Sherlock-fic, anyone?
I come bearing fic!
Title: Four Times Sherlock Ignored Homophobia and the One Time He Didn't
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: homophobia (duh)
Summary: It's quite conveniently all in the title ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own
Author's Notes: Written for help_japan as a gift to pjordha who also gave me the lovely prompt. All my thanks go to lareginaphantom for beta-ing!
1.
The first time he had heard the word, Sherlock had been neither surprised nor very insulted. Of course the children in school knew that he was different. Instead of grasping that it was his incredible mind that separated them, however, they prefered to assume that something had to be wrong with him; he had to be different, but not in a good way. He had to be perverted.
“Faggot!" they called, chanted, when he walked by, but Sherlock merely huffed. Three quarters of them barely knew what the word meant, and while the remaining quarter may have had a clearer notion, they were all still so dumb they couldn't tie their own shoelaces. In fact, Sherlock knew that David Simmons still had his mummy do it for him, even though he was eight already, a year older than Sherlock. Obviously, he himself had perfectioned the art of shoelacing at a mere three years and two months. He neither needed nor desired their good opinion.
It was not until the first music recital at school that he realised what The Word could do.
He found it painted all across his first violin, the strings cut by children's scissors, minutes before he was due to perform.
A mere word. Made his heart clench and his eyes burn. Made him hide in the corner of a dark cleaning closed, behind a vacuum cleaner, clasping the violin to his chest and resting his cheek against its warm wood.
Mycroft found him. It took him a mere three minutes and forty-five seconds to locate the hiding spot, but another two minutes and ten seconds to finally work up the nerve and push the vacuum-cleaner aside. Then he hugged his baby brother so tight as if he never wanted to let him go.
2.
When Mycroft left England to gain his second PhD at Harvard, Sherlock was fifteen years, three months and one week old. Ten days later, he met Victor Trevor.
Victor was neither brilliant nor beautiful, but he was adoring and caring, and God only knew how much Sherlock needed to be adored and cared for.
Moreover, though, Victor was a delight to be around. He was charming, and witty, and fun. He went along with Sherlock's plans and entertained his whims, and the sex was - quite unexpectly so, but Sherlock did not mind the surprise for once - truly mindblowing.
With no-one to check him, Sherlock ran wild, and took Victor with him. As the police refused to co-operate with someone his age, he started breaking into interesting crime-scenes to collect evidence, hacking police computers to find whatever they had taken, and finally even threatening suspects and witnesses alike to have his theories corroborated.
Anything to be right. Anything to see that look on Victor's face.
It was all a game to him, to them. Sex, danger, cocaine - it was all a game, nothing his great mind couldn't conquer.
Until Sherlock went to visit Victor for the summer. Until they were caught in a compromising situation on top of the washing machine.
Victor's father did not take his son's coming-out well. Sherlock remained mainly unscathed, but Victor had to take the brunt of his father's anger and punches. The Word was used excessively.
Mere days later, three things happened that Sherlock knew not to be coincidences, even though he wished he could believe it:
Mr. Trevor died of a heart attack. Victor broke up with him. Sherlock began using the line of being married to his work.
He also took up boxing.
3.
Five years later, Sherlock found himself inside a police station, trying to make a phone call, which was more than a little difficult while being handcuffed. He had tried to help, and this is what he had gotten in return. So what, breaking into crime-scenes was still illegal?
He finally gave up - it was not as if he actually needed to phone Mycroft, after all, and instead turned his attention to the conversation between the two constables at his back.
“You heard about Donovan?”
“Yeah, nasty business.”
“Didn't even get suspended! That was practically sexual assault.”
“Come on now . . .”
“What else would you call feeling up on another officer in the ladies room? Bloody dyke . . . She's a fucking predator, that's what she is. Shouldn't be allowed on the force, if you ask me, none of 'em faggots.”
Before Sherlock could even cringe at The Word, another officer entered.
“I'd rather not hear that word on my team, is that clear?”
“Aw, come on, Lestrade,” said one of the constables. “Just havin' a little fun, weren't we?”
“Well, don't,” DS Lestrade snapped. “What a man does in his bedroom is none of our business, and Donovan's a damn good police officer. In fact, she's so good that I'd watch it, if I were you, Turner. Who's the kid, anyway?”
As an answer, Mycroft swept into the room.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
DS Lestrade shook the proffered hand, albeit confused. “Detective Sergeant, actually.”
Mycroft allowed himself a smile. “Only a matter of hours, I suppose - isn't that right, Sherlock?”
The challenge in his brother's eyes was obvious. Sherlock almost decided not to reveal the murderer's identity just to spite his brother, but then changed his mind. With Mycroft, it was always better to return favours straightaway.
Ten hours later, Detective Sergeant Lestrade received not only a promotion, but also a text:
You know where to find me.
PS: My brother sends his congratulations.
4.
“This is hilarious,” John said, unable to take his eyes off the newspaper.
“How, exactly, could even your imaginative mind turn this filth into something amusing” Sherlock answered, darkly sipping his tea. Only because John insisted, anyway. That man knows far too much about fluids and what they supposedly to do your body.
“Oh, come on, Sherlock, you have to admit that there's a certain irony to the whole thing. There I am, going through life, trying to explain to everyone in our acquaintance that we're not a couple, and then you go and become famous and ruin everything.”
Sherlock huffed. He could hardly see how this was supposed to be his fault. He had never asked for any credit, had he? He had actually made sure that most of it went to the police, much as he detested their slowness. Sure, he had ranted about the media's complete incompetence, wondering how on Earth they could not find out that someone must have been helping the Yard, and give credit where credit is due.
And then, one annoying little reporter had actually found out, made Sherlock front page news, and the rest, as they say, was history.
Well, not exactly history. Unless history meant everyone's favourite tabloid running an entire feature on Sherlock and John, including bad paparazzi-pictures, heavily implying that they were as good as married, and making equally heavy use of The Word.
“Well, you'll just have to try harder now, I suppose, won't you?”
John looked up, his expression puzzled.
“Considering how far our circle of acquaintance has just widened, I think you will be very busy for the next couple of years.”
John laughed. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't feel as angry with the world anymore.
5.
They were walking down the street when it happened.
Three men, following them, yelling abuse at them. The Word, over and over. Sherlock barely stifled a yawn, ploughing on with large strides. He pulled John along, John, who was tense and wanted to stop and dug his heels in but Sherlock kept pulling, and he was stronger. “Ignore it,” he said loftily, as the aggression grew, as the men became more rude and John became more and more tense. “Leave it.”
He followed his own advice; until one of the men stepped in front of them, blocked their way, leered at John and drawled, “Look, guys, it's his dog. Like taking it doggie-style, hm? Licking his-”
It was then that Sherlock took him out with a single blow to the solar plexus.
Back at the flat, John insisted on applying some antiseptic on Sherlock's knuckles. “So much for ignoring them, hm?”, the doctor teased, but Sherlock could not smile. He remembered it clear as day, the Pool, that night, “People do get so sentimental about their pets . . .”
John sighed as he squinted at the cuts, clearly considering whether plasters would be an overreaction. “Seriously, Sherlock, that was reckless. You could be facing assault-charges. Why did you do it?”
“Did you hear what he called you?”, Sherlock snapped. It was hard to suppress the impatience, and the fury. And fear. The Pool. Moriarty. And John, being so goddamn fucking brave.
“I can take care of myself,” John answered simply, neatly applying a plaster, his fingers lingering.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Time to test a theory.
“It upset you,” he said after a moment. “That those morons thought that we were a couple.”
“No,” John shook his head. “It upset me that they were talking crap about you.”
Finally, Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his lips. “I can take care of myself.”
John grinned, said it jokingly, “Maybe we'll just have to take care of each other.”
His hand was still resting on Sherlock's, gently on top of his wounds.
Enough evidence, Sherlock thought, before he put his other hand on John's neck and threaded his fingers through the short hair. “Shhh,” he whispered, a command, a caress, silencing any protest, then bent down to kiss him.
If John's enthusiastic response was anything to go by, he would not have needed to worry.
Title: Four Times Sherlock Ignored Homophobia and the One Time He Didn't
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: homophobia (duh)
Summary: It's quite conveniently all in the title ;)
Disclaimer: I don't own
Author's Notes: Written for help_japan as a gift to pjordha who also gave me the lovely prompt. All my thanks go to lareginaphantom for beta-ing!
1.
The first time he had heard the word, Sherlock had been neither surprised nor very insulted. Of course the children in school knew that he was different. Instead of grasping that it was his incredible mind that separated them, however, they prefered to assume that something had to be wrong with him; he had to be different, but not in a good way. He had to be perverted.
“Faggot!" they called, chanted, when he walked by, but Sherlock merely huffed. Three quarters of them barely knew what the word meant, and while the remaining quarter may have had a clearer notion, they were all still so dumb they couldn't tie their own shoelaces. In fact, Sherlock knew that David Simmons still had his mummy do it for him, even though he was eight already, a year older than Sherlock. Obviously, he himself had perfectioned the art of shoelacing at a mere three years and two months. He neither needed nor desired their good opinion.
It was not until the first music recital at school that he realised what The Word could do.
He found it painted all across his first violin, the strings cut by children's scissors, minutes before he was due to perform.
A mere word. Made his heart clench and his eyes burn. Made him hide in the corner of a dark cleaning closed, behind a vacuum cleaner, clasping the violin to his chest and resting his cheek against its warm wood.
Mycroft found him. It took him a mere three minutes and forty-five seconds to locate the hiding spot, but another two minutes and ten seconds to finally work up the nerve and push the vacuum-cleaner aside. Then he hugged his baby brother so tight as if he never wanted to let him go.
2.
When Mycroft left England to gain his second PhD at Harvard, Sherlock was fifteen years, three months and one week old. Ten days later, he met Victor Trevor.
Victor was neither brilliant nor beautiful, but he was adoring and caring, and God only knew how much Sherlock needed to be adored and cared for.
Moreover, though, Victor was a delight to be around. He was charming, and witty, and fun. He went along with Sherlock's plans and entertained his whims, and the sex was - quite unexpectly so, but Sherlock did not mind the surprise for once - truly mindblowing.
With no-one to check him, Sherlock ran wild, and took Victor with him. As the police refused to co-operate with someone his age, he started breaking into interesting crime-scenes to collect evidence, hacking police computers to find whatever they had taken, and finally even threatening suspects and witnesses alike to have his theories corroborated.
Anything to be right. Anything to see that look on Victor's face.
It was all a game to him, to them. Sex, danger, cocaine - it was all a game, nothing his great mind couldn't conquer.
Until Sherlock went to visit Victor for the summer. Until they were caught in a compromising situation on top of the washing machine.
Victor's father did not take his son's coming-out well. Sherlock remained mainly unscathed, but Victor had to take the brunt of his father's anger and punches. The Word was used excessively.
Mere days later, three things happened that Sherlock knew not to be coincidences, even though he wished he could believe it:
Mr. Trevor died of a heart attack. Victor broke up with him. Sherlock began using the line of being married to his work.
He also took up boxing.
3.
Five years later, Sherlock found himself inside a police station, trying to make a phone call, which was more than a little difficult while being handcuffed. He had tried to help, and this is what he had gotten in return. So what, breaking into crime-scenes was still illegal?
He finally gave up - it was not as if he actually needed to phone Mycroft, after all, and instead turned his attention to the conversation between the two constables at his back.
“You heard about Donovan?”
“Yeah, nasty business.”
“Didn't even get suspended! That was practically sexual assault.”
“Come on now . . .”
“What else would you call feeling up on another officer in the ladies room? Bloody dyke . . . She's a fucking predator, that's what she is. Shouldn't be allowed on the force, if you ask me, none of 'em faggots.”
Before Sherlock could even cringe at The Word, another officer entered.
“I'd rather not hear that word on my team, is that clear?”
“Aw, come on, Lestrade,” said one of the constables. “Just havin' a little fun, weren't we?”
“Well, don't,” DS Lestrade snapped. “What a man does in his bedroom is none of our business, and Donovan's a damn good police officer. In fact, she's so good that I'd watch it, if I were you, Turner. Who's the kid, anyway?”
As an answer, Mycroft swept into the room.
“Detective Inspector Lestrade?”
DS Lestrade shook the proffered hand, albeit confused. “Detective Sergeant, actually.”
Mycroft allowed himself a smile. “Only a matter of hours, I suppose - isn't that right, Sherlock?”
The challenge in his brother's eyes was obvious. Sherlock almost decided not to reveal the murderer's identity just to spite his brother, but then changed his mind. With Mycroft, it was always better to return favours straightaway.
Ten hours later, Detective Sergeant Lestrade received not only a promotion, but also a text:
You know where to find me.
PS: My brother sends his congratulations.
4.
“This is hilarious,” John said, unable to take his eyes off the newspaper.
“How, exactly, could even your imaginative mind turn this filth into something amusing” Sherlock answered, darkly sipping his tea. Only because John insisted, anyway. That man knows far too much about fluids and what they supposedly to do your body.
“Oh, come on, Sherlock, you have to admit that there's a certain irony to the whole thing. There I am, going through life, trying to explain to everyone in our acquaintance that we're not a couple, and then you go and become famous and ruin everything.”
Sherlock huffed. He could hardly see how this was supposed to be his fault. He had never asked for any credit, had he? He had actually made sure that most of it went to the police, much as he detested their slowness. Sure, he had ranted about the media's complete incompetence, wondering how on Earth they could not find out that someone must have been helping the Yard, and give credit where credit is due.
And then, one annoying little reporter had actually found out, made Sherlock front page news, and the rest, as they say, was history.
Well, not exactly history. Unless history meant everyone's favourite tabloid running an entire feature on Sherlock and John, including bad paparazzi-pictures, heavily implying that they were as good as married, and making equally heavy use of The Word.
“Well, you'll just have to try harder now, I suppose, won't you?”
John looked up, his expression puzzled.
“Considering how far our circle of acquaintance has just widened, I think you will be very busy for the next couple of years.”
John laughed. Suddenly, Sherlock didn't feel as angry with the world anymore.
5.
They were walking down the street when it happened.
Three men, following them, yelling abuse at them. The Word, over and over. Sherlock barely stifled a yawn, ploughing on with large strides. He pulled John along, John, who was tense and wanted to stop and dug his heels in but Sherlock kept pulling, and he was stronger. “Ignore it,” he said loftily, as the aggression grew, as the men became more rude and John became more and more tense. “Leave it.”
He followed his own advice; until one of the men stepped in front of them, blocked their way, leered at John and drawled, “Look, guys, it's his dog. Like taking it doggie-style, hm? Licking his-”
It was then that Sherlock took him out with a single blow to the solar plexus.
Back at the flat, John insisted on applying some antiseptic on Sherlock's knuckles. “So much for ignoring them, hm?”, the doctor teased, but Sherlock could not smile. He remembered it clear as day, the Pool, that night, “People do get so sentimental about their pets . . .”
John sighed as he squinted at the cuts, clearly considering whether plasters would be an overreaction. “Seriously, Sherlock, that was reckless. You could be facing assault-charges. Why did you do it?”
“Did you hear what he called you?”, Sherlock snapped. It was hard to suppress the impatience, and the fury. And fear. The Pool. Moriarty. And John, being so goddamn fucking brave.
“I can take care of myself,” John answered simply, neatly applying a plaster, his fingers lingering.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Time to test a theory.
“It upset you,” he said after a moment. “That those morons thought that we were a couple.”
“No,” John shook his head. “It upset me that they were talking crap about you.”
Finally, Sherlock felt a smile tugging at his lips. “I can take care of myself.”
John grinned, said it jokingly, “Maybe we'll just have to take care of each other.”
His hand was still resting on Sherlock's, gently on top of his wounds.
Enough evidence, Sherlock thought, before he put his other hand on John's neck and threaded his fingers through the short hair. “Shhh,” he whispered, a command, a caress, silencing any protest, then bent down to kiss him.
If John's enthusiastic response was anything to go by, he would not have needed to worry.