Glass: Reader Requests

The Game Aslant

A role reversal/subverted character AU.

for shezzaspeare

Prologue

The therapist watched as her patient sat opposite her, his fingers picking at the arm of the leather chair. She had been waiting for him to speak, observing the way his eyes trailed around the quiet room, glancing through the window every so often to the greenery outside. But his gaze never settled, and his mouth never opened.

"How's your blog going?" she finally asked, breaking the silence.

"Yeah, good." He looked across to her and cleared his throat. "Very good."

"You haven't written a word, have you?"

He pointed to the notepad in her lap. "You just wrote 'still has trust issues'..."

"And you read my writing upside down. Do you see what I mean?"

He smiled awkwardly, crossing one leg over the other.

"Sherlock," she sighed. "You were in an accident that almost killed you. You lost your job, you have PTSD. It's going to take a while to adjust to this new life; and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

"Nothing happens to me."

♫ Opening Titles - David Arnold, Michael Price

The Game Aslant

Sherlock woke in a sweat, his chest heaving as the sounds of his nightmare still echoed in his mind - glass shattering, sirens blaring, people shouting his name. The flashbacks no longer plagued his waking mind. But in sleep, they still found their way in.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, slowing his breathing to ease the panic in his chest. The morning sun was fighting its way through the curtains, and he knew there was little chance he would be able to drift off again. So instead, he got up and pulled them open, squinting as his eyes adjusted to light.

He took off his T-shirt and threw it to the ground, shrugging on a fresh shirt and turning to the mirror as he buttoned it up. His eyes fell on the scar just below his chest; it had softened with time, paled to a silvery pink that would catch the light with a subtle sheen. But no matter how much it faded, how painless and unnoticeable it became, all it took was a glance or a slight touch for the panic to pour back into his lungs.

Once dressed, he made his way down the hall and sat at the kitchen table. It was covered in academic journals and research papers, diagrams of anatomy and medical equipment. The place was always a mess, the evidence of his flat mate's thought processes strewn across their home like a trail of breadcrumbs.

He slid some things aside, making a small space for his laptop amongst the chaos, and opened it, the screen coming to life with the homepage of his website.

The Personal Blog of Sherlock Holmes.

He cracked his knuckles and began to type.

Not long after, he heard the rumbling of the stairs. An offbeat tread and the clacking of metal against the floorboards. He peeled his eyes away from the screen to see John hobble into the room, resting his weight on his cane and grumbling as if the journey from his bedroom to the kitchen had already put him in a bad mood.