Merlin fanfiction: "Keep Calm and Fandom On."
Title: Keep Calm and Fandom On
Fandom: Merlin, but could be considered as something of a Merlin/Sherlock crossover.
Summary: Modern-AU/Genderswap. Arthur Pendragon is a tolerant chap - no, really, he is - but even he has his limits when his best friend and flatmate is a raging BBC, Sherlockian fangirl.
Pairing: Arthur/girl-Merlin, background John/Sherlock
Rating: Light R
Warnings: Brief sensuality, one or two swear-words, and given the content, spoilers for the first series of Sherlock as well as some for the upcoming second series. Also makes heavy references towards the Sherlock fandom itself.
A/N: The first proper Merlin story I’ve written, and it is, basically, a fanfiction about fanfiction. Essentially, I had an idea, inspired by one or two recent girl-Merlin fics I’d read, about what it would be like if girl-Merlin was into fanfiction - more specifically, Sherlock fanfiction - and then the dam just burst; I couldn’t resist, and Arthur is such a wonderfully grumpy bugger.
*
Merlin Emrys, Arthur officially decides at twenty-one, is, without a doubt, the most mentally deranged woman he’s ever met in his life.
Of course, he’s always known this, ever since first year when she accidentally spilt Red Bull down his sixth-form rugby t-shirt during Freshers’ Week, and made an extremely lame crack right then and there in the middle of the kitchen about how his top was red anyway, so did it really matter...? She had the audacity, the sheer audacity then, to smile at him, chance a small grin and if it weren’t for the decade-old morals that his father had instilled him to ‘never hit/throw things at/spill water over a girl, even if it’s Morgana,’ then so help him...
Of course, they’ve been firm friends ever since, but all the same, it’s an unavoidable fact that Merlin is completely, utterly and totally bonkers. It’s just the way she is: the way her whole grinning countenance seems to fill up a room, the way she’s happy to shove on jeans and a t-shirt and that ridiculous blue-scarf and run out, always running, without makeup, standing out from the Goths and the fashion gurus of the crowd. The way she’s always laughing in that odd breathless way of hers, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as though she knows something Arthur doesn’t. More than that, it’s the way she seems to magically entice almost everyone into immediately liking her. Arthur will admit that he’s one of them - and anyway, he needed someone to flat-share with, and seeing as he knew what Merlin was like and she needed somewhere to stay as well, well, why not?
Anyway, it’s handy having a cleaner around the place.
(Morgana did hit him when he stupidly, innocently voiced that in front of her; he now officially hates his sister).
Merlin has two different varieties of the Keep Calm and Carry On posters up on the wall. She spends approximately ten minutes in the bathroom every morning, and that includes the time it takes to shower, and she is wrong when she says Arthur takes three times as long. Most mornings, Arthur tends to hear McFly or Natalie Merchant or some-such other rubbish floating from her bedroom door as she gets ready for lectures, and he will quite happily punch the wall if ‘Five Colours in Her Hair’ is played one more time. She has a massive collection of DVDs, all of which she refuses to loan out to Arthur, on the grounds that he never brings them back. He always brings them back - she’s still bitter about him losing her Harvey disc (Arthur had to study the film for his dad’s work-meet, okay? Anything to get on the right side of those old buffers older than the film itself, and so what if he enjoyed it?), even though he brought her a new one; brought her a whole James Stewart collection, in fact.
And she spends every other night on her computer, not Facebooking like every other student, but doing what she does best, and therefore her worst: being a complete and total fangirl.
Who absolutely loves fanfiction.
*
It’s to be expected, Arthur has thought to himself, more than once over a stiff drink; after all, she is studying English and Creative Writing. It doesn’t make it any easier though, certainly not for him.
‘Why can’t you just relieve your sexual frustrations through a Mills and Boon novel like everybody else?’ he had mumbled to her early on. Merlin had stopped right there in the middle of the pavement, and had given him a Look.
‘No,’ she said, very carefully and precisely, and then marched on ahead, suddenly stopping and wheeling around again.
‘And there’s more to it than... that,’ she argued, a sudden blush working its way up her face, because she was never as good as defending herself against Arthur’s jibes as Morgana. As he stared at her disbelievingly, she insisted, ‘It’s not! To me,’ she put her hand on her heart and oh no, this really was serious, wasn’t it, ‘it’s about... getting a good idea,’ she declared finally, ‘exploring something, just from a different angle. I can’t explain it; I just want to go deeper.’
There was something about how painfully honest that speech was, and also how true it was to Merlin’s character, that gallantly caused Arthur not to snicker at the concluding innuendo. Of course, Merlin’s always been like this, for as long as he’s known her. It just always seems to be a... a thing that she has, something she does: to look deeper than the surface and draw out her own perception, whether it’s believable to others or not. It’s right up there with her unique abilities of memorising weird poems such as The Jabber Wocky, eyes tingling with pleasure, and stuffing several Jammie Dodgers into her mouth at once, something she clearly learned from Will.
And certainly, Arthur could tolerate it, and he wouldn’t fault her for any of that, not really - but when that new BBC show Sherlock came out last year, it created a monster.
Basically, he found he simply could not sit through an episode without Merlin crowing joyfully ‘Aw, aren’t they sweet?’ during every single scene in which Sherlock and John featured, giggling like the idiot she is, her eyes alight, cheeks probably aching from the sheer strength of her grin.
He should have seen this coming the exact moment last summer when he saw the trailer advertising some sort of new modern update on Sherlock Holmes and mentioned it casually to Merlin, want to watch it? but he bloody well didn’t, did he? And now, Arthur has resolved to track down the people who created the show - that guy who does Doctor Who, and that other bloke who Arthur could swear did The League of Gentlemen? - and hold them to ransom for landing him with an even more idiotic creature for a flatmate and friend. He’s the one who has to live with it, after all. He’s the one who can recite at the drop of a hat the dialogue from all three episodes simply because Merlin won’t stop playing them. He’s the one Merlin dragged to the National Theatre in March to see Benedict Cumberbatch in Frankenstein before spending the whole train-ride home scribbling a new story idea down. The fact that the play itself was absolutely incredible with stunning stage-effects and an extremely strong cast in an adaption that was a very far cry from the extremely tedious original novel, is at this point, completely irrelevant.
Worst of all is every time they meet to grab coffee on-campus and Merlin is all abuzz to tell him her latest fanfiction idea, or even what new delights she’s been reading lately - ‘Oh, there’s this one I read yesterday, so adorable, when Sherlock and John are school-boys, and - ‘
‘I don’t want to know any more,’ he had held a hand up - he really didn’t - and Merlin looked confused, but then shook her head.
‘Oh no, they’re of age, don’t worry,’ she had taken a sip of her hot chocolate and Arthur was left feeling scandalised; that wasn’t even the point, ‘but it’s just so lovely, Arthur, the way they kiss at the end -‘
‘Enough!’ Arthur had barked a little too loudly, and promptly found himself on the receiving end of several pairs of glaring eyes, mainly from other blokes who looked from him to Merlin and clearly jumping to conclusions about how horrible he was being to his apparent girlfriend. Now - oh, and he really needed help - he knew how John Watson felt in the show.
Merlin just grinned into her coffee, the bitch.
It’s not just Merlin either, although Arthur will certainly admit she’s the worst. Gwen is almost - almost - as bad. Half the Saturday nights this year have been spent listening to Merlin and Gwen's consistent giggling over the latest Doctor Who episode (and he’s starting to wonder if this Moffat chap even sleeps). Merlin misses David Tennant - for all his ‘increasingly arrogant and despairing portrayal’ - but she and Gwen both absolutely love Matt Smith. Arthur feels infinitely grateful that Gwen’s cooing over the Eleventh Doctor is something that no longer bothers him, because as much as he cares for her, still, she does it a lot.
What does surprise him however is that Merlin doesn’t actually like - or ship, apparently, that’s what they’re calling it these days - the Rose and Doctor thing; he thought all the fans were into that. But no, apparently it’s all about Amy and Rory now. Arthur doesn’t know. He can’t keep up.
Merlin, however, can.
*
He comes home on an especially bad day after a blazing row with Vivian - don’t know what his father was thinking, he fumes, trying to pair them up in the first place, and how stupid he was to even consider it - and yanking his coat off he marches into the front room, stopping dead in his tracks.
Merlin is sitting there in front of her laptop, rocking backwards and forwards on the sofa, her hand over her mouth as she stares at the screen. Her eyes are bunched up, but with tears, thick and flowing and reddening her usually pale face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Arthur barks at her, with more force than he intended and Merlin shakes her head wordlessly, eyes still on the computer.
‘Merlin?’ But it’s without edge, blunt... because no matter how spectacularly pissed off Arthur is right now, if she's had some bad news -
‘It’s this story,’ Merlin manages with a whimper - oh, for the love of...! ‘It’s so sad, Arthur.’
Arthur can only make a truly valiant effort not to wring her neck by reminding himself that murder and concealment of the body on the Sherlock filming set - she is his best friend, after all, he should do something right by her in death - would not look good on his CV. Merlin may wreck havoc on his sanity, but she will not wreck havoc on his future. Instead, he digs in his pockets for a hanky. There’s only a battered old tissue - plenty of those that cause Merlin havoc during laundry, and she’s told him more than once that he’s disgusting - so he looks around and finally grabs a sock from the pair hanging on the radiator along with the rest of the laundry that she must have hung up earlier and offers it to her. Merlin looks dubious, but takes it anyway, wiping her eyes.
‘Let me guess,’ Arthur huffs, gaze hitting the ceiling, ‘there’s a big explosion, and everybody dies.’
‘No! Well, sort of - but Sherlock and John die, Arthur!’ Merlin wails at him, as though that’s the only thing that matters, which to her it probably is. ‘I mean, it’s fine, sort of, because they’re together in the afterlife and stuff - ‘ And stuff? You’re an English student, Arthur wants to remind her, ‘and it’s all lovely there, but the fact that they die - ‘
‘Merlin, pull yourself together,’ he sighs, popping through to the kitchen to grab the kitchen roll, ‘the last thing I want is you dribbling everywhere over Holmes’ and Watson’s eternal paradise.’
Ignoring her whimper of, ‘But it’s so...!’ he grabs the bundle of takeaway menus and throws them on the coffee-table, closing the laptop and handing her the roll at the same time. He doesn’t really have the heart or the mindset to mock her much tonight.
‘Choose a meal, I’m paying.’
Sniffing, Merlin reaches out for the Chinese menu. ‘Didn’t go too well with Vivian, then?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Hm.’ Merlin throws a considerably watery smile over at him; she looks almost sympathetic for a moment and really, it’s about time that someone felt sorry for him, because Arthur’s going to get hell about this from his dad later in the interests of maintaining ‘good business relations’ when all he actually has to do is simply pretend he likes Vivian’s dad for an hour and a half. Arthur has to do the same with Will for Merlin’s sake, after all.
‘Don’t worry,’ Merlin tells him, ‘John and Sarah clearly aren’t destined to be together either.’
No comment. No comment. Throwing a cushion at her is compromise, but absolutely no comment.
While he’s ordering the meal over the phone, he watches Merlin open up her laptop again and start typing away; her eyes shining despite her blotched face. That’s better, Arthur thinks.
That's cheerier.
‘Story for your seminar-leader?’ he throws over his shoulder.
‘Doctor Who-Sherlock crossover, actually,’ Merlin throws back cheerfully, and apparently chooses to ignore Arthur’s reaction which is to bang his head repeatedly against the fridge and bellow into it: ‘WHY. ME.’
She is so ridiculous. She really is.
*
Sometimes, Merlin becomes incredibly sad.
And not just her ridiculous kind of Oh-Sherlock-and-John-are-dead-even-though-they’re-only-characters-and-can-be-revived-in-another-story sad. Properly sad. She drifts around the flat, preoccupied, bumping distractedly into things, hiding her gaze away, which is foolish, really. Arthur always knows.
Sometimes Merlin’s worrying about her Mum, all on her own back in Ealdor; worries herself sick sometimes, uselessly, and then it’s etched all over her face after that that she just wants to return to her little village, just wants to be back with her mother for a while.
Sometimes she wants to chat to Will, just to have a catch-up with the bloke she considers to be her brother, and he’s too busy shagging his latest conquest to spare even five minutes for her on the phone.
Sometimes she’s missing her dad, and Arthur catches her looking through her photo-albums with still, glazed eyes, lost in memories he doesn’t know and that she rarely ever shares. When she does speak of her dad, it’s brief, but it’s a strange kind of happy, the voice of someone who actually remembers what her lost parent felt like, the sheer sense of him as opposed to having had to survive on brief stories and photographs. It’s bad enough, selfish enough, that Arthur should feel that envy, but it’s even worse when he can’t help thinking how jolly “Big Bal Emrys” seems (remembered thus by both Will and Merlin’s godfather Gaius). With his kind, crinkling eyes - Merlin’s eyes, Arthur always thinks - and a wild, thick beard that Baby Merlin is clinging to in some pictures as she gazes up adoringly at her daddy, it’s more than obvious that Balinor is the kind of man whom Arthur’s own father would have absolutely hated on sight, for not shaving if nothing else.
And sometimes... well, a lot of times... Merlin makes mistakes. Fair enough, though, everyone does. Life gets in the way and she’s left wondering aloud, distractedly, almost to herself, if she’s made the right decision. More than once, she ends up learning the hard way - like back in March, when she took a shot at dating a seemingly-nice American exchange student in her poetry class who actually turned out to be a bit of an assuming, over-adoring stalker, turning up at the flat uninvited because he was clingy, and she was an idiot, and an overly-trusting one at that. It was left to Arthur - as always - to save the day; meaning, in this case, to block the front door and refuse to let the bloke in, explaining that Merlin was busy, because she was.
Anyway, whatever the reason for Merlin’s anguish, it’s often unbearable - usually because the flat just becomes so quiet. And Arthur doesn’t really know what to do about it, except make awful tea. Merlin’s is far better, he’ll admit it. Just not to her face.
After a while, Merlin will boot up her computer, and sit in front of it. She’ll think for a minute, and then she’ll be off, tap-tap-tapping away in that noisy, irritating fashion of hers, spilling out her pain through the latest versions of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Usually, it’s all to do with touch, although nothing pornographic because that’s not really her thing. She writes... in a way that Arthur can only think of as comforting, and very human as well. From kisses against the shoulder - an apparent favourite of hers - to strong embraces and pressed lips against the cheek, well... it may be ridiculous in theory, but when applied to the tales of Merlin - or Emrys-Cub, as she’s known online - it seems to work, somehow.
And for Arthur, that’s Merlin’s definitive writing-style right there; because clumsy she may be, but Merlin has always, always been gentle - it’s an inevitable part of her character.
And the next morning, when Arthur is stumbling out of bed, justifiably grumpy because he’s run out of toothpaste or there’s no Weetos and Merlin’s already sitting in front of her computer, tea in hand as she reads the reviews that some kind person has left, and her face is beaming with the result - well, if it makes her happy, then who on earth is Arthur to complain?
(Merlin could talk for hours on the subject of Arthur and Complaining, but that’s another story, and he’s threatened to hide her Being Human box-set if she does, anyway).
In any case, it keeps her in practise, and hopefully, by the time she’s unleashed her first original story in the world, it won’t be too atrocious and he can admit to actually knowing her.
*
‘I seem to be writing a lot of gender-swap recently,’ Merlin comments out of nowhere as Arthur wanders through the lounge with his rugby kit. She’s staring at her computer, forehead contorted in the slightest frown and Arthur’s initially a little too geared up about getting his stuff packed for practise to actually pay any notice. Then the sheer absurdity of her words catches up with him and he glances around. It’s the first time she’s really spoken all day, he realises.
‘Sorry?’
‘Gender-swap,’ Merlin says, without looking up from the screen, ‘I’m writing a lot of it.’
‘Right...’ Arthur turns back to his kit, cautiously, ‘what does that mean?’
‘I keep writing John as a girl,’ Merlin throws across and as much as it doesn’t make sense, one thing that Arthur can definitely deduce is that she doesn’t sound happy about it.
‘What?’
Merlin looks up at him in something like exasperation, but there’s something odd about the expression, as though it’s not directly aimed at him. More - at herself. It’s familiar, actually.
‘Every time I get an idea, and just want to write for a few minutes,’ she says, sounding as though she’s trying to be as patient as possible and if either one of them has the right to sound like that, then it’s definitely Arthur, not her, ‘I keep writing John as a girl. Don’t ask me why.’
‘A girl.’ Arthur isn’t quite sure what to say to this.
‘Well,’ Merlin amends, ‘his female counterpart, Joan. Or Joanna. Although some people also call her Jane.’ She shrugs, as though this makes perfect sense. ‘Anyway, for whatever reason, every time I write something for Sherlock now, I use her instead of John.’
Arthur is torn between ignoring her and leaving for practise, and approaching the sofa very slowly and cautiously and asking very patiently just how many Jammie Dodgers she has had today. It’s not even that it’s simply sheer nonsense, it’s just that Merlin looks so unnecessarily worried about something he just can’t see.
‘So... why does that matter?’ He ends up throwing his kit down and folding his arms down at her. ‘Why worry about this... this gender-swap thing?’ He blinks at the question, at himself for even asking it. Tries, then, to imagine Martin Freeman as a girl. ‘How does that even work, anyway?’
Uh-oh, no, now he sounds interested. This won’t end well.
‘Jessica Hynes,’ Merlin throws up at him; he blinks quizzically back at her and she sighs. ‘Yvonne in Shaun of the Dead?’
Oh. Oh. Something flashes across Arthur’s mind.
‘Oh, her,’ he snaps his fingers down at Merlin. ‘Yeah, I know her.’
Merlin instantly beams; nods. ‘She also played Daisy in Spaced, and Joan Redfern in two episodes of Doctor Who. Played the same character's great-grand-daughter in David Tennant’s last episode.’
There’s an extremely awkward pause.
‘... Right,’ Arthur says finally, ‘How’s she relevant?’
Merlin bites her lip, oddly mischievous as she warms to her theme. ‘She’s the image of our female John. Same facial structure.’ She clenches her own chin. ‘Even the same nose. Every time I write Joan, I think of her. I reckon she should play Harry next series.’
It’s an annoying trait of Merlin’s that she can just throw actor and character names around at the drop of a hat and Arthur can’t even remember the nametag of the bloke who last served him at Subway. Does he really have no life outside classes, rugby and this? he gripes to himself, returning to his bag, before he remembers the original point of the conversation, which takes some difficulty given the absolute rubbish that Merlin comes out with half the time, and turns back to her.
‘So this Hynes actress is, basically, your... portrayal of John Watson,’ he checks, ‘or rather, in this case, your Joan Watson.’
Merlin nods, solemnly. ‘Yep.’
‘And... you ship this Joan with Sherlock.’ It’s honestly depressing how Merlin’s face momentarily lights up at his proper use of terminology. ‘As in, you write stories about John... as a girl... with Sherlock? Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So...’ Arthur leaves his palms in midair, open. ‘What’s the problem, exactly?’ Okay, so it might seem a bit weird, but they are only characters, and anyway, the way Arthur understands it, wasn’t Sherlock Holmes himself actually brought back from the dead? He... tolerates Merlin, he really does, but sometimes her sheer love for fiction can see her becoming irrational, because the way she bangs on about it, you’d think it was real.
Now, she leans against the sofa-back, and stares sideways up at him. ‘Not a problem,’ she says, musingly, oddly thoughtful, ‘Just... it bothers me that I can’t seem to write John anymore.’
Arthur sighs towards the heavens. He’s far too young, and far too good-looking for this. ‘Merlin, you cannot be obsessed with Martin Freeman every single bloody second of the day. It’s bad enough you cooing over him in Hot Fuzz and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.’
‘No,’ Merlin rolls her eyes in that you-just-don’t-get-it-do-you way she has, a look she gives him a lot, actually, ‘It just... it worries me.’ She meets Arthur’s gaze head-on. ‘I liked writing John as a woman, you know? Experimenting, trying hard to make her all the things that are, essentially John, and now I seem stuck with her.’
Arthur is speechless. Literally, speechless.
‘See, it all started,’ Merlin sits up, clearly taking his failure to communicate as further interest; er, it's really not, ‘when I read one or two really good fanfictions about how Sherlock disappears ‘cause of, you know, Reichenbach - ‘
‘The waterfall,’ Arthur finds his voice again. His knowledge of the Holmes canon is limited, but thanks to that big dusty 1950s tome of the complete words on their bookshelf that both his father and Morgana liked to read, and that he skimmed through to see what all the fuss was about, he knows that much at least. Really though, all he really knows are facts he gained from the latest film, which ironically Merlin is nowhere near as enthusiastic about, although she loves Robert Downey Jr.
‘Yeah, that - what if John was Joan? You know, because someone you love disappears into those treacherous falls, and you’re left behind. I’ve got one idea about how John might take it...’
Here, Merlin cuts off, swallowing; apparently, the Reichenbach gimmick is going to be used this coming series and it’s a finale that she’s both anticipating and dreading. It’s something that Arthur’s quite surprised by, actually, because they both thought for a while that the pool in the third episode was Reichenbach. Oh well... in any case, he’s going to make sure the flat is fully stocked with tissues. The cliff-hanger to the last series was bad enough, if only because of Merlin keeping him up all night with varying levels of That’s utterly brilliant, but so unfair! - followed by ‘But look, Arthur, John is Sherlock’s heart! His actual human heart! After he said he didn’t have one, but he does, and it’s just so...!' complete with burying her face in his pillow.
Add to that the fact that she jumped about five feet in the air when her Mum sent her the first series on DVD, and, well... (even if Arthur did have to cut it open for her because the idiots in HMV had neglected to remove the security-tag).
‘But then,’ Merlin adds, apparently recovering, ‘there’s always all these other what-ifs. How would Joan take it? How would she feel? Would the emotional position change? Would she, for example, feel like a widow?’ She shrugs up at him. ‘Stuff like that.’
Arthur shrugs as he resumes packing his kit. ‘Okay.’ It is, after all, the kind of thing Merlin would do - and actually, it doesn’t really sound that barmy when she puts it like that. It sounds... writer-typical. Yeah, there’s a good phrase. Writer-typical.
‘So I started it,’ Merlin adds, ‘and now I can’t stop doing it. I can’t balance it out. I just keep churning out genderswap stories, and well... I’m scared some of the people online will think I’m homophobic.’
It’s said quietly and quite, quite literally, Arthur has to bite back a laugh at that because Merlin - his Merlin - homophobic? To slap such a label on her is about as doable as breaking into his father’s en-suite and taking a hot bubble-bath; in other words, can’t be done unless you're a complete moron with nothing but utter contempt for life.
Actually, forget tact; Arthur does laugh. He thinks he’s justified.
‘You?’ he jabs his glove down at her, ‘the woman who’s screaming “Just kiss him?!” every time we watch “the drugs moment” in A Study in Pink or “the twirling moment” in The Blind Banker?’ And honestly, she doesn’t have to look so thrilled that he’s remembered all that; he did use air-quotes. ‘Merlin, you know you’re not like that. I know you’re not like that.’
In fact, if he's being really honest, what Merlin does has always been a sign of how accepting she is, how kind she is, even, because for all her idiocies, she is also both those things to a considerable degree. Sometimes it leads her into trouble - creepy stalking Yank, step forward please - but still, it’s a good thing for her to be. It’s a good thing for the world.
It’s a good thing to Arthur.
‘I know,’ she argues, ‘just... Joan took over a bit, and now I can’t get rid of her and - ‘
‘It’s a character, Merlin.’ Arthur thinks he could - literally - bash this fact into her brain over and over and over again, and it still wouldn’t register. ‘And if you enjoy writing about her; if it makes you happy...’
‘It does,’ Merlin nods, ‘I just wish I knew what had happened with John.’
She shrugs at him, twining and untwining her hands and she looks so bothered about it that Arthur is bothered in turn. Merlin, after all, offers up about a third of her life-expectancy to the joys of fandom, in exchange for pleasure and entertainment and just keeping in practice. So when something like this worries her, well...
‘Look, Merlin,’ Arthur steps across, sits down beside her; his hand hovers in midair and then tentatively, he pats her knee, ‘it’s alright if you want to write John as a girl. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, you’re a writer, and you are a... marginally satisfactory one - don’t look so pleased,’ he adds hastily, as her grin momentarily dazzles him.
He’s no idea where he’s going with this; he’s not the writer here, after all, so he sticks with what he's sure about. ‘I mean, you experiment, right? Don’t all writers do that? If you have possibilities, and you have more than one way of exploring them...’ He shrugs at her, ‘just don’t beat yourself up over it. If you can’t write John right now - well then, just enjoy playing around with this... this Joan character. You can’t force an idea, after all, so don't try too hard. You’ll strain your brain - or what there is of it, anyway.’
Merlin shakes her head, but she’s smiling all the same. She glances across, her mouth rueful. ‘Thanks.’
Arthur nods, looking ahead. ‘No problem, happy to help.’
They sit in silence for a long moment and then Arthur decides, why the hell not, he’s been nice enough to her for the past five minutes, and anyway, she is upset. So he puts an arm around her and pats her shoulder. Merlin throws him a look, almost fond, but nestles her head against her shoulder readily, silently. Arthur breathes in, breathes out, and has the vague thought that actually, they’re not too different from Sherlock and John.
... No, that’s ridiculous. Merlin could never be a consulting detective - the idea is in fact extremely laughable - and brave though Arthur may be, he’s a rugby-player, not a doctor or a soldier. Obliterate that thought, please.
‘Just let the ideas come and go...’ he mumbles to Merlin, because the silence and his own thoughts are starting to un-nerve him. Something occurs to him, that poem about thick fog and making visits, and so he adds with a smirk, ‘Talking of Michelangelo.’
Really, it’s unlucky for him that Merlin’s copy of Advanced Poetry: Volume 2 is sitting on the coffee-table just then; she whacks him repeatedly with it ‘for abusing Prufrock, you complete and utter clotpole,’ until he takes a tactical retreat and flees from the flat with his kit.
‘You’re going to be insufferable when the second series comes out,’ he bellows back at her when he’s a safe distance from the front door.
‘In the words of the Tenth Doctor: Oh yes!’ she returns, poetry volume dangerous in hand, but she’s laughing now, as she says it, no longer worried, and even though people in the street are staring at them, he can’t deny he’s impressed she could hit like that. Obviously she’s the one cooking tonight now, after that little stunt, but all the same...
Maybe he should try and let her look after herself a bit more, he muses on the way up to campus; after all, she certainly seems capable of it. And anyway, as he reminds himself in situations like these, at least she's not into Twilight.
*
Merlin is actually more unbearable as a fangirl than she is when it’s that time of the month; the fridge is always stuffed full of Galaxy chocolate that she’s gracious enough to share, although there are endless cups of tea and a consequential shortage of mugs, tampons everywhere, and she’s withdrawn and grumpy. It’s still difficult, although a different kind of difficult, and Arthur will admit it still makes a nice change to living with Morgana; she threw things at him, and he still wasn’t allowed to retaliate.
Merlin is trying to finish a particularly gruelling essay and the stress is clear on her face as she taps away at it, before pushing it aside and rubbing her forehead. Arthur glances over his textbook at her.
‘You alright?’
‘Tired,’ Merlin groans; Arthur glances at the clock.
‘Well, your essay isn’t due in until Thursday, so just try and relax,’ he argues, putting his textbook down against his better judgement. ‘Try, I dunno, reading some hardcore porn.’
It’s meant jovially, but he regrets it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, as soon as Merlin’s face closes down even more. Of course, Arthur remembers, chides himself, of course. Merlin will read a good sensual, sexy love-scene - and it’s disturbing, Arthur thinks, that he even knows this; it’s like giving her completely free access to the magazines under his bed - as much as the next woman, of course she does, but for her personally, the joy is always in the possibility, in the emotion, the touches and the implications. The simple skin against skin is what she finds stress-relieving, the simple touch of love.
‘Sorry,’ he tells her quickly; puts his book aside and leans forward. ‘Is there anything I can fetch you?’
Merlin shakes her head, looks away. ‘No. Thankyou.’
Arthur huffs and they sit in silence for a while longer; Merlin glares at her screen in frustration before slamming the laptop shut and stomping off to her room. Arthur bites his lip; contemplates his hands as he wonders.
*
Later he knocks on Merlin’s door and finds her sitting on her bed, shoulders shaking with quiet tears. It’s not the hysterical crying he’s used to - ‘Oh, Arthur, there’s this story where Sherlock and John are in Sweden and it’s so romantic’ - uncaring if she’s heard. This is her trying not to be heard, trying to conceal her anguish.
‘Merlin,’ he sighs, ‘Merlin, are you alright?’ He walks over to the bed and sits down next to her. She looks up at him, face tight and bound and stressed and he reaches across to ruffle her black hair.
‘Merlin?’
She stares at him for a long moment and then shakes her head down at the keyboard. Something’s coming, he can feel it, as she gives a smile that’s not really a smile at all.
‘I wanted to talk to Will,’ she whimpers, ‘but he’s gone off with this new bird of his tonight and I just wanted to talk to someone, and I can’t talk to Mum because she doesn’t really understand it, and she’d ask me what the big deal is anyway, but I can’t seem to...’
‘Merlin,’ Arthur interrupts, as she draws her knees up. ‘What. Is. It?’
She shakes her head miserably. ‘I’m going to fail the year, Arthur, I just know I am,’ she runs her hands through her hair, her shoulders trembling with fresh sobs, ‘I can’t do this essay because it’s too fucking hard,’ and this must be serious, because Merlin rarely ever swears, ‘because I chose the wrong question because I’m a fucking idiot, and I just want some relief but I can’t seem to get any, because I can’t seem to find anything I like!’
She looks Arthur right in the eye and he understands.
‘You mean the - the fanfiction?’ he asks, ‘the Sherlock and John stuff?’
Merlin nods and whimpers. Arthur shakes his head. It may be inappropriate, but at times like these, Merlin truly does make him smile, because she really is ridiculous.
‘Merlin, look at me,’ he tells her evenly and she does. ‘First of all, you won’t fail,’ he talks in as low a voice as he can manage, ‘you’ve made it through the first two years with flying colours; I know you won’t fail this. Second, at the end of the day - it’s just another essay.’
(And yes, he is being a slight hypocrite here, because he’s the one swearing the house down and ranting about how his future is ruined, completely ruined when he has an essay he can’t do, but Merlin brings him tea and biscuits and puts her headphones on, lets him get on with it, lets him shout himself hoarse).
‘Third,’ he continues, ‘you’re really stressed out, your period’s on, and I know it turns women into hormonal tigers, if Morgana is anything to go by.’ Merlin cracks a smile at that, rewarding him.
‘And fourth, to the fanfiction... Merlin, it’s alright,’ Arthur assures her, because he has a feeling that simply telling her not to worry about something so minute isn’t going to be enough, ‘I know it’s something that means something to you, but you know, you’ve been in love with the show for over a year now. It’s fine if you’re looking for something new.’
‘I can’t seem to ship them as much as I used to,’ Merlin shakes her head, ‘every time I try and write something, I think too much about it and I just stress myself out.’
‘Because you’re forcing it,’ Arthur tells her, sounding, to his surprise, more patient than he feels, but yelling at her at this stage is hardly going to do anyone any good, ‘you’re just trying to prove a point, that you can write both Sherlock and John, and Sherlock and Joan. You don’t have to, Merlin.’ He reaches across and rubs her knee, because she really doesn’t. ‘You don’t have to bully your brain into something just because you don’t feel it at that particular moment. You just need to do what feels good for you. It’s meant to be relaxing, it’s not meant to tear you apart.’
Merlin smiles ruefully, wipes her eyes with her hand.
‘Just go back to basics,’ Arthur continues, ‘you know what stories you like; I know what stories you like. You like Joan as well as John,’ he shrugs, ‘fine. You’re not into porn? Doubly fine. You need a break from them, well, go ahead. You’ve just been so crazy about them you don’t always know when to stop and just do other things.’ Wow, listen to him; he actually sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Maybe he should do this for a living.
‘I’m weird, aren’t I?’ Merlin gives a lopsided smile and Arthur nods back.
‘Yes, you are weird,’ he tells her, ‘but it takes guts to admit it. You should be knighted.’
He pats her knee and makes to go.
‘Arthur,’ Merlin’s voice is sudden, direct, as is the sudden grab on his arm. They look at each other for a minute, neither of them quite knowing what to say, it’s clear on both their faces, and then Arthur very slowly, very carefully, sits down on the bed, right in the middle of it. He’s only very vaguely aware that technically, he’s blocking her way out.
‘... Thankyou,’ Merlin manages, ‘I know it annoys you, but you... you get it. No-one else does. I mean, Will knows about it, but he was always into, you know, the heavier stuff,’ she shrugs, ‘and I wasn’t, and well... he prefers going out and actually doing it.’
Really, that’s news to Arthur as much as anything. He never knew he was the one whom Merlin considered to be most tolerant of her oddities. But then, they’re not really oddities though, are they? They’re just... Merlin.
‘It’s good,’ he tells her, ‘it’s healthy. But only if you do what you want to do, and you don’t stress yourself out about it.’ Before he can stop himself, he leans across and kisses her forehead. ‘You raving lunatic.’
It’s only intended as a small kiss, honestly, it is. But it’s not enough, really, not for either of them now; like a click in a lock, Merlin’s eyes are on his face as Arthur draws back. There’s a split-second in which he realises that she realises, and then she’s putting her hand behind his head and pulling him in to press her mouth against his.
It’s a tentative, gentle kiss, a kiss between friends, but there is something, Arthur can feel it building, building right up and he can feel Merlin start to relax beneath him, she’s relaxing now, and she is so, so lovely when she’s kissing, she’s so soft, her mouth is soft, her hair is soft and she’s just -
She pulls back, biting her lip and Arthur realises he has his hands on both sides of her face, cupping her cheeks.
‘... In my favourite story,’ Merlin seems to manage finally and strangely enough, Arthur knows exactly which one she’s talking about, ‘when they kiss... John can taste Sherlock, and I can taste you.’ She smiles at him, goofily, happily. ‘Your tea, and... oh and you’ve been at the Galaxy chocolate, haven’t you, you greedy clotpole?’
‘Shut up, Merlin,’ Arthur says, and then he kisses her again.
*
There’s no rush, but then there really doesn't need to be.
He leans over Merlin in her bra and knickers on the living-room floor, his pillow under her head as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy plays on the television. Merlin is a little bit sneaky; she keeps trying to watch it over his shoulder, laughing, even though she’s humming at the kisses he leaves behind on her skin, smiling against his mouth.
‘Turn over, sweetheart,’ she tells him at one point, the name falling easily off her tongue, ‘onto your stomach... yeah, that’s it.’
Arthur, silently obedient, places his own head against the pillow, hums in turn as she kisses along his back and shoulders, nuzzles the nape of his neck, sucks on his ear, kind, thoughtful, accepting, imaginative Merlin.
Later, Merlin lies sprawled against the sofa with her laptop, having a last look in before she goes to bed, the frown lines around her face relaxing. Arthur leans down in a truly awful pretence of picking up a mug so he can sneak a peek at the screen. Oh, right, she’s starting her own schoolboy alternate-universe story; she’s always loved those, because she thinks they’re sweet. About time she did one of her own. Arthur smiles, and kisses Merlin’s neck.
She’s still ridiculous, he decides, but she is truly lovely with it.
*
Fandom: Merlin, but could be considered as something of a Merlin/Sherlock crossover.
Summary: Modern-AU/Genderswap. Arthur Pendragon is a tolerant chap - no, really, he is - but even he has his limits when his best friend and flatmate is a raging BBC, Sherlockian fangirl.
Pairing: Arthur/girl-Merlin, background John/Sherlock
Rating: Light R
Warnings: Brief sensuality, one or two swear-words, and given the content, spoilers for the first series of Sherlock as well as some for the upcoming second series. Also makes heavy references towards the Sherlock fandom itself.
A/N: The first proper Merlin story I’ve written, and it is, basically, a fanfiction about fanfiction. Essentially, I had an idea, inspired by one or two recent girl-Merlin fics I’d read, about what it would be like if girl-Merlin was into fanfiction - more specifically, Sherlock fanfiction - and then the dam just burst; I couldn’t resist, and Arthur is such a wonderfully grumpy bugger.
*
Merlin Emrys, Arthur officially decides at twenty-one, is, without a doubt, the most mentally deranged woman he’s ever met in his life.
Of course, he’s always known this, ever since first year when she accidentally spilt Red Bull down his sixth-form rugby t-shirt during Freshers’ Week, and made an extremely lame crack right then and there in the middle of the kitchen about how his top was red anyway, so did it really matter...? She had the audacity, the sheer audacity then, to smile at him, chance a small grin and if it weren’t for the decade-old morals that his father had instilled him to ‘never hit/throw things at/spill water over a girl, even if it’s Morgana,’ then so help him...
Of course, they’ve been firm friends ever since, but all the same, it’s an unavoidable fact that Merlin is completely, utterly and totally bonkers. It’s just the way she is: the way her whole grinning countenance seems to fill up a room, the way she’s happy to shove on jeans and a t-shirt and that ridiculous blue-scarf and run out, always running, without makeup, standing out from the Goths and the fashion gurus of the crowd. The way she’s always laughing in that odd breathless way of hers, her eyes crinkling at the corners, as though she knows something Arthur doesn’t. More than that, it’s the way she seems to magically entice almost everyone into immediately liking her. Arthur will admit that he’s one of them - and anyway, he needed someone to flat-share with, and seeing as he knew what Merlin was like and she needed somewhere to stay as well, well, why not?
Anyway, it’s handy having a cleaner around the place.
(Morgana did hit him when he stupidly, innocently voiced that in front of her; he now officially hates his sister).
Merlin has two different varieties of the Keep Calm and Carry On posters up on the wall. She spends approximately ten minutes in the bathroom every morning, and that includes the time it takes to shower, and she is wrong when she says Arthur takes three times as long. Most mornings, Arthur tends to hear McFly or Natalie Merchant or some-such other rubbish floating from her bedroom door as she gets ready for lectures, and he will quite happily punch the wall if ‘Five Colours in Her Hair’ is played one more time. She has a massive collection of DVDs, all of which she refuses to loan out to Arthur, on the grounds that he never brings them back. He always brings them back - she’s still bitter about him losing her Harvey disc (Arthur had to study the film for his dad’s work-meet, okay? Anything to get on the right side of those old buffers older than the film itself, and so what if he enjoyed it?), even though he brought her a new one; brought her a whole James Stewart collection, in fact.
And she spends every other night on her computer, not Facebooking like every other student, but doing what she does best, and therefore her worst: being a complete and total fangirl.
Who absolutely loves fanfiction.
*
It’s to be expected, Arthur has thought to himself, more than once over a stiff drink; after all, she is studying English and Creative Writing. It doesn’t make it any easier though, certainly not for him.
‘Why can’t you just relieve your sexual frustrations through a Mills and Boon novel like everybody else?’ he had mumbled to her early on. Merlin had stopped right there in the middle of the pavement, and had given him a Look.
‘No,’ she said, very carefully and precisely, and then marched on ahead, suddenly stopping and wheeling around again.
‘And there’s more to it than... that,’ she argued, a sudden blush working its way up her face, because she was never as good as defending herself against Arthur’s jibes as Morgana. As he stared at her disbelievingly, she insisted, ‘It’s not! To me,’ she put her hand on her heart and oh no, this really was serious, wasn’t it, ‘it’s about... getting a good idea,’ she declared finally, ‘exploring something, just from a different angle. I can’t explain it; I just want to go deeper.’
There was something about how painfully honest that speech was, and also how true it was to Merlin’s character, that gallantly caused Arthur not to snicker at the concluding innuendo. Of course, Merlin’s always been like this, for as long as he’s known her. It just always seems to be a... a thing that she has, something she does: to look deeper than the surface and draw out her own perception, whether it’s believable to others or not. It’s right up there with her unique abilities of memorising weird poems such as The Jabber Wocky, eyes tingling with pleasure, and stuffing several Jammie Dodgers into her mouth at once, something she clearly learned from Will.
And certainly, Arthur could tolerate it, and he wouldn’t fault her for any of that, not really - but when that new BBC show Sherlock came out last year, it created a monster.
Basically, he found he simply could not sit through an episode without Merlin crowing joyfully ‘Aw, aren’t they sweet?’ during every single scene in which Sherlock and John featured, giggling like the idiot she is, her eyes alight, cheeks probably aching from the sheer strength of her grin.
He should have seen this coming the exact moment last summer when he saw the trailer advertising some sort of new modern update on Sherlock Holmes and mentioned it casually to Merlin, want to watch it? but he bloody well didn’t, did he? And now, Arthur has resolved to track down the people who created the show - that guy who does Doctor Who, and that other bloke who Arthur could swear did The League of Gentlemen? - and hold them to ransom for landing him with an even more idiotic creature for a flatmate and friend. He’s the one who has to live with it, after all. He’s the one who can recite at the drop of a hat the dialogue from all three episodes simply because Merlin won’t stop playing them. He’s the one Merlin dragged to the National Theatre in March to see Benedict Cumberbatch in Frankenstein before spending the whole train-ride home scribbling a new story idea down. The fact that the play itself was absolutely incredible with stunning stage-effects and an extremely strong cast in an adaption that was a very far cry from the extremely tedious original novel, is at this point, completely irrelevant.
Worst of all is every time they meet to grab coffee on-campus and Merlin is all abuzz to tell him her latest fanfiction idea, or even what new delights she’s been reading lately - ‘Oh, there’s this one I read yesterday, so adorable, when Sherlock and John are school-boys, and - ‘
‘I don’t want to know any more,’ he had held a hand up - he really didn’t - and Merlin looked confused, but then shook her head.
‘Oh no, they’re of age, don’t worry,’ she had taken a sip of her hot chocolate and Arthur was left feeling scandalised; that wasn’t even the point, ‘but it’s just so lovely, Arthur, the way they kiss at the end -‘
‘Enough!’ Arthur had barked a little too loudly, and promptly found himself on the receiving end of several pairs of glaring eyes, mainly from other blokes who looked from him to Merlin and clearly jumping to conclusions about how horrible he was being to his apparent girlfriend. Now - oh, and he really needed help - he knew how John Watson felt in the show.
Merlin just grinned into her coffee, the bitch.
It’s not just Merlin either, although Arthur will certainly admit she’s the worst. Gwen is almost - almost - as bad. Half the Saturday nights this year have been spent listening to Merlin and Gwen's consistent giggling over the latest Doctor Who episode (and he’s starting to wonder if this Moffat chap even sleeps). Merlin misses David Tennant - for all his ‘increasingly arrogant and despairing portrayal’ - but she and Gwen both absolutely love Matt Smith. Arthur feels infinitely grateful that Gwen’s cooing over the Eleventh Doctor is something that no longer bothers him, because as much as he cares for her, still, she does it a lot.
What does surprise him however is that Merlin doesn’t actually like - or ship, apparently, that’s what they’re calling it these days - the Rose and Doctor thing; he thought all the fans were into that. But no, apparently it’s all about Amy and Rory now. Arthur doesn’t know. He can’t keep up.
Merlin, however, can.
*
He comes home on an especially bad day after a blazing row with Vivian - don’t know what his father was thinking, he fumes, trying to pair them up in the first place, and how stupid he was to even consider it - and yanking his coat off he marches into the front room, stopping dead in his tracks.
Merlin is sitting there in front of her laptop, rocking backwards and forwards on the sofa, her hand over her mouth as she stares at the screen. Her eyes are bunched up, but with tears, thick and flowing and reddening her usually pale face.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Arthur barks at her, with more force than he intended and Merlin shakes her head wordlessly, eyes still on the computer.
‘Merlin?’ But it’s without edge, blunt... because no matter how spectacularly pissed off Arthur is right now, if she's had some bad news -
‘It’s this story,’ Merlin manages with a whimper - oh, for the love of...! ‘It’s so sad, Arthur.’
Arthur can only make a truly valiant effort not to wring her neck by reminding himself that murder and concealment of the body on the Sherlock filming set - she is his best friend, after all, he should do something right by her in death - would not look good on his CV. Merlin may wreck havoc on his sanity, but she will not wreck havoc on his future. Instead, he digs in his pockets for a hanky. There’s only a battered old tissue - plenty of those that cause Merlin havoc during laundry, and she’s told him more than once that he’s disgusting - so he looks around and finally grabs a sock from the pair hanging on the radiator along with the rest of the laundry that she must have hung up earlier and offers it to her. Merlin looks dubious, but takes it anyway, wiping her eyes.
‘Let me guess,’ Arthur huffs, gaze hitting the ceiling, ‘there’s a big explosion, and everybody dies.’
‘No! Well, sort of - but Sherlock and John die, Arthur!’ Merlin wails at him, as though that’s the only thing that matters, which to her it probably is. ‘I mean, it’s fine, sort of, because they’re together in the afterlife and stuff - ‘ And stuff? You’re an English student, Arthur wants to remind her, ‘and it’s all lovely there, but the fact that they die - ‘
‘Merlin, pull yourself together,’ he sighs, popping through to the kitchen to grab the kitchen roll, ‘the last thing I want is you dribbling everywhere over Holmes’ and Watson’s eternal paradise.’
Ignoring her whimper of, ‘But it’s so...!’ he grabs the bundle of takeaway menus and throws them on the coffee-table, closing the laptop and handing her the roll at the same time. He doesn’t really have the heart or the mindset to mock her much tonight.
‘Choose a meal, I’m paying.’
Sniffing, Merlin reaches out for the Chinese menu. ‘Didn’t go too well with Vivian, then?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Hm.’ Merlin throws a considerably watery smile over at him; she looks almost sympathetic for a moment and really, it’s about time that someone felt sorry for him, because Arthur’s going to get hell about this from his dad later in the interests of maintaining ‘good business relations’ when all he actually has to do is simply pretend he likes Vivian’s dad for an hour and a half. Arthur has to do the same with Will for Merlin’s sake, after all.
‘Don’t worry,’ Merlin tells him, ‘John and Sarah clearly aren’t destined to be together either.’
No comment. No comment. Throwing a cushion at her is compromise, but absolutely no comment.
While he’s ordering the meal over the phone, he watches Merlin open up her laptop again and start typing away; her eyes shining despite her blotched face. That’s better, Arthur thinks.
That's cheerier.
‘Story for your seminar-leader?’ he throws over his shoulder.
‘Doctor Who-Sherlock crossover, actually,’ Merlin throws back cheerfully, and apparently chooses to ignore Arthur’s reaction which is to bang his head repeatedly against the fridge and bellow into it: ‘WHY. ME.’
She is so ridiculous. She really is.
*
Sometimes, Merlin becomes incredibly sad.
And not just her ridiculous kind of Oh-Sherlock-and-John-are-dead-even-though-they’re-only-characters-and-can-be-revived-in-another-story sad. Properly sad. She drifts around the flat, preoccupied, bumping distractedly into things, hiding her gaze away, which is foolish, really. Arthur always knows.
Sometimes Merlin’s worrying about her Mum, all on her own back in Ealdor; worries herself sick sometimes, uselessly, and then it’s etched all over her face after that that she just wants to return to her little village, just wants to be back with her mother for a while.
Sometimes she wants to chat to Will, just to have a catch-up with the bloke she considers to be her brother, and he’s too busy shagging his latest conquest to spare even five minutes for her on the phone.
Sometimes she’s missing her dad, and Arthur catches her looking through her photo-albums with still, glazed eyes, lost in memories he doesn’t know and that she rarely ever shares. When she does speak of her dad, it’s brief, but it’s a strange kind of happy, the voice of someone who actually remembers what her lost parent felt like, the sheer sense of him as opposed to having had to survive on brief stories and photographs. It’s bad enough, selfish enough, that Arthur should feel that envy, but it’s even worse when he can’t help thinking how jolly “Big Bal Emrys” seems (remembered thus by both Will and Merlin’s godfather Gaius). With his kind, crinkling eyes - Merlin’s eyes, Arthur always thinks - and a wild, thick beard that Baby Merlin is clinging to in some pictures as she gazes up adoringly at her daddy, it’s more than obvious that Balinor is the kind of man whom Arthur’s own father would have absolutely hated on sight, for not shaving if nothing else.
And sometimes... well, a lot of times... Merlin makes mistakes. Fair enough, though, everyone does. Life gets in the way and she’s left wondering aloud, distractedly, almost to herself, if she’s made the right decision. More than once, she ends up learning the hard way - like back in March, when she took a shot at dating a seemingly-nice American exchange student in her poetry class who actually turned out to be a bit of an assuming, over-adoring stalker, turning up at the flat uninvited because he was clingy, and she was an idiot, and an overly-trusting one at that. It was left to Arthur - as always - to save the day; meaning, in this case, to block the front door and refuse to let the bloke in, explaining that Merlin was busy, because she was.
Anyway, whatever the reason for Merlin’s anguish, it’s often unbearable - usually because the flat just becomes so quiet. And Arthur doesn’t really know what to do about it, except make awful tea. Merlin’s is far better, he’ll admit it. Just not to her face.
After a while, Merlin will boot up her computer, and sit in front of it. She’ll think for a minute, and then she’ll be off, tap-tap-tapping away in that noisy, irritating fashion of hers, spilling out her pain through the latest versions of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson. Usually, it’s all to do with touch, although nothing pornographic because that’s not really her thing. She writes... in a way that Arthur can only think of as comforting, and very human as well. From kisses against the shoulder - an apparent favourite of hers - to strong embraces and pressed lips against the cheek, well... it may be ridiculous in theory, but when applied to the tales of Merlin - or Emrys-Cub, as she’s known online - it seems to work, somehow.
And for Arthur, that’s Merlin’s definitive writing-style right there; because clumsy she may be, but Merlin has always, always been gentle - it’s an inevitable part of her character.
And the next morning, when Arthur is stumbling out of bed, justifiably grumpy because he’s run out of toothpaste or there’s no Weetos and Merlin’s already sitting in front of her computer, tea in hand as she reads the reviews that some kind person has left, and her face is beaming with the result - well, if it makes her happy, then who on earth is Arthur to complain?
(Merlin could talk for hours on the subject of Arthur and Complaining, but that’s another story, and he’s threatened to hide her Being Human box-set if she does, anyway).
In any case, it keeps her in practise, and hopefully, by the time she’s unleashed her first original story in the world, it won’t be too atrocious and he can admit to actually knowing her.
*
‘I seem to be writing a lot of gender-swap recently,’ Merlin comments out of nowhere as Arthur wanders through the lounge with his rugby kit. She’s staring at her computer, forehead contorted in the slightest frown and Arthur’s initially a little too geared up about getting his stuff packed for practise to actually pay any notice. Then the sheer absurdity of her words catches up with him and he glances around. It’s the first time she’s really spoken all day, he realises.
‘Sorry?’
‘Gender-swap,’ Merlin says, without looking up from the screen, ‘I’m writing a lot of it.’
‘Right...’ Arthur turns back to his kit, cautiously, ‘what does that mean?’
‘I keep writing John as a girl,’ Merlin throws across and as much as it doesn’t make sense, one thing that Arthur can definitely deduce is that she doesn’t sound happy about it.
‘What?’
Merlin looks up at him in something like exasperation, but there’s something odd about the expression, as though it’s not directly aimed at him. More - at herself. It’s familiar, actually.
‘Every time I get an idea, and just want to write for a few minutes,’ she says, sounding as though she’s trying to be as patient as possible and if either one of them has the right to sound like that, then it’s definitely Arthur, not her, ‘I keep writing John as a girl. Don’t ask me why.’
‘A girl.’ Arthur isn’t quite sure what to say to this.
‘Well,’ Merlin amends, ‘his female counterpart, Joan. Or Joanna. Although some people also call her Jane.’ She shrugs, as though this makes perfect sense. ‘Anyway, for whatever reason, every time I write something for Sherlock now, I use her instead of John.’
Arthur is torn between ignoring her and leaving for practise, and approaching the sofa very slowly and cautiously and asking very patiently just how many Jammie Dodgers she has had today. It’s not even that it’s simply sheer nonsense, it’s just that Merlin looks so unnecessarily worried about something he just can’t see.
‘So... why does that matter?’ He ends up throwing his kit down and folding his arms down at her. ‘Why worry about this... this gender-swap thing?’ He blinks at the question, at himself for even asking it. Tries, then, to imagine Martin Freeman as a girl. ‘How does that even work, anyway?’
Uh-oh, no, now he sounds interested. This won’t end well.
‘Jessica Hynes,’ Merlin throws up at him; he blinks quizzically back at her and she sighs. ‘Yvonne in Shaun of the Dead?’
Oh. Oh. Something flashes across Arthur’s mind.
‘Oh, her,’ he snaps his fingers down at Merlin. ‘Yeah, I know her.’
Merlin instantly beams; nods. ‘She also played Daisy in Spaced, and Joan Redfern in two episodes of Doctor Who. Played the same character's great-grand-daughter in David Tennant’s last episode.’
There’s an extremely awkward pause.
‘... Right,’ Arthur says finally, ‘How’s she relevant?’
Merlin bites her lip, oddly mischievous as she warms to her theme. ‘She’s the image of our female John. Same facial structure.’ She clenches her own chin. ‘Even the same nose. Every time I write Joan, I think of her. I reckon she should play Harry next series.’
It’s an annoying trait of Merlin’s that she can just throw actor and character names around at the drop of a hat and Arthur can’t even remember the nametag of the bloke who last served him at Subway. Does he really have no life outside classes, rugby and this? he gripes to himself, returning to his bag, before he remembers the original point of the conversation, which takes some difficulty given the absolute rubbish that Merlin comes out with half the time, and turns back to her.
‘So this Hynes actress is, basically, your... portrayal of John Watson,’ he checks, ‘or rather, in this case, your Joan Watson.’
Merlin nods, solemnly. ‘Yep.’
‘And... you ship this Joan with Sherlock.’ It’s honestly depressing how Merlin’s face momentarily lights up at his proper use of terminology. ‘As in, you write stories about John... as a girl... with Sherlock? Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘So...’ Arthur leaves his palms in midair, open. ‘What’s the problem, exactly?’ Okay, so it might seem a bit weird, but they are only characters, and anyway, the way Arthur understands it, wasn’t Sherlock Holmes himself actually brought back from the dead? He... tolerates Merlin, he really does, but sometimes her sheer love for fiction can see her becoming irrational, because the way she bangs on about it, you’d think it was real.
Now, she leans against the sofa-back, and stares sideways up at him. ‘Not a problem,’ she says, musingly, oddly thoughtful, ‘Just... it bothers me that I can’t seem to write John anymore.’
Arthur sighs towards the heavens. He’s far too young, and far too good-looking for this. ‘Merlin, you cannot be obsessed with Martin Freeman every single bloody second of the day. It’s bad enough you cooing over him in Hot Fuzz and Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.’
‘No,’ Merlin rolls her eyes in that you-just-don’t-get-it-do-you way she has, a look she gives him a lot, actually, ‘It just... it worries me.’ She meets Arthur’s gaze head-on. ‘I liked writing John as a woman, you know? Experimenting, trying hard to make her all the things that are, essentially John, and now I seem stuck with her.’
Arthur is speechless. Literally, speechless.
‘See, it all started,’ Merlin sits up, clearly taking his failure to communicate as further interest; er, it's really not, ‘when I read one or two really good fanfictions about how Sherlock disappears ‘cause of, you know, Reichenbach - ‘
‘The waterfall,’ Arthur finds his voice again. His knowledge of the Holmes canon is limited, but thanks to that big dusty 1950s tome of the complete words on their bookshelf that both his father and Morgana liked to read, and that he skimmed through to see what all the fuss was about, he knows that much at least. Really though, all he really knows are facts he gained from the latest film, which ironically Merlin is nowhere near as enthusiastic about, although she loves Robert Downey Jr.
‘Yeah, that - what if John was Joan? You know, because someone you love disappears into those treacherous falls, and you’re left behind. I’ve got one idea about how John might take it...’
Here, Merlin cuts off, swallowing; apparently, the Reichenbach gimmick is going to be used this coming series and it’s a finale that she’s both anticipating and dreading. It’s something that Arthur’s quite surprised by, actually, because they both thought for a while that the pool in the third episode was Reichenbach. Oh well... in any case, he’s going to make sure the flat is fully stocked with tissues. The cliff-hanger to the last series was bad enough, if only because of Merlin keeping him up all night with varying levels of That’s utterly brilliant, but so unfair! - followed by ‘But look, Arthur, John is Sherlock’s heart! His actual human heart! After he said he didn’t have one, but he does, and it’s just so...!' complete with burying her face in his pillow.
Add to that the fact that she jumped about five feet in the air when her Mum sent her the first series on DVD, and, well... (even if Arthur did have to cut it open for her because the idiots in HMV had neglected to remove the security-tag).
‘But then,’ Merlin adds, apparently recovering, ‘there’s always all these other what-ifs. How would Joan take it? How would she feel? Would the emotional position change? Would she, for example, feel like a widow?’ She shrugs up at him. ‘Stuff like that.’
Arthur shrugs as he resumes packing his kit. ‘Okay.’ It is, after all, the kind of thing Merlin would do - and actually, it doesn’t really sound that barmy when she puts it like that. It sounds... writer-typical. Yeah, there’s a good phrase. Writer-typical.
‘So I started it,’ Merlin adds, ‘and now I can’t stop doing it. I can’t balance it out. I just keep churning out genderswap stories, and well... I’m scared some of the people online will think I’m homophobic.’
It’s said quietly and quite, quite literally, Arthur has to bite back a laugh at that because Merlin - his Merlin - homophobic? To slap such a label on her is about as doable as breaking into his father’s en-suite and taking a hot bubble-bath; in other words, can’t be done unless you're a complete moron with nothing but utter contempt for life.
Actually, forget tact; Arthur does laugh. He thinks he’s justified.
‘You?’ he jabs his glove down at her, ‘the woman who’s screaming “Just kiss him?!” every time we watch “the drugs moment” in A Study in Pink or “the twirling moment” in The Blind Banker?’ And honestly, she doesn’t have to look so thrilled that he’s remembered all that; he did use air-quotes. ‘Merlin, you know you’re not like that. I know you’re not like that.’
In fact, if he's being really honest, what Merlin does has always been a sign of how accepting she is, how kind she is, even, because for all her idiocies, she is also both those things to a considerable degree. Sometimes it leads her into trouble - creepy stalking Yank, step forward please - but still, it’s a good thing for her to be. It’s a good thing for the world.
It’s a good thing to Arthur.
‘I know,’ she argues, ‘just... Joan took over a bit, and now I can’t get rid of her and - ‘
‘It’s a character, Merlin.’ Arthur thinks he could - literally - bash this fact into her brain over and over and over again, and it still wouldn’t register. ‘And if you enjoy writing about her; if it makes you happy...’
‘It does,’ Merlin nods, ‘I just wish I knew what had happened with John.’
She shrugs at him, twining and untwining her hands and she looks so bothered about it that Arthur is bothered in turn. Merlin, after all, offers up about a third of her life-expectancy to the joys of fandom, in exchange for pleasure and entertainment and just keeping in practice. So when something like this worries her, well...
‘Look, Merlin,’ Arthur steps across, sits down beside her; his hand hovers in midair and then tentatively, he pats her knee, ‘it’s alright if you want to write John as a girl. It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, you’re a writer, and you are a... marginally satisfactory one - don’t look so pleased,’ he adds hastily, as her grin momentarily dazzles him.
He’s no idea where he’s going with this; he’s not the writer here, after all, so he sticks with what he's sure about. ‘I mean, you experiment, right? Don’t all writers do that? If you have possibilities, and you have more than one way of exploring them...’ He shrugs at her, ‘just don’t beat yourself up over it. If you can’t write John right now - well then, just enjoy playing around with this... this Joan character. You can’t force an idea, after all, so don't try too hard. You’ll strain your brain - or what there is of it, anyway.’
Merlin shakes her head, but she’s smiling all the same. She glances across, her mouth rueful. ‘Thanks.’
Arthur nods, looking ahead. ‘No problem, happy to help.’
They sit in silence for a long moment and then Arthur decides, why the hell not, he’s been nice enough to her for the past five minutes, and anyway, she is upset. So he puts an arm around her and pats her shoulder. Merlin throws him a look, almost fond, but nestles her head against her shoulder readily, silently. Arthur breathes in, breathes out, and has the vague thought that actually, they’re not too different from Sherlock and John.
... No, that’s ridiculous. Merlin could never be a consulting detective - the idea is in fact extremely laughable - and brave though Arthur may be, he’s a rugby-player, not a doctor or a soldier. Obliterate that thought, please.
‘Just let the ideas come and go...’ he mumbles to Merlin, because the silence and his own thoughts are starting to un-nerve him. Something occurs to him, that poem about thick fog and making visits, and so he adds with a smirk, ‘Talking of Michelangelo.’
Really, it’s unlucky for him that Merlin’s copy of Advanced Poetry: Volume 2 is sitting on the coffee-table just then; she whacks him repeatedly with it ‘for abusing Prufrock, you complete and utter clotpole,’ until he takes a tactical retreat and flees from the flat with his kit.
‘You’re going to be insufferable when the second series comes out,’ he bellows back at her when he’s a safe distance from the front door.
‘In the words of the Tenth Doctor: Oh yes!’ she returns, poetry volume dangerous in hand, but she’s laughing now, as she says it, no longer worried, and even though people in the street are staring at them, he can’t deny he’s impressed she could hit like that. Obviously she’s the one cooking tonight now, after that little stunt, but all the same...
Maybe he should try and let her look after herself a bit more, he muses on the way up to campus; after all, she certainly seems capable of it. And anyway, as he reminds himself in situations like these, at least she's not into Twilight.
*
Merlin is actually more unbearable as a fangirl than she is when it’s that time of the month; the fridge is always stuffed full of Galaxy chocolate that she’s gracious enough to share, although there are endless cups of tea and a consequential shortage of mugs, tampons everywhere, and she’s withdrawn and grumpy. It’s still difficult, although a different kind of difficult, and Arthur will admit it still makes a nice change to living with Morgana; she threw things at him, and he still wasn’t allowed to retaliate.
Merlin is trying to finish a particularly gruelling essay and the stress is clear on her face as she taps away at it, before pushing it aside and rubbing her forehead. Arthur glances over his textbook at her.
‘You alright?’
‘Tired,’ Merlin groans; Arthur glances at the clock.
‘Well, your essay isn’t due in until Thursday, so just try and relax,’ he argues, putting his textbook down against his better judgement. ‘Try, I dunno, reading some hardcore porn.’
It’s meant jovially, but he regrets it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, as soon as Merlin’s face closes down even more. Of course, Arthur remembers, chides himself, of course. Merlin will read a good sensual, sexy love-scene - and it’s disturbing, Arthur thinks, that he even knows this; it’s like giving her completely free access to the magazines under his bed - as much as the next woman, of course she does, but for her personally, the joy is always in the possibility, in the emotion, the touches and the implications. The simple skin against skin is what she finds stress-relieving, the simple touch of love.
‘Sorry,’ he tells her quickly; puts his book aside and leans forward. ‘Is there anything I can fetch you?’
Merlin shakes her head, looks away. ‘No. Thankyou.’
Arthur huffs and they sit in silence for a while longer; Merlin glares at her screen in frustration before slamming the laptop shut and stomping off to her room. Arthur bites his lip; contemplates his hands as he wonders.
*
Later he knocks on Merlin’s door and finds her sitting on her bed, shoulders shaking with quiet tears. It’s not the hysterical crying he’s used to - ‘Oh, Arthur, there’s this story where Sherlock and John are in Sweden and it’s so romantic’ - uncaring if she’s heard. This is her trying not to be heard, trying to conceal her anguish.
‘Merlin,’ he sighs, ‘Merlin, are you alright?’ He walks over to the bed and sits down next to her. She looks up at him, face tight and bound and stressed and he reaches across to ruffle her black hair.
‘Merlin?’
She stares at him for a long moment and then shakes her head down at the keyboard. Something’s coming, he can feel it, as she gives a smile that’s not really a smile at all.
‘I wanted to talk to Will,’ she whimpers, ‘but he’s gone off with this new bird of his tonight and I just wanted to talk to someone, and I can’t talk to Mum because she doesn’t really understand it, and she’d ask me what the big deal is anyway, but I can’t seem to...’
‘Merlin,’ Arthur interrupts, as she draws her knees up. ‘What. Is. It?’
She shakes her head miserably. ‘I’m going to fail the year, Arthur, I just know I am,’ she runs her hands through her hair, her shoulders trembling with fresh sobs, ‘I can’t do this essay because it’s too fucking hard,’ and this must be serious, because Merlin rarely ever swears, ‘because I chose the wrong question because I’m a fucking idiot, and I just want some relief but I can’t seem to get any, because I can’t seem to find anything I like!’
She looks Arthur right in the eye and he understands.
‘You mean the - the fanfiction?’ he asks, ‘the Sherlock and John stuff?’
Merlin nods and whimpers. Arthur shakes his head. It may be inappropriate, but at times like these, Merlin truly does make him smile, because she really is ridiculous.
‘Merlin, look at me,’ he tells her evenly and she does. ‘First of all, you won’t fail,’ he talks in as low a voice as he can manage, ‘you’ve made it through the first two years with flying colours; I know you won’t fail this. Second, at the end of the day - it’s just another essay.’
(And yes, he is being a slight hypocrite here, because he’s the one swearing the house down and ranting about how his future is ruined, completely ruined when he has an essay he can’t do, but Merlin brings him tea and biscuits and puts her headphones on, lets him get on with it, lets him shout himself hoarse).
‘Third,’ he continues, ‘you’re really stressed out, your period’s on, and I know it turns women into hormonal tigers, if Morgana is anything to go by.’ Merlin cracks a smile at that, rewarding him.
‘And fourth, to the fanfiction... Merlin, it’s alright,’ Arthur assures her, because he has a feeling that simply telling her not to worry about something so minute isn’t going to be enough, ‘I know it’s something that means something to you, but you know, you’ve been in love with the show for over a year now. It’s fine if you’re looking for something new.’
‘I can’t seem to ship them as much as I used to,’ Merlin shakes her head, ‘every time I try and write something, I think too much about it and I just stress myself out.’
‘Because you’re forcing it,’ Arthur tells her, sounding, to his surprise, more patient than he feels, but yelling at her at this stage is hardly going to do anyone any good, ‘you’re just trying to prove a point, that you can write both Sherlock and John, and Sherlock and Joan. You don’t have to, Merlin.’ He reaches across and rubs her knee, because she really doesn’t. ‘You don’t have to bully your brain into something just because you don’t feel it at that particular moment. You just need to do what feels good for you. It’s meant to be relaxing, it’s not meant to tear you apart.’
Merlin smiles ruefully, wipes her eyes with her hand.
‘Just go back to basics,’ Arthur continues, ‘you know what stories you like; I know what stories you like. You like Joan as well as John,’ he shrugs, ‘fine. You’re not into porn? Doubly fine. You need a break from them, well, go ahead. You’ve just been so crazy about them you don’t always know when to stop and just do other things.’ Wow, listen to him; he actually sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Maybe he should do this for a living.
‘I’m weird, aren’t I?’ Merlin gives a lopsided smile and Arthur nods back.
‘Yes, you are weird,’ he tells her, ‘but it takes guts to admit it. You should be knighted.’
He pats her knee and makes to go.
‘Arthur,’ Merlin’s voice is sudden, direct, as is the sudden grab on his arm. They look at each other for a minute, neither of them quite knowing what to say, it’s clear on both their faces, and then Arthur very slowly, very carefully, sits down on the bed, right in the middle of it. He’s only very vaguely aware that technically, he’s blocking her way out.
‘... Thankyou,’ Merlin manages, ‘I know it annoys you, but you... you get it. No-one else does. I mean, Will knows about it, but he was always into, you know, the heavier stuff,’ she shrugs, ‘and I wasn’t, and well... he prefers going out and actually doing it.’
Really, that’s news to Arthur as much as anything. He never knew he was the one whom Merlin considered to be most tolerant of her oddities. But then, they’re not really oddities though, are they? They’re just... Merlin.
‘It’s good,’ he tells her, ‘it’s healthy. But only if you do what you want to do, and you don’t stress yourself out about it.’ Before he can stop himself, he leans across and kisses her forehead. ‘You raving lunatic.’
It’s only intended as a small kiss, honestly, it is. But it’s not enough, really, not for either of them now; like a click in a lock, Merlin’s eyes are on his face as Arthur draws back. There’s a split-second in which he realises that she realises, and then she’s putting her hand behind his head and pulling him in to press her mouth against his.
It’s a tentative, gentle kiss, a kiss between friends, but there is something, Arthur can feel it building, building right up and he can feel Merlin start to relax beneath him, she’s relaxing now, and she is so, so lovely when she’s kissing, she’s so soft, her mouth is soft, her hair is soft and she’s just -
She pulls back, biting her lip and Arthur realises he has his hands on both sides of her face, cupping her cheeks.
‘... In my favourite story,’ Merlin seems to manage finally and strangely enough, Arthur knows exactly which one she’s talking about, ‘when they kiss... John can taste Sherlock, and I can taste you.’ She smiles at him, goofily, happily. ‘Your tea, and... oh and you’ve been at the Galaxy chocolate, haven’t you, you greedy clotpole?’
‘Shut up, Merlin,’ Arthur says, and then he kisses her again.
*
There’s no rush, but then there really doesn't need to be.
He leans over Merlin in her bra and knickers on the living-room floor, his pillow under her head as The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy plays on the television. Merlin is a little bit sneaky; she keeps trying to watch it over his shoulder, laughing, even though she’s humming at the kisses he leaves behind on her skin, smiling against his mouth.
‘Turn over, sweetheart,’ she tells him at one point, the name falling easily off her tongue, ‘onto your stomach... yeah, that’s it.’
Arthur, silently obedient, places his own head against the pillow, hums in turn as she kisses along his back and shoulders, nuzzles the nape of his neck, sucks on his ear, kind, thoughtful, accepting, imaginative Merlin.
Later, Merlin lies sprawled against the sofa with her laptop, having a last look in before she goes to bed, the frown lines around her face relaxing. Arthur leans down in a truly awful pretence of picking up a mug so he can sneak a peek at the screen. Oh, right, she’s starting her own schoolboy alternate-universe story; she’s always loved those, because she thinks they’re sweet. About time she did one of her own. Arthur smiles, and kisses Merlin’s neck.
She’s still ridiculous, he decides, but she is truly lovely with it.
*