Fic; Sherlock; For Posterity; PG-13
Title: For Posterity
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gen - John Watson & Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: While Sherlock Holmes is Public Domain, the BBC interpretation of these characters is Moffat and Gatiss's brain child.
Author's Note: Based on the BBC blogs linked to the series... I got bored again and wrote scrappy fic. There is no plot, it is just a scene that came into my head.
“Your literary ability is abysmal,” Sherlock greets him on Tuesday morning, before he’s even had his toast yet.
John doesn’t bother responding.
“Did they not teach you the importance of varying your vocabulary in whatever school you went to? I know the education system in this country is shambolic at best, but if they didn’t mention the tedium that repetition of the ‘and then’ structure gives, then I may need to find your teachers and ruin their careers for the good of the world.”
“Good morning, Sherlock,” John tells him, pouring hot, strong coffee into a mug (his own mug that Sherlock is not allowed to touch because he very much likes knowing what’s been in it).
“Your account of the facts is accurate enough, of course, though it lacks the most interesting details. As my chronicler you should pay more attention to my methods and less to narrating the standard, mundane events of everyday life.”
“I hardly count being tied to a chair as a standard event,” John mutters. Sherlock hears him, of course he does. There’s nothing Sherlock doesn’t hear, or see. John wouldn’t be surprised if the detective turned round to him one day and said that because he had heard the flap of a butterfly’s wings on the other side of the Atlantic, there was going to be a freak Tornado in Knightsbridge.
“That would depend on your sexual habits,” Sherlock says, in just as nonchalant and unimpressed a tone as he analyses everything else. John has to clamp his lips together not to spit out the mouthful of coffee he has just taken.
“Yes, I suppose it would.” He’s getting better at not reacting. Sherlock seems to say these things casually, but John has realised that at least half of them are said with every intention of getting a reaction. It’s like he’s being put through a series of tests.
“As I was saying,” Sherlock continues, “these accounts will hardly be useful to posterity if you do not examine my method, John.”
“I’m not writing for posterity,” John tells him, picking up the paper and collapsing back into the chair he has come to know as his. At first, upon seeing Sherlock’s clutter, he had felt claustrophobic, irritable. Mess was not something he was used to any longer and the mess of living with a genius was different from any other mess he had encountered. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t know how to tidy, he just didn’t see the point in something so tedius when there were so many other things he could be doing, or one thing took his mind off in a tangent, leaving the evidence of his prior activity still lying about.
“Of course you are.”
“No... I’m writing a personal blog,” John said, speaking slowly, calmly. Breathe in, breathe out. The therapy had at least been good for teaching him to squash the anger that built up from time to time. “It is intended as a therapeutic exercise and a way of keeping in touch with the world and my friends and family.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock muttered. “Now you’re just quoting your therapist. They’re accounts of my cases, sometimes punctuated with tedious asides into your own life.”
“Do you mean to be insulting or is it just a natural talent?” John asked, unable to squash that last thread of irritation down quite firmly enough. Sherlock just smiled at him.
“Good, you’re so dull when you’re controlling yourself.”
“I’m also not punching you in the face,” John told him, managing to keep a jovial tone, smiling slightly. Sherlock gave a surprised laugh.
“You wouldn’t be able to anyway,” Sherlock replied. “Pass me that jar, would you?”
“What’s in it?” John asked, dutifully passing the jar, which was full of some viscous, almost colourless liquid.
“Embalming fluid...”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Sherlock considered the question with a slight frown.
“Probably not.”
“Then I’ll go and have a shower. Try not to mummify anything while I’m gone.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“I know. Just try not to mummify yourself, alright. Think of what a loss that would be for posterity.”
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Gen - John Watson & Sherlock Holmes
Disclaimer: While Sherlock Holmes is Public Domain, the BBC interpretation of these characters is Moffat and Gatiss's brain child.
Author's Note: Based on the BBC blogs linked to the series... I got bored again and wrote scrappy fic. There is no plot, it is just a scene that came into my head.
“Your literary ability is abysmal,” Sherlock greets him on Tuesday morning, before he’s even had his toast yet.
John doesn’t bother responding.
“Did they not teach you the importance of varying your vocabulary in whatever school you went to? I know the education system in this country is shambolic at best, but if they didn’t mention the tedium that repetition of the ‘and then’ structure gives, then I may need to find your teachers and ruin their careers for the good of the world.”
“Good morning, Sherlock,” John tells him, pouring hot, strong coffee into a mug (his own mug that Sherlock is not allowed to touch because he very much likes knowing what’s been in it).
“Your account of the facts is accurate enough, of course, though it lacks the most interesting details. As my chronicler you should pay more attention to my methods and less to narrating the standard, mundane events of everyday life.”
“I hardly count being tied to a chair as a standard event,” John mutters. Sherlock hears him, of course he does. There’s nothing Sherlock doesn’t hear, or see. John wouldn’t be surprised if the detective turned round to him one day and said that because he had heard the flap of a butterfly’s wings on the other side of the Atlantic, there was going to be a freak Tornado in Knightsbridge.
“That would depend on your sexual habits,” Sherlock says, in just as nonchalant and unimpressed a tone as he analyses everything else. John has to clamp his lips together not to spit out the mouthful of coffee he has just taken.
“Yes, I suppose it would.” He’s getting better at not reacting. Sherlock seems to say these things casually, but John has realised that at least half of them are said with every intention of getting a reaction. It’s like he’s being put through a series of tests.
“As I was saying,” Sherlock continues, “these accounts will hardly be useful to posterity if you do not examine my method, John.”
“I’m not writing for posterity,” John tells him, picking up the paper and collapsing back into the chair he has come to know as his. At first, upon seeing Sherlock’s clutter, he had felt claustrophobic, irritable. Mess was not something he was used to any longer and the mess of living with a genius was different from any other mess he had encountered. It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t know how to tidy, he just didn’t see the point in something so tedius when there were so many other things he could be doing, or one thing took his mind off in a tangent, leaving the evidence of his prior activity still lying about.
“Of course you are.”
“No... I’m writing a personal blog,” John said, speaking slowly, calmly. Breathe in, breathe out. The therapy had at least been good for teaching him to squash the anger that built up from time to time. “It is intended as a therapeutic exercise and a way of keeping in touch with the world and my friends and family.”
“Nonsense,” Sherlock muttered. “Now you’re just quoting your therapist. They’re accounts of my cases, sometimes punctuated with tedious asides into your own life.”
“Do you mean to be insulting or is it just a natural talent?” John asked, unable to squash that last thread of irritation down quite firmly enough. Sherlock just smiled at him.
“Good, you’re so dull when you’re controlling yourself.”
“I’m also not punching you in the face,” John told him, managing to keep a jovial tone, smiling slightly. Sherlock gave a surprised laugh.
“You wouldn’t be able to anyway,” Sherlock replied. “Pass me that jar, would you?”
“What’s in it?” John asked, dutifully passing the jar, which was full of some viscous, almost colourless liquid.
“Embalming fluid...”
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
Sherlock considered the question with a slight frown.
“Probably not.”
“Then I’ll go and have a shower. Try not to mummify anything while I’m gone.”
“I can’t make any promises.”
“I know. Just try not to mummify yourself, alright. Think of what a loss that would be for posterity.”