so I got bored and made a Moriarty-centric blog
all adaptations, especially BBC, Granada, Ritchie and Elementary will be posted
I love my darling baby psychopath <3
so I got bored and made a Moriarty-centric blog
all adaptations, especially BBC, Granada, Ritchie and Elementary will be posted
I love my darling baby psychopath <3
(Oh stawp it you ;) Thank you so much! This one took forever to write because Mycroft refused to do what I told him. Anyway, I hope you like it!!)
Mycroft Holmes knew exactly what he was doing when he got involved with Greg Lestrade. He was just like that – he never did anything without weighing up the risks. If it involved leg-work, forget it. If it was something that involves CCTV, sitting on his bum and possibly eating cake, Mycroft would do it, no questions asked. However, dabbling in Chinese politics is a lot different to facing what’s in your heart.
And Greg Lestrade upset the whole balance of Mycroft’s otherwise tedious little world.
Greg arrived home one night to find Mycroft sat elegantly on the sofa, his jacket removed and the top button of his shirt undone. It was strange to see Mycroft so casual! Greg threw his own coat onto the chair and sat next to his boyfriend, squinting his eyes to see what Mycroft was watching on TV.
“Judge Judy?” Lestrade snorted. “You like reality TV?”
“I find it fascinating.” Mycroft murmured.
Greg didn’t push it. He leant back, closing his eyes and listening to the quiet rumble of laughter from the program. Mycroft coughed.
It wasn’t a question. “Mycroft.”
“Why are you with me?”
That made Lestrade open his eyes. “What?”
“Why are we together?” Mycroft’s eyes bored into Lestrade’s skull, as if trying to extract the answers from Greg’s mind directly. “Your wife left you – and you turned to me. Why?”
“I don’t know.” Greg blinked. “I…”
Lestrade mused over the question a second too long – Mycroft nodded, as if that confirmed something in his head, and stood up, picking his jacket off the sofa and pulling it on.
“Woah, where are you going?” Lestrade frowned.
“When we met, my life was dull.” Mycroft smiled softly, his usual cat-like grin turning into something more humane. “You brought colour to my life, Gregory, as sappy as that may sound. But after these few days, I see-”
“Few days?” Lestrade repeated.
Mycroft seemed annoyed by the interruption. “Yes. You have been staying late at the office and ignoring me. I know you are busy, but one should always make time for one’s… associate.” he coughed, returning to his original tangent. “After these last few days, I see that I simply do not fulfil your needs any longer. I am, in layman’s terms, not good enough for you. And so I take my leave.”
Lestrade half-expected Mycroft to bow or curtsey or something, but the Holmes simply nodded curtly and turned towards the door, taking his umbrella from the hat rack.
“Mycroft!” Lestrade barked. “Where are you going?”
“I am going to my apartment.”
“Oh no you’re not.” Lestrade grabbed the umbrella and thrust it back into the rack, pulling Mycroft’s sharply dressed arm towards himself. “I need you, Mycroft. Damn it, I love you!”
“Don’t give me that ‘love is a vicious motivator’ crap.” Lestrade snapped. “Mycroft, you mean more to me than anyone else. You are good enough. Hell, I’m not the greatest guy, but I fell in love with you, and that’s gotta matter somehow.” he smiled. “I love you, you damn fool.”
Mycroft smiled more like his old snide self. “Care to prove it?”
“Gladly.” and Lestrade pulled the taller man down into a soft, caring kiss.
(Haha! I love this prompt! Thank you so much – I hope you like it!!)
Lestrade paced his office impatiently, glancing at his watch every few seconds.
“They’ll be here soon, sir.” Donovan didn’t bother looking up from her game of Poker with Anderson.
“Stop gambling on duty!” Lestrade snapped in response. The two of them ignored him.
Five minutes later, the taxi screeched to a halt outside the Yard, and Lestrade sighed in relief, sprinting downstairs to meet the consulting detective and his doctor. John was positively beaming, but Sherlock looked rather angry, glaring from John to Lestrade and back again.
“Finally!” Lestrade groaned. “Where were you?”
“Oh, Sherlock was doing an experiment.” John grinned.
“What ki-” Lestrade shook his head. He didn’t want to know, and they didn’t have time. “Right, I’m going to fill you in, and you’ll have to follow, got it?”
“Amanda Griffin, 22, found in a burnt-out car in Sussex.” Lestrade spoke mainly to John, but he glanced at Sherlock after he finished. The taller man was staring into space. “Sherlock, are you listening?”
Sherlock nodded, and John bit back a laugh.
“What’s gotten into you?” Lestrade frowned.
Sherlock simply glared at him before raising his hand to his mouth as if to drink something. John couldn’t help it – he let out a peal of laughter, bending double to stifle the gasps. Lestrade raised his eyebrows.
“Guys, we don’t have time for playing around!”
Sherlock put his hands in the air almost defensively. He thought for a moment, then mimed out: where is she?, pointing to a lady officer and looking around as if through binoculars. John was halfway to the floor now, his knees buckling and tears of laughter escaping his eyes. Lestrade hauled him upright.
“Stop joking!” Lestrade snapped. “We need to solve this case NOW!”
Sherlock nodded seriously, then swept past the two of them and up the stairs to Lestrade’s office. John and the DI followed him, and found him in the middle of a heated mime-off with Anderson.
“STOP CLOWNING AROUND!” Lestrade roared, hurting John’s ear-drums.
Sherlock whirled round. He rolled his eyes before turning to the table and picking up a picture of the burnt-out car. He pointed to the car, then at a picture of the murdered girl, and made an explosion with his hands, puffing out his cheeks for emphasis.
“What the Hell does that mean?” Lestrade groaned, running and hand through his hair. John was only just able to stand up, so Lestrade made him lean against the wall, still laughing.
“I think he’s finally snapped.” Donovan replied in mock-awe.
Sherlock resisted the urge to slap her before moving onto the next picture. It was of the place the car had been found. Sherlock began to give very complicated directions, moving his hands right and left to signal turns – but the officers and John couldn’t keep up, so his movements seemed like he was miming “fish”.
“Speak properly!” Lestrade groaned.
John stopped laughing, wiping a tear from his eye. “He can’t talk. Experiment gone wrong.” he chuckled again. Sherlock glared at his friend.
“Right.” Lestrade sighed. “Why didn’t you do it via text?”
“Mycroft took away his phone.” John giggled.
Sherlock glanced at one of the cameras in the office and made a rude gesture at it. Mycroft, in his own office, grinned back.
(AAAHHH! I love this prompt! Thank you so much – I hope you like it!)
John and Lestrade jumped out of the car, grinning like children as they spied the club. Mycroft got out slowly, like a sophisticated whale, and leant on his umbrella as they surveyed the scene. Priory Golf Club, in the middle of no-where, was huge, with golf and rifle ranges, swimming pools, tennis courts and a million other things Mycroft wouldn’t use on a dare set up in a round circle like an atom and its reception area nucleus. Sherlock still sat in the car, crossing his arms petulantly.
“Sherlock, get out of the car.” John sighed.
“No. This is ridiculous.”
“If you don’t get out, I’ll drag you out!” Lestrade threatened.
Sherlock smirked. “I’d love to see you try.”
After much arguing and pulling and threatening, Sherlock trailed behind the happy trio as they advanced into the club, announcing Mycroft’s name and grinning when they were admitted into a private range.
Four panels, sporting blank outlines of people and target setters, were set up near the far wall of the range, with bulletproof shutters and desks lined up a few yards before the group. An assortment of weapons, among which were rifles, hand guns, bayonets, spears and missile launchers, were hung on the wall to the right of them. Lestrade grinned when he spotted a huge bazooka in the corner, but a warning glance from Mycroft quashed his hopes.
“Alright, lads!” Greg rubbed his hands together. “Choose your weapon!”
John, predictably, went for the sleek black hand gun. Mycroft and Lestrade both went for rifles, and Sherlock glared at them all, edging towards the spear.
“Sherlock, just pick one!” John clicked his magazine into place, testing the weight of his gun.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him, choosing the same hand gun as John’s. He moved to the shutters beside his friend, slipping his coat onto the floor as he went. Mycroft clicked his fingers, and an assistant near the door pressed the “IN USE” button. Lestrade grinned, firing his first round of bullets into his panel.
“It’s been a while…” John lined up his gun, took a deep breath, and shot. Bullseye. Lestrade clapped him on the back with a grin. Sherlock also smiled, somewhat proud of his friend.
Mycroft also took a shot, and soon they were all shooting at their respective panels. Lestrade was actually rather good; Mycroft was almost too impressive; John kept having to change the panel from the number of bullseyes he got; but Sherlock was firing everywhere, his hand-eye coordination completely messed up. He growled at the gun, blaming it for showing him up in front of John.
“Sherlock, focus!” John shouted above the gunshots.
“Told you we were better!” Lestrade crowed, grinning happily. Sherlock ignored them all, firing blindly into the walls.
“STOP!” John yelled. The assistant pressed his button again, making everyone cease fire.
John walked quickly over to Mycroft and whispered something into his ear. Mycroft smiled a bit more than usual and disappeared for a moment, reappearing with a large piece of paper. He entered the range, slapping the paper onto Sherlock’s panel and retreating quickly. Sherlock grinned. The paper was a grainy CCTV shot of Jim Moriarty, his London tourist hat slightly lowered over his dark eyes. Sherlock lined up his shot with a fierce glare. John and Lestrade looked terrified; Mycroft looked less content than usual; and Sherlock fired.
The crime scene was packed with officers. Some of them were arguing; most were declaring that they wanted to go home; two people had already gotten into a fight over which fingerprints matched up. Donovan was going crazy trying to control them all, and Anderson was leaning on the wall, watching his own team argue about dust.
The two taxis pulled up at the same time. Lestrade stepped out of the first, along with a small, rat-like man in a hat and cape. Donovan’s jaw dropped, but she regained her composure, running over to her boss.
“Sir, it’s chaos.” Donovan sighed.
Ratty Lestrade gasped. “Good Lord, women on the force! How times have changed!”
“Excuse me?!” Donovan growled.
“Not now, Greg.” Foxy Lestrade sighed. “Donovan, set up a barrier. I want all the officers to go back to the Yard – the forensics team can go home too.”
“Is that wise, sir?”
“I have my own team.” Foxy Lestrade smiled weakly. Ratty Lestrade drew himself up to his full height, looking self-important. Donovan glared at him.
The other taxi’s door opened and Scarf Sherlock and Jumper John stepped out, followed by an awe-struck Moustache John and a bored Scruffy Sherlock. Donovan almost fainted.
“Who are they?!” she pointed to the Victorian men.
Foxy Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face. “Don’t ask, Donovan.”
Meanwhile, Scruffy Sherlock had spotted something, and the other men were having trouble keeping up with the stream of deductions.
“…Charlotte Higson had come here with someone she trusted – there are no boot-scuffs on the ground or signs of a struggle. Look, the plants are intact.” he gestured to some flowers. “Therefore, the good lady must have known her kidnapper, if so he can be called.”
“But what about this?” Scarf Sherlock pointed to the window. “It’s open, and there’s a shoe-print on the window sill.”
“Great Scott!” Moustache and Jumper gaped at the two of them. Scarf and Scruffy looked rather pleased with themselves.
Anderson wandered over, crossing his arms. “Who are you?”
“Doctor John Watson.” Moustache John recovered and held out a hand for Anderson to shake.
“Don’t touch it.” Scruffy Sherlock warned. “It might be contaminated.”
“What, the window sill?” Scarf Sherlock frowned.
“No, that.” Scruffy Sherlock pointed to Anderson.
Anderson went red, and Scarf Sherlock laughed loudly, clutching his sides. “Holmes, you are fantastic!”
Scruffy Sherlock and Jumper John grinned.
Moustache John rolled his eyes. “Don’t encourage him.”
(Hello! You can come off anon, if you like! Don’t be shy or anything, I won’t bite :) Thank you so much! Of course – I’d be happy to! :)
Post referenced: http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/32204868830)
It was just about 8 o’clock in the evening, the sun long gone behind dark clouds, when Lestrade came along, panting and puffing, a manilla envelope under his arm. He stopped dead in the doorway, staring at the four people in the room. Two of them (Scarf Sherlock and Jumper John) were drinking tea and listening to the other two (Scruffy Sherlock and Moustache John) tell a story about a mannequin. They stopped laughing enough to notice the DI’s arrival.
“Oh, hello, Lestrade.” Scarf Sherlock nodded at him over his cup of tea.
“Uh, hey.” Lestrade walked slowly into 221B, glancing warily at the new guys. “Can I talk to you?”
“Of course.” none of them moved.
“Okay.” Lestrade took a deep breath. “Woman, name of Charlotte Higson, found dead at Covent Garden earlier, at 6pm.”
“A case?” Scarf Sherlock’s ears pricked up.
“Yeah.” Lestrade nodded. “Will you come?”
“Is it interesting?” Scruffy Sherlock asked.
Lestrade’s nose twitched. “Uh, yes, I suppose, but-“
“We shall be there presently.” Scruffy Sherlock stood up, setting his tea cup down on the table.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” Lestrade frowned.
“My name is Sherlock Holmes.” Scruffy Sherlock announced.
“Sherlock Holmes.” Scruffy Sherlock sighed, as if Lestrade was being deliberately stupid. “This is Doctor Watson, my boswell.”
“I am not your boswell!” Moustache John laughed. Scruffy Sherlock ignored him.
“Right, well, I can’t have you on my crime scene.” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his stubbly chin. “You’re unauthorised, I don’t know you, and my team would have a fit if I brought another one of your lot along.” he nodded to Scarf Sherlock, who frowned.
“My lot?” he repeated.
Lestrade ignored him. He pointed at Moustache John and Scruffy Sherlock. “You two can’t come. You two-” he pointed to Jumper John and Scarf Sherlock. “-come with me.”
“I’m not going without them.” Scarf Sherlock took another sip of tea.
“Yes you are, Sherlock, if I have to drag you out.” Lestrade’s eyes narrowed.
Scarf Sherlock grinned. “I’d love to see you try.”
Jumper John and Moustache John rolled their eyes. Typical Holmesian stubbornness. Scarf Sherlock and Scruffy Sherlock grinned at Lestrade, who was getting more confused and angry by the second.
Suddenly, a flash of green light lit up the room, temporarily blinding the occupants.
“Hello?” a faint voice squeaked. “Hello? Where am I?”
Lestrade’s jaw fell open as a little man stepped out of a swirling green vortex. He had a rat-like face, his black hair covered in a bowler hat, and his crouched figure was clad in a long black cape. Scruffy Sherlock sighed in annoyance.
“Why are you here, Lestrade?” he asked.
“Where am I?!” Ratty Lestrade growled.
“What the Hell is going on?!” Foxy Lestrade yelped.
Everyone went silent.
“Inter-dimensional transportation.” Scarf Sherlock grinned. “Obviously.”
(Holmes Crossover!! I love it! :D thank you for the prompt – I hope you like it!)
“Well. This is… odd.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “Odd indeed.”
There was, in fact, two odd things in this scene. The first was the inter-dimensional portal, bright green and glowing, just closing in the corner of the 221B flat. The second was the two strange men, dressed sharply in Victorian-style clothes, staring right at Sherlock and John. The taller of the two, the blond, stepped forwards first, offering his hand to Sherlock.
“Doctor John Watson.” he nodded.
“That’s my name!” John frowned.
Sherlock ignored his friend and shook the moustached John’s hand, smiling broadly. “Sherlock Holmes.”
The shorter new man, the brunette, raised his eyebrows. “That’s my name!”
Sherlock grinned. “How odd.”
John crossed his arms around his jumper. “What the Hell is going on, Sherlock?”
“No idea.” the Sherlocks said simultaneously. They glared at each other.
“Alright.” the taller John sighed, rubbing his moustache. “This is extremely confusing. Call me John.”
“Why can’t I be John?” John frowned.
“Because I’m John. You can be Watson.”
“No, you be Watson!”
The shorter Sherlock groaned. “Look, both of you, be quiet. The question is, how did we get here, and how do we get back?”
“Good question, me.” Sherlock beamed. “Where and when did you come from?”
“The year of our Lord 1880.” the taller John answered.
Sherlock whistled. “You’re a long way from home.”
“This is obviously due to inter-dimensional transportation.” the shorter Sherlock frowned. “Mr Magna was working with black magic – maybe he summoned a demon.”
Sherlock hummed. “I was with you until you said magic. I suggest that the inter-dimensional transportation was due to the recent New York incident, with the Avengers initiative.”
“Poppycock!” the taller John scoffed. “What on God’s Earth is New York?”
John glanced at his Sherlock. “Please tell me I don’t talk like that.”
Sherlock just grinned. “I must say, you have very cogent theories. I’m impressed.”
The shorter Sherlock beamed. “Thank you. I am a consulting detective, after all.”
“But… so am I.” Sherlock frowned.
“You can’t be. I’m the only one in the world.”
“Well clearly we miscounted.”
John and John glanced at each other. They grinned, and said together: “Tea?”
(I’m so sorry this took so long!! I’ve been busy with school and stuff. But this is such an interesting prompt – and I love the ship! Thank you for the prompt, and I really hope you like it!)
The army base was dark, with no moon to light it, and quiet. John liked quiet. He was too used to English wind and traffic and the hooting of ruffled owls, but Afghanistan had none of that. The dark silence was almost eerie, broken with the soft snoring of the other soldiers in the dorm. It was sort of peaceful. If an army base could be peaceful.
John shifted his legs under the sheet. The long day of training had left them aching and grazed, but John liked training – it was better than being out there, patching up real injuries under a hail of bullets. John shuddered just thinking about it. He wondered what it would be like to get shot.
Unpleasant, he imagined.
John looked to his right – Sebastian Moran sat up in bed, the duvet falling off his chest as he rubbed his eye.
“What’s the time?” Seb yawned.
John checked. “Half past one.”
“Damn.” Seb sighed. He flopped back onto his pillow, crossing his arms above his head.
John liked Moran. He was confident and quiet (much like John), and he was good at any form of combat – hand-to-hand, guns, swords, ninja stars, you name it. He never talked about home, or family or friends. It had been an unspoken confirmation that he had no-one, that he was a loner. Like John.
“Got anyone at home?” John asked quietly.
“Mm?” Seb frowned.
“Someone you love. Family.”
“I got this one guy.” Seb grinned. “Pushy, arrogant sod.”
John blinked. “So you’re-”
“I’m not gay.” Seb chuckled quietly. “He’s… my boss. Live-in boss.”
“Ah.” John didn’t understand, but he nodded anyway.
Seb turned onto his side so he faced John, propping his head up on his elbow. “You?”
“Well… I have a sister, Harry, and my mum and dad.” John smiled. “My dad was really proud of me for entering the army – mum wasn’t, so much, and Harry and I don’t get on, so I don’t really know what she thinks.” John shrugged.
“Don’t know or don’t care?” Seb raised an eyebrow.
Seb and John sat in a companionable silence for a moment, listening to the shifting sheets and soft snoring around them.
John laughed. “John. Call me John.”
“’Kay. Do you have someone you love?” Seb asked.
John shook his head. “No, no. I don’t really want one. They’d be worrying – so would I.”
“What if they were here with you?”
“What do you mean?” John frowned.
“You’d be less worried then. You could keep an eye on them.”
“I suppose…” John eyed Seb for a long, silent moment.
Seb yawned. “Drill tomorrow. Great.”
“Yeah.” John yawned too. “Goodnight, Moran.” John nodded, sliding back under the covers.
“’Night, John.” Seb smiled.
Prompt: Sherlock and John meet their shipper fangirls.
Prompt from the awesome miss-peppermint-tea.
Good luck at the con! Take lots of pictures! I’m also going to a con in London in October, so that’s where the story is set. Enjoy!
“This was a bad idea.” Sherlock panted, leaning against the wall.
“For once, I agree.” John gulped in breaths, bending double to clutch at his aching lungs.
London MCM Expo was normally a hive of activity, cosplayers and casual con-goers milling about the stalls and booths, watching performances, playing games, and, most of all, shopping. Sherlock was dressed in his normal suit and coat, though he regretted the big black cover as soon as the wave of heat hit him. The Expo was boiling – how on Earth people could walk around in massive Gundam suits, he had no idea. John was dressed as Harry Potter, but his blond hair was its normal colour, and Sherlock had thrown his toy owl out of the window on the way here. Hedwig Mark 2 was somewhere along the M5, feeling miserable.
But not as miserable as John and Sherlock felt right now.
A horde of fangirls raced past the two men, screaming their lungs out. Some of them also had Sherlock’s coat on, others with fake blood dripping from their faces, others with skulls in their hands, others with jam pots, others with beige jumpers and blond wigs, others with crowns and London tourist hats and violins and deerstalkers and blue scarves and fake guns. One of them, probably a John cosplayer, turned round and pointed at the two men.
“THEY’RE HERE!” she yelled.
John and Sherlock sprinted from their hiding place, but another wall of fangirls blocked their path. They were surrounded.
“Did you bring your gun?” Sherlock murmured.
“We can’t shoot kids!”
“Oh, Lestrade wouldn’t convict us.” Sherlock grinned.
“Sir, excuse me?” one of the girls piped up. “But, um, are you two in a relationship?”
John blinked. “What?”
Sherlock blinked. “Yes.”
The shippers squealed – a wave of squeals hit Sherlock’s ears, making him wince.
“How did it start?” another asked.
“Nothing started!” John snapped.
“Well, we were waiting in Lestrade’s car-”
“Sherlock, shut up!” John went pink.
“-and John kissed me.”
“I did not!”
“Yes you did. Rather vigorously, as I recall. We almost didn’t make it back to the flat.”
By now, two of the fangirls had fainted, more than a dozen were lying on the floor in puddles of tears, and more than three-quarters of the crowd were filming the scene on their phones. John was mortified.
“Sherlock, shut up!” John repeated.
Sherlock just smirked, continuing: “John’s a snorer, would you believe. Snores all night. Not that he sleeps very often.”
Another girl fainted.
“Alright, Sherlock, that’s enough.” John was bright red now.
“Are you getting married?” one of the Moriarty cosplayers asked.
“Maybe.” Sherlock smirked. “Now let us through, please.” he parted the crowd like the Red Sea and shuffled John through the camera-wielding crowd. Various questions flew at them: “do you have a son called Hamish?” “are either of you into knife-play?” “how did you survive Reichenbach?” “is Moran real?” “does Anderson really like dinosaurs?” “what’s Lestrade’s division?”
Sherlock and John eventually escaped the crowd, running into the dark panel room. They sat on chairs, listening but not listening to the current panel. Sherlock put a hand on John’s thigh. John sighed.
“I knew people would talk.”
I told myself I wouldn’t, but I am indeed watching the Elementary pilot.
I LOVE IT.
I had no opinions before, I just watched the two fandoms hacking each other’s throats out, but after 6 minutes of the pilot, I must say that I really enjoy Elementary.
Still prefer Sherlock BBC.
We shall see.
Prompt: follow up to the Christmas fanfic! Everyone gets their presents (Sherlock’s present being John…).
Prompt from the awesome miss-peppermint-tea.
Thank you for the prompt! Sherlock is so adorable!!
Post referenced: http://epicluna.tumblr.com/post/30595615580
The room was lit with warm fire light, the TV screen providing an alien glow to the festivities in Baker Street. Mrs Hudson showed off her new earrings to her new boyfriend, Mr Higgs, while Molly and Lestrade chatted to Mycroft, Molly twisting her new bracelets proudly around her wrist. Sally and John were sat on the sofa, ignoring each other. Sherlock sat in his chair, ignoring everyone. Molly broke away from her circle to walk up to Sherlock, smiling.
“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”
“Merry Christmas.” he smiled quickly.
Molly leaned forward, whispering secretively. “Have you given him the present yet?”
Sherlock glanced over at John, who was sipping his wine and trying to look like he wasn’t ignoring Sarah. He failed. Sherlock sighed.
“Not yet, no.”
“You have to!” Molly squeaked. She coughed. “I mean, if you want to.”
Sherlock cocked his head slightly, a small, genuine smile on his lips. “Are you alright, Molly?”
“I’m fine!” she sighed. “I just don’t want John to think you’ve abandoned him. Again.”
Sherlock winced. That was harsh. But she had a point. “Thank you, Molly. I’ll do it now.”
“I’ll distract Sarah.” she grinned, walking over to the woman and engrossing her in a chat about jewellery. John looked glad to be free of her.
“John, come here for a second.” Sherlock stood up, the present hidden behind his back.
John nodded and wandered over. “What is it?”
“Thank you for my scarf.” Sherlock smiled.
“Oh, you’re welcome!” John grinned. “I saw it and thought of you.”
Sherlock grinned. “Well, I saw this and thought of you.” he produced the present from behind his back, his smile faltering a bit nervously. “Um… so, merry Christmas.”
John’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you, Sherlock!” he took the present. “It’s not going to explode, is it?”
Sherlock laughed. “No, don’t worry.”
John tore the wrapping off, a huge grin spreading on his face. “A jumper!”
“Yes. Blue. Matches your eyes.” Sherlock recited the shop assistant’s words.
John looked at him strangely, but smiled anyway and stepped forward, pulling the man into a hug. “Thanks, Sherlock.”
Sherlock coughed, patting John’s back awkwardly. “You’re welcome.”
Lestrade wolf-whistled, and Sarah looked a bit faint, but Sherlock didn’t care. John was hugging him! Forget the scarf – this was the best present ever.
(Of course! Always accepting prompts! :D this was so much fun to write, so thank you very much!! Hope you like it!)
“Mrs Hudson?” John frowned. “When did we get a rabbit?”
Mrs Hudson didn’t reply, so John stepped forward cautiously, trying not to scare the animal in Sherlock’s chair. The rabbit glared at John with huge dark eyes – it was kind of scary. It was black all over, with a tiny patch of dark brown fur on its tail. John smiled.
The rabbit bobbed his head slightly in greeting. John grinned and walked forward completely, touching the rabbit’s ear with a finger. If looks could kill, John would be dead – the rabbit glared fiercely at him, nipping his finger so hard it broke the skin. John winced and stepped back.
“Cheeky buggar!” he laughed.
The rabbit just sniffed the air, scrabbling at Sherlock’s chair.
“Hey, hey, don’t do that! He’ll kill me!” John caught hold of the rabbit’s paws, looking into his eyes. “Bad rabbit. Stop that.”
The rabbit gazed back at him with less ferocity than before. John slowly let go of the rabbit, walking backwards to sit in his own chair.
“Where did you come from?” he mused.
The rabbit twitched his nose, then glanced down at the chair, hopping off it and lolloping over to the kitchen.
“Woah, woah, wait!” John scooped him up and carried him awkwardly back to his chair, resting the ball of fluff on his lap. “There’s chemicals in there. You’ll start glowing in the dark.” John chuckled. “Maybe I should call you Bluebell.”
The rabbit kicked him right in the ribs with his back legs. John gasped.
The rabbit grew impatient. It stared back at John, then flicked its eyes to Sherlock’s coat, which was hanging up on the rack.
“Are you one of Sherlock’s pets?”
The rabbit waggled its head from side to side, glancing at the skull on the mantelpiece.
“Okay…” John frowned. “Please, let me be wrong, but… are you Sherlock?” he laughed at the absurdity of it.
He didn’t expect the rabbit to actually nod and agree.
“Oh God… I must be asleep. Or dead. Please, please don’t tell me you’re Sherlock!”
The rabbit nodded again, scrabbling at John’s leg.
“Ow, ow, Sherlock! Stop that! God, you’re annoying as a rabbit!” John sighed.
Sherlock settled himself comfortably in John’s lap, twitching his nose. John patted the soft fur on the rabbit’s head. This was so weird – his best friend was a rabbit. John gritted his teeth. He could get through this, right?
“Answer me this, Sherlock.” John coughed. “Just nod or shake your head.”
“Were you poking around Baskerville again?”
Sherlock considered that for a moment, then nodded somewhat sheepishly. John groaned.
“Knew it. Can it be reversed?”
Sherlock shrugged, which was quite an achievement for a rabbit.
“Great.” John sighed. He stared at the animal for a second, then grinned. “Can you glow in the dark?”
Sherlock bared his tiny teeth at his friend. John just chuckled, scratching the rabbit’s ears absent-mindedly.
“You know, you’re pretty cute as a rabbit.” he smiled. He froze. “Oh God. I hope you don’t remember this.”
Sherlock smiled. He remembered every word.
(I may have screamed and hugged my screen when I read this. Yeah, okay, I did. Thank you so so much!! That’s my goal – to make people laugh and make you all happy :) of course I’ll write you another! Hope you like it!)
The playground was teeming with kids and their parents – the swings were full and the slide looked in danger of falling over, but the kids were having fun and the adults didn’t care. John, Hamish and Sherlock stepped into the playground nervously, Sherlock and Hamish hanging onto John’s hands like monkeys onto their mother. John flashed a smile at Sherlock. The detective wasn’t used to playgrounds – “childhood trauma, John!” – but John had pulled him along anyway.
“Dad…” Hamish whimpered.
John prised Sherlock’s hand away and crouched down to Hamish’s level. “It’s alright, Hamish. Look, there’s a slide!”
Hamish glanced at it warily. “I don’t like other people. They’re… boring.”
“Hamish, you’re six now. You’re a big boy.” John said firmly. “You have to deal with other people in life, otherwise you’ll never get anywhere. Just try, for me, okay?”
Hamish nodded and slowly stepped away towards the swings. John stood up, feeling Sherlock’s iron grip on his hand again. He smiled.
“You’re more nervous than him.” John chuckled. Sherlock squeezed his hand in reply.
A rather plump woman waddled towards them, a pram in tow. She smiled jovially at Sherlock.
“Is that little boy yours?”
Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. His name is Hamish.”
“Ah. I see the resemblance – it’s the hair.” the woman nodded knowingly. “Marianne.”
“That’s my name. Marianne Hartman. My little girl Wendy is over there, the one with the pigtails.”
John smiled. “She’s lovely.”
Marianne beamed. “Thank you! And you are?”
“John Watson, hi. This is my husband, Sherlock.”
Marianne’s face lost its colour. She coughed. “Well. Well, I never…”
“I’m sorry?” John frowned. Sherlock squeezed his hand again.
“Yes, what about it?”
“Such a shame.” Marianne sighed. “That boy could have grown up nicely.”
“Could have?!” John growled.
“OUCH!” Hamish cried.
John, Marianne and Sherlock turned to see Hamish on the floor, having fallen off the swing, clutching a skinned knee. Sherlock released John’s hand instantly, rushing over to examine the graze. He hugged his son to his chest, glowering at Marianne. John turned back to the woman.
“My son may not be of my blood, but I promise to protect him from prejudiced morons like you.” John hissed.
He turned on his heel and swept Hamish into his arms, carrying the boy past an astonished Marianne and out of the playground, Sherlock on their trail.
“It hurts, Dad.” Hamish winced.
“Don’t worry, we’ll be home soon.” John patted Hamish’s head. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.” Hamish blinked.
John frowned. He felt a hand touch his face – and saw Sherlock wipe a tear off John’s cheek. John grimaced. Don’t cry.
Well that was depressing. Oops. Sorry about that.
(I remember that! Good times :D thank you for the prompt – I hope you like this one too!!)
If it had been up to John, his birthday would have consisted of a night down the pub with a few mates, probably hit on a few women, fail miserably, then go back home to Baker Street to find Sherlock asleep or Mrs Hudson holding a small cake.
But no, Mycroft had thrown him a grand party, complete with waitors and a huge feast in the centre of Holmes mansion. John, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson and Sherlock had been made to dress up in their finest outfits and join Mycroft for a night of what he called “celebration”. It was torture.
After far too many cocktails and well-wishers, John sauntered onto the balcony of the second living room. Why they needed two living rooms (not to mention a spare) was quite beyond John’s comprehension. He was glad of it tonight though, as he breathed in the cool air and sipped his fifth drink.
“Mind if I join you?” Sherlock’s low purr of a voice made John turn round and nod. The taller man stepped to his side, pulling out a cigarette. He lit it, glancing sideways at John. “Aren’t you going to reprimand me for my bad habits?”
John sighed. “I’m too pissed off to care.”
“Mm? And why is the birthday boy, quote, ‘pissed off’?” Sherlock’s eyes twinkled.
John shook his head with a grin. “You know why. Mycroft.”
“Ah. Well, if it’s any consolation, he’s been stuck talking to the Duchess of Budapest for over ten minutes now.” Sherlock grinned. “She has ten cats, three dogs and a guinea pig – and loves to talk.”
John laughed. “That does make me feel a bit better, thanks.”
They watched the unfortunate Mycroft talk to the woman in a fur coat for a bit longer, then turned back to the Holmes mansion gardens, Sherlock dragging on his cigarette, John sipping his drink and not caring about the smoke for once.
“Oh, John, I got you something.” Sherlock stubbed out his finished cigarette onto the balcony wall and fished around in his pocket, pulling out a small box.
“You’re not going to propose to me, are you?” John joked.
Sherlock grinned. “Not yet.”
There was an awkward silence, in which John’s mind melted and Sherlock wished he could fall into a hole in the ground. He coughed and pushed the box towards John.
“It was a joke.” he smiled softly.
“I know.” John nodded. He opened the box – and instantly pushed it back. “No, nope, sorry, nope.”
“What? It’s just a watch!”
“A very expensive, very real diamonds watch.” John frowned at Sherlock. “You saw me looking at it in the paper the other day.”
“It’s the newest model.”
“Yes, it is. Happy birthday.”
“I can’t accept it. Sorry, Sherlock, but… I can’t.”
John couldn’t place what emotion crossed Sherlock’s face in that moment. It seemed to fluctuate between disappointed and angry, sad and annoyed. It settled on a bland, almost scary look. Sherlock nodded.
“Alright.” he started to walk away.
Sherlock half-turned back to John, staring pointedly at the watch. John sighed and took it from him, slipping it onto his tanned wrist.
“There. Happy?” John smiled.
Sherlock smiled back. “Very. Happy birthday, John.”
“Thank you. Oh, and Sherlock?” he grinned. “Get me a ring next time – I’ll have to accept it then.”
No prompt. I have to do an essay on Shakespeare’s ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ for my A-Level Drama, and I got bored so I wrote a story instead.
So here’s Sherlock being an ass. Literally. Enjoy!
John turned round – and instantly jumped out of his chair, his skin crawling and his blood running cold. His eyes widened. The gun was in the desk, he knew that, but if this thing lunged for him, he’d have no time to reach it. It would have to be hand-to-hand combat… against a half-man, half-horse.
“Who are you?” John frowned.
“Don’t you even know your own flatmate?” the horse thing chuckled.
John sighed, recognising the voice and the long, thin body. “Sherlock, what the Hell?”
“It’s for an experiment.”
“What kind of experiment requires you to wear a horse’s head?” John frowned.
“A… horsey one. And anyway, it’s not a horse. It’s a donkey.” Sherlock shrugged.
“Oh, of course.” John nodded sarcastically.
He glanced over the man again. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered wearing something appropriate – his usual white shirt stretched almost painfully across his chest; the regular black suit trousers wrapped around his legs; the dirty (and somewhat bloody) watch on his wrist glinted in the light. He raised his arms to take off the mask, shaking his shaggy hair out and into a more normal position. It still stuck up in tufts, and he was sweating so much his face and neck shone. John coughed and averted his eyes.
“So what case are you on?” John asked.
“A man was trampled to death by a donkey.” Sherlock sighed and plonked himself down in his chair, setting the mask onto the table. It looked slightly creepy, the jaws of the donkey hanging open in a silent “neigh”, the eyes wide, dark and demon-like. John shuddered.
“Is that a real head?”
“Don’t be daft. Of course not.” Sherlock chuckled. “It’s rubber.” he poked the jaws so they wobbled. It was terrifying.
“Can you stop it looking at me?” John glared at the thing.
Sherlock blinked. “Are you scared of donkeys?”
“No, I just don’t want it looking at me.”
Sherlock pursed his lips and stood up, placing the head on the desk near the headphone antlers. “Better?”
“Slightly.” John still glared at it. It was faced away from him now, but he could still see the dark eyes in his mind. He’d probably have nightmares about donkeys trampling him later.
Sherlock sat back in his chair, trying to tame the tufts of hair. John watched the long white fingers roaming through the black curls, the little nibble of Sherlock’s teeth against his pink lips as he concentrated. John wondered what the hair felt like, what he’d do if he had the hair between his own fingers. He closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head free of the image. Eventually, John stood up, intending to go to the kitchen, but Sherlock coughed and said:
John frowned. “With what?”
“Hair.” Sherlock gestured to his locks.
John groaned. “Get a hairbrush!”
“I’ve got one. His name is John.” Sherlock smirked.
John sighed and walked over to his friend, patting the unruly hair into place. Sherlock’s hair was soft, as he’d expected, and he ran his hands through it, making it even messier than before.
“No, you’re doing it wrong!” Sherlock snapped – but he didn’t move, letting John do what he wanted.
John smirked and smacked the back of his head. “Do it yourself! There’s a mirror right there!”
“Fine.” Sherlock sighed. He stood up and started patting his hair in the mirror.
John watched him wistfully, then turned back to the mask. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all…