Wow, I thought I'd COMPLETELY lost it. (I wrote something! Fic! Sherlock!)
I haven't written a fic since.....April 27, 2010. Between my bipolar meds damping down my creativity, writer's block, beta phobia and losing confidence, it just....stopped.
This morning I was reflecting on my nearly nine years in fandom, and wondered if in a year's time I'd be able to have a ficathon, or take requests without freezing into a little ball of self-recrimination.
A tiny, tiny window opened in my brain. Through it, I could see BBC's Sherlock Holmes and John Watson locked inside their flat, John about to throw himself against the door. He stops before his shoulder connects, reorientes himself, and begins to methodically kick near the lock.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Surely you jest," Sherlock scoffs silkily.
A vein stands out on John's forehead. "Stop. (Kick) Calling. (Kick) Me. (Kick) Shirley. (Kick)"
Sherlock snorts and pulls out his BlackBerry. "Nice to see you enjoying yourself."
John stops, the set of his feet, tilt of his chin, and clenched hands betraying his irritation. "En-joy? EnJOY. Locked inside our flat, our fire escape unusable because someone dropped acid on it and you think I'm enjoying myself?
Sherlock points. "Kicking with your 'bad' leg."
John tips his head back and regards the ceiling. He seems to be counting. "So!" he says with false cheer. "Lockpicks? Secret passages? Explosives?"
"Tonic water. Damsel fly. Yurt."
John blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"Not doing word association?"
"Noooo," John growls.
Sherlock smirks. "Neither was I. However, someone's put methyl cyanoacrylate in the lock."
" Can't you say superglue like a normal person?"
"Why on earth would I want to be normal?"
"Why indeed," John sighs, resettles his shoulders and looks about the room. After a moment, he strides over to a framed engraving of insects, then looks about for a few more moments and digs out a book about Attia the Hun from the floor. He opens it. Inside is a set of lock picks. He looks at them. Looks at Sherlock.
"Tonic water?"
"Red herring," Sherlock shrugs.
John looks at him.
"It was already incredibly easy!"
John slumps into a chair, "And yet still no further, thanks to the superglue. Sure you can't use that great billowing coat of yours to, I don't know, hang glide out of here?"
Sherlock frowns, "Hardly the kind of height or prevailing winds to even consider...."
"Sherlock," John stops him, weary. "Joking."
"I knew that." Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly. John tilts his head toward the ceiling again, this time, smiling.
"Occam's Razor," Sherlock blurts.
John's head pops up, his expression puzzled.
"Postulates the simplest answer..."
"Is often the best, yes, Sherlock, I AM familiar with it..what..?"
Sherlock holds up his BlackBerry, wiggles it. "Texted the locksmith."
John starts laughing. "Oh my god. What have you done to me that my FIRST inclination is to kick down the door and then ask for a secret passage or explosives?"
"I'd be delighted to indulge you but Mrs. Hudson gets really cross." He slants his eyes toward John, bites his lip and his expression is very, very contrite. He looks about twelve.
John cracks up again. "That look would never work on her. Ever."
Sherlock huffs and burrows into his coat.
John grins, kicks his feet up on an ottoman, and thumbs through the ruined book. He jingles the lock picks in his hand. "Invading hordes, really?"
"Mmm," Sherlock studies his phone.
"Or I suppose, invading a horde." He contemplates the book and picks a moment. "Sherlock," he asks pleasantly," who do you suppose put the superglue in our lock?"
Sherlock inhales, opens his mouth to speak, only to have John clear his throat loudly.
"Sherlock," he says, a hint of Captain Watson in his tone, "Who would think I needed an 'incredibly easy' puzzle to distract me while waiting for the locksmith?"
Sherlock slants him a sideways look, bites his lip, and looks about twelve.
~~~
I have to go sit in the corner, hands over my mouth, wide-eyed, because I WROTE SOMETHING, now.
This morning I was reflecting on my nearly nine years in fandom, and wondered if in a year's time I'd be able to have a ficathon, or take requests without freezing into a little ball of self-recrimination.
A tiny, tiny window opened in my brain. Through it, I could see BBC's Sherlock Holmes and John Watson locked inside their flat, John about to throw himself against the door. He stops before his shoulder connects, reorientes himself, and begins to methodically kick near the lock.
~~~~~~~~~~
"Surely you jest," Sherlock scoffs silkily.
A vein stands out on John's forehead. "Stop. (Kick) Calling. (Kick) Me. (Kick) Shirley. (Kick)"
Sherlock snorts and pulls out his BlackBerry. "Nice to see you enjoying yourself."
John stops, the set of his feet, tilt of his chin, and clenched hands betraying his irritation. "En-joy? EnJOY. Locked inside our flat, our fire escape unusable because someone dropped acid on it and you think I'm enjoying myself?
Sherlock points. "Kicking with your 'bad' leg."
John tips his head back and regards the ceiling. He seems to be counting. "So!" he says with false cheer. "Lockpicks? Secret passages? Explosives?"
"Tonic water. Damsel fly. Yurt."
John blinks. "I'm sorry?"
"Not doing word association?"
"Noooo," John growls.
Sherlock smirks. "Neither was I. However, someone's put methyl cyanoacrylate in the lock."
" Can't you say superglue like a normal person?"
"Why on earth would I want to be normal?"
"Why indeed," John sighs, resettles his shoulders and looks about the room. After a moment, he strides over to a framed engraving of insects, then looks about for a few more moments and digs out a book about Attia the Hun from the floor. He opens it. Inside is a set of lock picks. He looks at them. Looks at Sherlock.
"Tonic water?"
"Red herring," Sherlock shrugs.
John looks at him.
"It was already incredibly easy!"
John slumps into a chair, "And yet still no further, thanks to the superglue. Sure you can't use that great billowing coat of yours to, I don't know, hang glide out of here?"
Sherlock frowns, "Hardly the kind of height or prevailing winds to even consider...."
"Sherlock," John stops him, weary. "Joking."
"I knew that." Sherlock clears his throat awkwardly. John tilts his head toward the ceiling again, this time, smiling.
"Occam's Razor," Sherlock blurts.
John's head pops up, his expression puzzled.
"Postulates the simplest answer..."
"Is often the best, yes, Sherlock, I AM familiar with it..what..?"
Sherlock holds up his BlackBerry, wiggles it. "Texted the locksmith."
John starts laughing. "Oh my god. What have you done to me that my FIRST inclination is to kick down the door and then ask for a secret passage or explosives?"
"I'd be delighted to indulge you but Mrs. Hudson gets really cross." He slants his eyes toward John, bites his lip and his expression is very, very contrite. He looks about twelve.
John cracks up again. "That look would never work on her. Ever."
Sherlock huffs and burrows into his coat.
John grins, kicks his feet up on an ottoman, and thumbs through the ruined book. He jingles the lock picks in his hand. "Invading hordes, really?"
"Mmm," Sherlock studies his phone.
"Or I suppose, invading a horde." He contemplates the book and picks a moment. "Sherlock," he asks pleasantly," who do you suppose put the superglue in our lock?"
Sherlock inhales, opens his mouth to speak, only to have John clear his throat loudly.
"Sherlock," he says, a hint of Captain Watson in his tone, "Who would think I needed an 'incredibly easy' puzzle to distract me while waiting for the locksmith?"
Sherlock slants him a sideways look, bites his lip, and looks about twelve.
~~~
I have to go sit in the corner, hands over my mouth, wide-eyed, because I WROTE SOMETHING, now.