Mycroft amended, “And possibly to inform you that it would easy enough to arrange for Mister Cline and his associates to have a horrible accident on their way to detention should you so desire. The roads these days, you know how dangerous they can be.” He smiled pleasantly at the end and for a moment John truly could see the over-protective big brother in the meddlesome bureaucrat before him.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock assured him, though even John could hear the hint of hesitation to her tone. He briefly wondered if she had overheard Lestrade and his wishes towards the men’s fates while shoving off Donovan’s concern.
Mycroft sighed dramatically and said, “Very well then. I shall say my goodbyes and offer another bottle should you two finish the one in the cupboard this evening.” He stepped towards the door but turned back around to offer, “Oh, and Sherlock? Do not worry yourself with the little Monteblau case that so recently found its way to your doorstep as it is already settled. Rather disappointing and cliché, really: the butler did it.”
Sherlock frowned, either at having the case pulled out from under her or the mundane solution. Now she had no excuse to run off and would possibly acquiesce to John’s insistence upon medical attention. He might even get her to pass out enough to rest, something she so desperately needed but likely just as desperately did not crave.
Before Mycroft disappeared completely, he ducked his head back in and, with possibly the most sincerity John had ever seen the man express, requested, “Do try to stay safe? At least for the night?”
Sherlock nodded slightly in his direction in recognition of his concern. “I will try my best,” she promised.
“That’s all I can really ask,” Mycroft replied. After one last lingering look at his damaged sibling, he was gone.
John watched him go and watched the way Sherlock’s shoulders drooped ever so slightly at his departure. “Drink?” he offered, moving towards the kitchen and the cupboard in question. “If you hold it to your head I’ll pretend it’s an ice pack and that I’m not offering alcohol to a possibly concussed woman.”
Sherlock snorted at that, and finally sat down at the table with all the supplies laid out in neat little rows. She reached for some gauze and the bottle of antiseptic and even smiled as she said, “Deal.”
Feedback is always welcomed.