Sherlock/Discworld fic 1/1
The first of my anniversary fics! Better late than never, right? This one's for aeron_lanart who gave me this slightly wordy, but completely magnificent prompt:
John Watson thought Harry had been doing well to stay sober so when she contacts him in hysterics about little blue men drinking beer he's disappointed to say the least, until he has to face the truth... there actually are little blue men drinking beer.
Nothing belongs to me, it's all property of Sir Terry of Pratchett and Moff/Gatiss & Conan Doyle.
Thanks to silvercobwebs for beta duties and to aeron_lanart for the prompt and to both of them for being awesome ♥
It Must Be Thursday...
John had thought that Harry had been doing really well lately; she’d been sober for almost a year. So when she left the distraught message about little blue men in her house stealing stuff and drinking beer, he was disappointed to say the least.
It wasn’t really a surprise, John knew deep down that the phone call would come one day, but he’d dared to hope he was wrong. That the call came in the middle of the day was a disappointment, but he knew that, sadly, Harry was statistically likely to fall off the wagon sooner or later and when she did his sister would fall hard.
He’d been unable to answer the phone as Sherlock had him tied to a chair at the time to test the tensile strength of cling film as a restraint but once he was free he listened to Harry’s message; on hearing the panic in her voice he immediately headed for the front door.
It was early evening by the time he got to Harry’s home, now officially worried. On the cab ride over it occurred to him that perhaps he was hasty in judging Harry. He couldn’t remember her ever hallucinating before; perhaps she’d had some kind of mental break or grand mal event. The possibility that she was seriously ill and he’d assumed she’d been drinking made John feel guilty, which only added to the squirming sensation growing in his gut.
He pressed the bell and waited on the front step, casting a trained eye over the front garden looking for evidence of Harry’s condition. There were no empty bottles in the recycling crate and the lawn was well-maintained, so whatever was going on was recent. It gave John hope that she’d called for help so quickly.
When Harry answered the door she looked…good actually. Better than John had been expecting after the near hysteria on the phone. Her hair was a mess and she looked tired, but she didn’t seem ill or drunk.
She smiled and her shoulders sagged in relief when she saw her brother.
“Thank heavens. You’d better come in.”
“So, um…hi. Sorry I’ve not been round for a while, things with Sherlock can be a bit manic,” John rambled as he stepped into her hallway.
She led John to her living room, all the time casting furtive glances around the room. Ever the physician, John added paranoia to the list of symptoms. There was no history of schizophrenia in their family, but that didn’t exclude the possibility.
“It started about six weeks ago,” Harry began once they were settled on her sofa. “Things started to go missing, keys weren’t where I’d left them, odd socks in the wash, I was going through food and milk faster than normal.”
“Everyone has episodes like that; stress, growing older, tiredness can all affect the memory,” John interrupted to reassure but Harry simply shook her head.
“This was more than regular absent-mindedness. I thought I’d lost the plot. Then I started hearing noises - scratching in the walls and the patter of really tiny feet in the middle of the night. I figured I must have a rodent problem so I bought some of those humane traps. Didn’t catch anything, but every morning the cheese was gone.”
John watched her as she spoke and she seemed perfectly calm now, all earlier histrionics vanished. What the hell had happened to his sister to make her sound that way?
“I heard from a mate that mice really like beer, so last night I bought a six pack and popped some in a dish in each of the cages. I swear I didn’t drink any,” she added.
“I believe you,” John replied.
“No you don’t. That’s your placatory doctor voice, I’ve heard you use it on Sherlock,” she replied. John was about to protest, but there was no point, they knew each other too well for that.
“I’m not going to squabble with you, please continue,” he answered.
“When I woke up this morning, the beer was all gone, including the other five cans I hadn’t opened. I couldn’t figure out what had happened; I certainly hadn’t drunk them. Then I heard snoring.”
“Snoring? What are you saying, that someone broke in and drank your beer?” John asked, leaning forward in genuine interest.
“Well that’s what I thought, so I grabbed a golf club from the cupboard and went to investigate. What I found… well, you’d best see for yourself,” she finished and stood up.
John just sat there, looking puzzled.
“Come on,” she said and headed out of the room and up the stairs. Still bemused and ever so slightly wary, John followed.
As they reached the top of the stairs, John could hear tiny, muffled voices.
“Your walls are a bit thin, I can hear your neighbours’ telly,” he commented. Harry said nothing, but continued to the door at the end of the hall and laid a hand on the handle.
She opened the door and then pushed John into a room that she seemed to be using as a study. It was only a box room really and the space was dominated by a desk, sitting on which was a covered cage. To John’s amazement he realised the muffled voices were coming from the desk and he could now make out some of what they were saying.
“Crimmins!”
“Will ye get off ma feet, ye wee scunner?”
“Well there’s nae room in this thing!”
The voices were speaking in what could only be described as a cliché Scots accent. Tentatively, John raised the cloth covering the cage and peaked inside.
“Well, what d’ya think yoor looking at, big jobs?” asked a small blue man.
There were four such men in the cage, all with bright red hair and all dressed in kilts. Two of the little men were fighting with each other, but the other two were staring directly at John. Without comment he slowly lowered the cloth again and looked at his sister.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well. Um, yes. Well,” he stammered. He looked at the cage again and then back to Harry. “I think I ought to call Sherlock.”
John Watson thought Harry had been doing well to stay sober so when she contacts him in hysterics about little blue men drinking beer he's disappointed to say the least, until he has to face the truth... there actually are little blue men drinking beer.
Nothing belongs to me, it's all property of Sir Terry of Pratchett and Moff/Gatiss & Conan Doyle.
Thanks to silvercobwebs for beta duties and to aeron_lanart for the prompt and to both of them for being awesome ♥
It Must Be Thursday...
John had thought that Harry had been doing really well lately; she’d been sober for almost a year. So when she left the distraught message about little blue men in her house stealing stuff and drinking beer, he was disappointed to say the least.
It wasn’t really a surprise, John knew deep down that the phone call would come one day, but he’d dared to hope he was wrong. That the call came in the middle of the day was a disappointment, but he knew that, sadly, Harry was statistically likely to fall off the wagon sooner or later and when she did his sister would fall hard.
He’d been unable to answer the phone as Sherlock had him tied to a chair at the time to test the tensile strength of cling film as a restraint but once he was free he listened to Harry’s message; on hearing the panic in her voice he immediately headed for the front door.
It was early evening by the time he got to Harry’s home, now officially worried. On the cab ride over it occurred to him that perhaps he was hasty in judging Harry. He couldn’t remember her ever hallucinating before; perhaps she’d had some kind of mental break or grand mal event. The possibility that she was seriously ill and he’d assumed she’d been drinking made John feel guilty, which only added to the squirming sensation growing in his gut.
He pressed the bell and waited on the front step, casting a trained eye over the front garden looking for evidence of Harry’s condition. There were no empty bottles in the recycling crate and the lawn was well-maintained, so whatever was going on was recent. It gave John hope that she’d called for help so quickly.
When Harry answered the door she looked…good actually. Better than John had been expecting after the near hysteria on the phone. Her hair was a mess and she looked tired, but she didn’t seem ill or drunk.
She smiled and her shoulders sagged in relief when she saw her brother.
“Thank heavens. You’d better come in.”
“So, um…hi. Sorry I’ve not been round for a while, things with Sherlock can be a bit manic,” John rambled as he stepped into her hallway.
She led John to her living room, all the time casting furtive glances around the room. Ever the physician, John added paranoia to the list of symptoms. There was no history of schizophrenia in their family, but that didn’t exclude the possibility.
“It started about six weeks ago,” Harry began once they were settled on her sofa. “Things started to go missing, keys weren’t where I’d left them, odd socks in the wash, I was going through food and milk faster than normal.”
“Everyone has episodes like that; stress, growing older, tiredness can all affect the memory,” John interrupted to reassure but Harry simply shook her head.
“This was more than regular absent-mindedness. I thought I’d lost the plot. Then I started hearing noises - scratching in the walls and the patter of really tiny feet in the middle of the night. I figured I must have a rodent problem so I bought some of those humane traps. Didn’t catch anything, but every morning the cheese was gone.”
John watched her as she spoke and she seemed perfectly calm now, all earlier histrionics vanished. What the hell had happened to his sister to make her sound that way?
“I heard from a mate that mice really like beer, so last night I bought a six pack and popped some in a dish in each of the cages. I swear I didn’t drink any,” she added.
“I believe you,” John replied.
“No you don’t. That’s your placatory doctor voice, I’ve heard you use it on Sherlock,” she replied. John was about to protest, but there was no point, they knew each other too well for that.
“I’m not going to squabble with you, please continue,” he answered.
“When I woke up this morning, the beer was all gone, including the other five cans I hadn’t opened. I couldn’t figure out what had happened; I certainly hadn’t drunk them. Then I heard snoring.”
“Snoring? What are you saying, that someone broke in and drank your beer?” John asked, leaning forward in genuine interest.
“Well that’s what I thought, so I grabbed a golf club from the cupboard and went to investigate. What I found… well, you’d best see for yourself,” she finished and stood up.
John just sat there, looking puzzled.
“Come on,” she said and headed out of the room and up the stairs. Still bemused and ever so slightly wary, John followed.
As they reached the top of the stairs, John could hear tiny, muffled voices.
“Your walls are a bit thin, I can hear your neighbours’ telly,” he commented. Harry said nothing, but continued to the door at the end of the hall and laid a hand on the handle.
She opened the door and then pushed John into a room that she seemed to be using as a study. It was only a box room really and the space was dominated by a desk, sitting on which was a covered cage. To John’s amazement he realised the muffled voices were coming from the desk and he could now make out some of what they were saying.
“Crimmins!”
“Will ye get off ma feet, ye wee scunner?”
“Well there’s nae room in this thing!”
The voices were speaking in what could only be described as a cliché Scots accent. Tentatively, John raised the cloth covering the cage and peaked inside.
“Well, what d’ya think yoor looking at, big jobs?” asked a small blue man.
There were four such men in the cage, all with bright red hair and all dressed in kilts. Two of the little men were fighting with each other, but the other two were staring directly at John. Without comment he slowly lowered the cloth again and looked at his sister.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well. Um, yes. Well,” he stammered. He looked at the cage again and then back to Harry. “I think I ought to call Sherlock.”