The as-yet-unnamed Jealousy Fic, Chapter One
Fandom: Sherlock BBC crossover with Doctor Who
Warnings: Slash, het, drunkeness, oblivious geniuses and, in case you didn’t see that, crossover-ness. WIP (but first chapter can be read alone)
Pairings: Sherlock/John, River/Eleven, (background) Rory/Amy
Summary: River and John have a Plan. It’s a brilliant Plan, if a bit unoriginal. That’s alright though because the people they’re enacting the plan for take the term ‘socially retarded’ and prove exactly how much of an understatement it is. And, as capable as the Doctor and Sherlock are of adding one and one together, if the equation doesn’t involve actual quantifiable values, it goes straight over both of their heads. Which is rather why they had to resort to the Plan in the first place. Because hopefully their genius idiots know enough about emotions to know what to do when jealousy rears its ugly head…
AN: I feel like I should warn you about what you are about to read. My OTP is Sherlock/John (BBC only though). My friend’s OTP is Eleven/River. And we were sat in a very boring seminar trying not to kill ourselves and wondering what would happen if Captain Jack met River and the Doctor (*cough*THREESOME*cough*) when she happened to mention that she hadn’t seen Sherlock BBC. YES. I know. She was missing out on something that should never be missed out on. Ever. But nothing I was saying was convincing her to watch it, her excuse? She has ‘too many fandoms already’. As if anyone could ever have too many fandoms. Pfft. So I did what any good friend would do. I started scribbling down fanfiction ideas for a crossover. Eleven/River to tempt her and Sherlock/John because I can. Nothing serious, just enough to get her attention. But, well, the things is, you can’t start coming up with ideas for a fiction that crosses over two of your favourite fandoms without getting irrevocably intrigued by the idea. Before I knew it, she was promising to watch Sherlock so long as I promised to write my story idea. Like that was going to be any particular hardship for either of us. So here we are, only a couple of days later (I let the plot bunnies run rampant) at the beginning of what is doubtless a story written simply for our fangirlastic pleasure. Enjoy!
Chapter One
There were many things that Doctor John Watson looked forward to, but if he had to pick one thing to star on that list it would have to be the monthly piss-ups with the old boys. Not that any of them were particularly old, all things considered, but they were all ex-army or still serving and, compared to other men the same age as them, they felt ancient. They’d seen the worst of human nature and had returned home alive, if not quite whole any more. Because some of the things they’d seen - some of the things they’d experienced - went beyond words.
Of course, they didn’t use the piss-ups to remember the bad things. Not at all, they got together to relive the good old days, when they had fire running through their blood, when they were whole and fierce and invincible. There were a few who had been in the same squadrons, and John recognised a few faces from his surgeon’s table, but on the whole they had not served together. But they’d all been in the army and they all lived in the same area and they all liked to relive past glories over a few pints with the only other people who really understood.
John never got properly introduced to Rory Pond. He was a skinny lad, who looked too young to really fit in with the rest of them, but he had old eyes. The kind of old that, when John caught glimpses of the other man lost in memories, seemed to actually look through centuries, not the I’ve-seen-too-much-for-one-lifetime old of the others. He was a conundrum; a chaos of contradictions and, if there was one thing that living with Sherlock had done to John, it was make him curious about reading people from a glance.
None of their group remembered serving with him - which was hardly remarkable - but when asked about his service, when Rory brushed it off it was not with the confidence of knowing and not telling the other men had. It was nervously, as though he’d never fought in Afghanistan or Iraq. He had stories like the rest of them - more, perhaps, than most - and John was certain they were all mostly true. But there were always facts that he fudged or specifics that he glossed over.
If John didn’t know better he’d say secret service. But too much time (not enough?) with Sherlock convinced him that was not the case. No one ex-secret service was ever as young as Rory, and they’d certainly never go to the pub for a couple of pints with boys who’d only been army. But John was content to leave the mystery alone. He had his own secrets after all. None of these men knew about his blog - never would, if he had his way - they were the type who wouldn’t understand chasing around after a lunatic genius half a decade his junior in order to solve crimes. They’d done their bit for Queen and Country.
To be perfectly honest, John wasn’t entirely sure how they could stand it. A life - however short their stint in the army might be in real terms, it was always a lifetime - on the front line with bullets and blood and that intoxicating thrill of uncertainty… to return home to the mundane and dull? Where the most exciting thing they did was get drunk once a month with a bunch of other men who had a similar experience. Yes, John shared a past with these men. He did not share their present. Not at all.
But Rory… Rory still had life in his eyes. There was a hidden dare there, like he was just waiting for John to actually surprise him. Those old, old eyes, that’d seen so much. He could still be surprised, he knew he could be, but he was daring one of them, one of these modern day soldiers, to say something that would truly shock him.
Rory had started going to the ex-army meets for five months by the time John finally took him up on the dare. He told himself he shouldn’t, that if the others found out they wouldn’t understand John’s need for further excitement. They’d label him as ‘adrenaline junkie’ like so many before them had and would worry about whether he would suddenly bring out a gun and shoot them all just to feel something after the hell on Earth the war had put him through. But the dare in Rory’s eyes was too much for John to ignore. So he’d pulled him aside relatively early on Rory’s sixth visit to try and shock him.
“You’re a nurse,” John had started with because, God help him, yes he was starting to pick up some of Sherlock’s deductive techniques. And he was also a doctor and it didn’t take a genius (not of Sherlock’s level, anyway) to work out who was in the medical profession also. “But you have enough knowledge to be a doctor, you just haven’t passed your tests yet - no, you’ve no interest in taking the tests.”
Rory nodded. “Yep,” he said easily, taking a sip of beer. “And you’re an ex-army doctor bored with life.” He sounded bored.
And John couldn’t resist the shit-eating grin that spread across his face that was so similar to the one Sherlock wore when he’d struck gold on whatever case he happened to be working on. “Well… I wouldn’t say bored.”
Rory’s head snapped up and John suddenly had the younger man’s full attention.
“The others wouldn’t understand, but… I’m not just a GP.”
Nothing said again, but it was clear from Rory’s gaze that he was waiting for the punch line.
“If you found a dead body what would you do?” John asked instead of explaining a little further. Partly because he honestly wanted to hear Rory’s answer, but mostly because he spent the majority of his days with the most melodramatic person he’d ever met and he liked to even the score every once in a while - even if just a little bit.
Rory opened his mouth, but then stopped himself, hesitating on the edge of what most people considered to be the proper course of action and the way most likely to find the killer. “Cause of death?” he asked finally.
“Gunshot wound straight between the eyes.”
“Who’s the victim?”
John considered continuing the line of interrogation, but it was pointless. He didn’t have a particular case in mind and, unless Rory was a genius like Sherlock (just better at hiding it) John wasn’t really interested in hearing what his deductions might be. He had the answers he was looking for, just from what Rory had already said. His first reaction was not ‘phone the police’ dead body or not, obvious violent death or not. John felt oddly proud of that.
“Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?” he asked instead.
Rory frowned, obviously recognising the name from somewhere, but not knowing where. This was hardly surprising. Both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, when you started looking for their names, were mentioned quite a bit in the papers and other media. But only mentioned. If you didn’t look for them you wouldn’t see them. It was astounding, really, that they had such an ability to be entirely invisible whilst stating their names quite clearly to all who cared to listen.
“It rings a bell…” Rory said.
John shrugged. “Consulting detective,” he supplied. “Scotland Yard ask for his help when they’re in too deep. Which, if you’d believe what Sherlock has to say, is always.”
Rory chuckled. “Yeah, well. The police can be surprisingly blind when they want to be.”
The ex-army doctor chose to ignore that comment. Definitely not SAS. As far as he could tell, Rory was good at keeping secrets but not very good at keeping people from knowing he had a secret he wasn’t sharing with them. He’d make a rubbish spy. Rather than telling him that, he said, “He’s my flat mate.”
“And you’re his go-to guy?” Rory asked, and there was the knowing tone that John had been hoping for.
“Yes. For everything. From identifying cadavers to fetching milk.”
And, after the knowing tone, there was the surprise. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve been asked to identify too many dead bodies, but I know how it feels to be a general dogsbody.”
“Hmm, well, the Yarders are generally quite good at working out who the victim is without my help, but Sherlock claims the very presence of their lead forensics technician lowers the IQ of the room. Which basically translates to me being the only one Sherlock can stand for more than a few minutes.”
Rory appeared lost in thought for a moment, but it was not a mirror of years passed that John saw in his eyes this time. Instead it was a collection of fond, fleeting moments that were too precious to ever have a year or a date assigned to them. “We never needed a doctor,” he said, before adding. “Well, a proper doctor, probably. But-” he snapped back to the present and cut himself off, grinning sheepishly at John. “I may not have been entirely honest with you about being a retired army vet.”
John smirked at him and made a mental note to try and stop stealing Sherlock’s expressions. Still, John spent most of his time in the company either of a man who was undoubtedly ten times (if not more) his intelligence or around people who were of equivalent intellect. It was nice, every once in a while, to remember that, when compared to an average person, John was far and away a genius in his own right. Not that he was entirely convinced that Rory was an average person, but on intellect alone he was probably a little above the national average.
“I know,” he told Rory.
That comment earned him a narrowed gaze. “Oh?”
For a brief moment John considered ‘doing a Sherlock’ and rattling off a list of explanations and reasons before recalling that he wanted to make friends with this man and, though he himself found Sherlock’s deductions rather amazing, everyone else just thought it was a bit freaky. So he settled with, “You look too young.”
Rory gave an ever-so-slightly bitter laugh and John found himself wondering at the meaning behind it. When Rory didn’t offer an explanation, however, John didn’t ask for one. He had too many scars of his own to ask for an explanation of this young man’s. And, whether you considered emotional scars as bad as physical ones or not, it was clear that John had been poking too close to too tender a wound for a proper answer any time soon.
“I’m not really retired either,” he said. “I mean, yeah, I’m a GP. They all think it’s because I can’t afford to live in London on an army pension.”
“But that’s not what you mean by ‘not really retired’,” Rory noted. “To anyone else, working at any job is ‘not retired’. But in the army, it means-”
“I’m still in the thick of it,” John finished, downing the last of his pint and ordering another.
“So when you say that this ‘consulting detective’ of yours asks for your help every now and then, what you really mean is that he drags you into the middle of some absurd, crazy adventure, that you can’t escape from even if you wanted to. Which - coincidently - you don’t.”
John smiled widely at his new friend and nodded. “Speaks the voice of experience.”
Rory looked up at him and they shared a moment of understanding - there were some things about Rory that John would never understand and vice versa - in that moment it was clear they were kindred spirits. “Oh you have no idea,” the younger man groaned, dropping his head to the bar top. “My wife - I’d go to the ends of time for her - she doesn’t half come up with the craziest, half-cocked ideas.”
“Racing over rooftops,” John shot in. “In the middle of the night, to chase some crazy cab driver half way across London, me only a couple of weeks invalided home from Afghanistan, psychosomatic limp and all. I’ve only known Sherlock, what? Twenty-four hours at the most. You want to know what the bastard says?”
Rory shook his head, mirth already waiting behind friendly, much more open eyes.
“‘Dr Watson will take the room upstairs!’ ‘Says who?’ I ask. ‘Says the man at the door.’ So I go and open the door and it’s some bloke from the restaurant we’d been at before the chase started, handing me my cane and saying that Sherlock had texted him telling him I’d forgotten it - bloody nerve!”
“Got rid of your limp for you though,” Rory pointed out.
John grinned in reply. “Yeah. Much good it’ll do me when I die of a stroke years early because we’re chasing some hapenny criminal through London’s disused underground.”
“You love it,” Rory told him with such certainty that, even if John didn’t he might have been persuaded just by that tone of voice.
“So do you,” he replied.
“I love her,” Rory corrected and, for a brief, painful moment, John thinks that maybe - just maybe - they’re not as alike as he’d like to think. But then he opens the rest of his senses - not just his ears, listening to the words, but his eyes watching the body language, his foot where Rory’s excess energy rocks his slightly wonky chair against it every couple of seconds.
The other man’s grip on his glass is too tense, his eyes too bright, his body too carefully relaxed, for him to be perfectly happy as he is. No, Rory is like him, John thinks. He can happily pretend to be quiet and normal, and that it’s an inconvenience to follow his wife around on her adventures, but really… really, it’s all just an excuse. Because he’s got so good at following he takes his time in between trying to provoke a reaction, to get a new adventure started. And because there’s nothing he loves more than feeling the fire race through his veins, to know that he’s not invincible, but be perfectly happy with that, because that’s what makes it so exciting.
~To Be Continued~
NEXT>>
Seriously, if you're looking for someone to blame, it's stargatecrazy's fault. Blame her. ;) Or thank her. Whichever. No beta, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. All recognisable characters don't belong to me. Unfortunately. ;D
And if anyone comes up with a snazzy name for this, tell me!!! I've been racking my brains, but nothing sounds quite right.
Much love,
Yellow
xx
Warnings: Slash, het, drunkeness, oblivious geniuses and, in case you didn’t see that, crossover-ness. WIP (but first chapter can be read alone)
Pairings: Sherlock/John, River/Eleven, (background) Rory/Amy
Summary: River and John have a Plan. It’s a brilliant Plan, if a bit unoriginal. That’s alright though because the people they’re enacting the plan for take the term ‘socially retarded’ and prove exactly how much of an understatement it is. And, as capable as the Doctor and Sherlock are of adding one and one together, if the equation doesn’t involve actual quantifiable values, it goes straight over both of their heads. Which is rather why they had to resort to the Plan in the first place. Because hopefully their genius idiots know enough about emotions to know what to do when jealousy rears its ugly head…
AN: I feel like I should warn you about what you are about to read. My OTP is Sherlock/John (BBC only though). My friend’s OTP is Eleven/River. And we were sat in a very boring seminar trying not to kill ourselves and wondering what would happen if Captain Jack met River and the Doctor (*cough*THREESOME*cough*) when she happened to mention that she hadn’t seen Sherlock BBC. YES. I know. She was missing out on something that should never be missed out on. Ever. But nothing I was saying was convincing her to watch it, her excuse? She has ‘too many fandoms already’. As if anyone could ever have too many fandoms. Pfft. So I did what any good friend would do. I started scribbling down fanfiction ideas for a crossover. Eleven/River to tempt her and Sherlock/John because I can. Nothing serious, just enough to get her attention. But, well, the things is, you can’t start coming up with ideas for a fiction that crosses over two of your favourite fandoms without getting irrevocably intrigued by the idea. Before I knew it, she was promising to watch Sherlock so long as I promised to write my story idea. Like that was going to be any particular hardship for either of us. So here we are, only a couple of days later (I let the plot bunnies run rampant) at the beginning of what is doubtless a story written simply for our fangirlastic pleasure. Enjoy!
Chapter One
There were many things that Doctor John Watson looked forward to, but if he had to pick one thing to star on that list it would have to be the monthly piss-ups with the old boys. Not that any of them were particularly old, all things considered, but they were all ex-army or still serving and, compared to other men the same age as them, they felt ancient. They’d seen the worst of human nature and had returned home alive, if not quite whole any more. Because some of the things they’d seen - some of the things they’d experienced - went beyond words.
Of course, they didn’t use the piss-ups to remember the bad things. Not at all, they got together to relive the good old days, when they had fire running through their blood, when they were whole and fierce and invincible. There were a few who had been in the same squadrons, and John recognised a few faces from his surgeon’s table, but on the whole they had not served together. But they’d all been in the army and they all lived in the same area and they all liked to relive past glories over a few pints with the only other people who really understood.
John never got properly introduced to Rory Pond. He was a skinny lad, who looked too young to really fit in with the rest of them, but he had old eyes. The kind of old that, when John caught glimpses of the other man lost in memories, seemed to actually look through centuries, not the I’ve-seen-too-much-for-one-lifetime old of the others. He was a conundrum; a chaos of contradictions and, if there was one thing that living with Sherlock had done to John, it was make him curious about reading people from a glance.
None of their group remembered serving with him - which was hardly remarkable - but when asked about his service, when Rory brushed it off it was not with the confidence of knowing and not telling the other men had. It was nervously, as though he’d never fought in Afghanistan or Iraq. He had stories like the rest of them - more, perhaps, than most - and John was certain they were all mostly true. But there were always facts that he fudged or specifics that he glossed over.
If John didn’t know better he’d say secret service. But too much time (not enough?) with Sherlock convinced him that was not the case. No one ex-secret service was ever as young as Rory, and they’d certainly never go to the pub for a couple of pints with boys who’d only been army. But John was content to leave the mystery alone. He had his own secrets after all. None of these men knew about his blog - never would, if he had his way - they were the type who wouldn’t understand chasing around after a lunatic genius half a decade his junior in order to solve crimes. They’d done their bit for Queen and Country.
To be perfectly honest, John wasn’t entirely sure how they could stand it. A life - however short their stint in the army might be in real terms, it was always a lifetime - on the front line with bullets and blood and that intoxicating thrill of uncertainty… to return home to the mundane and dull? Where the most exciting thing they did was get drunk once a month with a bunch of other men who had a similar experience. Yes, John shared a past with these men. He did not share their present. Not at all.
But Rory… Rory still had life in his eyes. There was a hidden dare there, like he was just waiting for John to actually surprise him. Those old, old eyes, that’d seen so much. He could still be surprised, he knew he could be, but he was daring one of them, one of these modern day soldiers, to say something that would truly shock him.
Rory had started going to the ex-army meets for five months by the time John finally took him up on the dare. He told himself he shouldn’t, that if the others found out they wouldn’t understand John’s need for further excitement. They’d label him as ‘adrenaline junkie’ like so many before them had and would worry about whether he would suddenly bring out a gun and shoot them all just to feel something after the hell on Earth the war had put him through. But the dare in Rory’s eyes was too much for John to ignore. So he’d pulled him aside relatively early on Rory’s sixth visit to try and shock him.
“You’re a nurse,” John had started with because, God help him, yes he was starting to pick up some of Sherlock’s deductive techniques. And he was also a doctor and it didn’t take a genius (not of Sherlock’s level, anyway) to work out who was in the medical profession also. “But you have enough knowledge to be a doctor, you just haven’t passed your tests yet - no, you’ve no interest in taking the tests.”
Rory nodded. “Yep,” he said easily, taking a sip of beer. “And you’re an ex-army doctor bored with life.” He sounded bored.
And John couldn’t resist the shit-eating grin that spread across his face that was so similar to the one Sherlock wore when he’d struck gold on whatever case he happened to be working on. “Well… I wouldn’t say bored.”
Rory’s head snapped up and John suddenly had the younger man’s full attention.
“The others wouldn’t understand, but… I’m not just a GP.”
Nothing said again, but it was clear from Rory’s gaze that he was waiting for the punch line.
“If you found a dead body what would you do?” John asked instead of explaining a little further. Partly because he honestly wanted to hear Rory’s answer, but mostly because he spent the majority of his days with the most melodramatic person he’d ever met and he liked to even the score every once in a while - even if just a little bit.
Rory opened his mouth, but then stopped himself, hesitating on the edge of what most people considered to be the proper course of action and the way most likely to find the killer. “Cause of death?” he asked finally.
“Gunshot wound straight between the eyes.”
“Who’s the victim?”
John considered continuing the line of interrogation, but it was pointless. He didn’t have a particular case in mind and, unless Rory was a genius like Sherlock (just better at hiding it) John wasn’t really interested in hearing what his deductions might be. He had the answers he was looking for, just from what Rory had already said. His first reaction was not ‘phone the police’ dead body or not, obvious violent death or not. John felt oddly proud of that.
“Have you ever heard of Sherlock Holmes?” he asked instead.
Rory frowned, obviously recognising the name from somewhere, but not knowing where. This was hardly surprising. Both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, when you started looking for their names, were mentioned quite a bit in the papers and other media. But only mentioned. If you didn’t look for them you wouldn’t see them. It was astounding, really, that they had such an ability to be entirely invisible whilst stating their names quite clearly to all who cared to listen.
“It rings a bell…” Rory said.
John shrugged. “Consulting detective,” he supplied. “Scotland Yard ask for his help when they’re in too deep. Which, if you’d believe what Sherlock has to say, is always.”
Rory chuckled. “Yeah, well. The police can be surprisingly blind when they want to be.”
The ex-army doctor chose to ignore that comment. Definitely not SAS. As far as he could tell, Rory was good at keeping secrets but not very good at keeping people from knowing he had a secret he wasn’t sharing with them. He’d make a rubbish spy. Rather than telling him that, he said, “He’s my flat mate.”
“And you’re his go-to guy?” Rory asked, and there was the knowing tone that John had been hoping for.
“Yes. For everything. From identifying cadavers to fetching milk.”
And, after the knowing tone, there was the surprise. “Well, I can’t say that I’ve been asked to identify too many dead bodies, but I know how it feels to be a general dogsbody.”
“Hmm, well, the Yarders are generally quite good at working out who the victim is without my help, but Sherlock claims the very presence of their lead forensics technician lowers the IQ of the room. Which basically translates to me being the only one Sherlock can stand for more than a few minutes.”
Rory appeared lost in thought for a moment, but it was not a mirror of years passed that John saw in his eyes this time. Instead it was a collection of fond, fleeting moments that were too precious to ever have a year or a date assigned to them. “We never needed a doctor,” he said, before adding. “Well, a proper doctor, probably. But-” he snapped back to the present and cut himself off, grinning sheepishly at John. “I may not have been entirely honest with you about being a retired army vet.”
John smirked at him and made a mental note to try and stop stealing Sherlock’s expressions. Still, John spent most of his time in the company either of a man who was undoubtedly ten times (if not more) his intelligence or around people who were of equivalent intellect. It was nice, every once in a while, to remember that, when compared to an average person, John was far and away a genius in his own right. Not that he was entirely convinced that Rory was an average person, but on intellect alone he was probably a little above the national average.
“I know,” he told Rory.
That comment earned him a narrowed gaze. “Oh?”
For a brief moment John considered ‘doing a Sherlock’ and rattling off a list of explanations and reasons before recalling that he wanted to make friends with this man and, though he himself found Sherlock’s deductions rather amazing, everyone else just thought it was a bit freaky. So he settled with, “You look too young.”
Rory gave an ever-so-slightly bitter laugh and John found himself wondering at the meaning behind it. When Rory didn’t offer an explanation, however, John didn’t ask for one. He had too many scars of his own to ask for an explanation of this young man’s. And, whether you considered emotional scars as bad as physical ones or not, it was clear that John had been poking too close to too tender a wound for a proper answer any time soon.
“I’m not really retired either,” he said. “I mean, yeah, I’m a GP. They all think it’s because I can’t afford to live in London on an army pension.”
“But that’s not what you mean by ‘not really retired’,” Rory noted. “To anyone else, working at any job is ‘not retired’. But in the army, it means-”
“I’m still in the thick of it,” John finished, downing the last of his pint and ordering another.
“So when you say that this ‘consulting detective’ of yours asks for your help every now and then, what you really mean is that he drags you into the middle of some absurd, crazy adventure, that you can’t escape from even if you wanted to. Which - coincidently - you don’t.”
John smiled widely at his new friend and nodded. “Speaks the voice of experience.”
Rory looked up at him and they shared a moment of understanding - there were some things about Rory that John would never understand and vice versa - in that moment it was clear they were kindred spirits. “Oh you have no idea,” the younger man groaned, dropping his head to the bar top. “My wife - I’d go to the ends of time for her - she doesn’t half come up with the craziest, half-cocked ideas.”
“Racing over rooftops,” John shot in. “In the middle of the night, to chase some crazy cab driver half way across London, me only a couple of weeks invalided home from Afghanistan, psychosomatic limp and all. I’ve only known Sherlock, what? Twenty-four hours at the most. You want to know what the bastard says?”
Rory shook his head, mirth already waiting behind friendly, much more open eyes.
“‘Dr Watson will take the room upstairs!’ ‘Says who?’ I ask. ‘Says the man at the door.’ So I go and open the door and it’s some bloke from the restaurant we’d been at before the chase started, handing me my cane and saying that Sherlock had texted him telling him I’d forgotten it - bloody nerve!”
“Got rid of your limp for you though,” Rory pointed out.
John grinned in reply. “Yeah. Much good it’ll do me when I die of a stroke years early because we’re chasing some hapenny criminal through London’s disused underground.”
“You love it,” Rory told him with such certainty that, even if John didn’t he might have been persuaded just by that tone of voice.
“So do you,” he replied.
“I love her,” Rory corrected and, for a brief, painful moment, John thinks that maybe - just maybe - they’re not as alike as he’d like to think. But then he opens the rest of his senses - not just his ears, listening to the words, but his eyes watching the body language, his foot where Rory’s excess energy rocks his slightly wonky chair against it every couple of seconds.
The other man’s grip on his glass is too tense, his eyes too bright, his body too carefully relaxed, for him to be perfectly happy as he is. No, Rory is like him, John thinks. He can happily pretend to be quiet and normal, and that it’s an inconvenience to follow his wife around on her adventures, but really… really, it’s all just an excuse. Because he’s got so good at following he takes his time in between trying to provoke a reaction, to get a new adventure started. And because there’s nothing he loves more than feeling the fire race through his veins, to know that he’s not invincible, but be perfectly happy with that, because that’s what makes it so exciting.
~To Be Continued~
NEXT>>
Seriously, if you're looking for someone to blame, it's stargatecrazy's fault. Blame her. ;) Or thank her. Whichever. No beta, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. All recognisable characters don't belong to me. Unfortunately. ;D
And if anyone comes up with a snazzy name for this, tell me!!! I've been racking my brains, but nothing sounds quite right.
Much love,
Yellow
xx