Fill for sherlockbbc-fic meme: Heroes Are For Fairytales
I've been wanting someone to do this...so, um, I did. Instead of essays. There's a bit of Mycroft/Lestrade at the end: sorry about that. They just take over my brain >> Enjoy!
It’s common knowledge now, and that’s nice.
Lestrade, at least, has known for weeks, after Sherlock very helpfully doesn’t tell John that the DI was approaching the flat when they were both shirtless and messy-haired. Thankfully, Lestrade has an unshakable sense of humour. He raised an eyebrow, muttered something about Anderson paying for his drinks for the next four years, and gave them a cheery wave before he shut the door. Donovan and Anderson were quickly informed, mainly, John figures, so that Lestrade could collect on his bet. Sally glared at him like he was a mentally retarded five year old the next time they saw each other, and Anderson looked like he’d seen an alien, but that was more to do with the fact that it was Sherlock, rather than the fact that everybody, including John himself, had assumed he was straight.
And of course, Mycroft had possibly known for his entire life.
Outside police station iss all sharp wind and icy air, and John's glad for his jacket. Sherlock, woefully reckless as ever, is visibly trying not to shiver in his shirt. Like a small child, he's pretty much convinced that when the sun was shining, it's unnecessary to wear a coat. And while John greatly appreciates being able to look at the fine lines of his hands, he would appreciate it more if Sherlock didn’t catch hypothermia. Dealing with the man when he had a cold was hard work enough.
Sighing as if he's far more put-upon than he actually was, John shrugs off his jacket and threw it at Sherlock. The detective catches it with a surprised look on his face. John snorts, shaking his head. Only Sherlock can tell a man’s life story from his footprints, and yet be completely blindsided by an act of generosity.
“Put it on, Sherlock,” John advises, smirking slightly.
“This makes no logical sense, John,” Sherlock admonishes him superiorly.
“This is simply swapping the identity of the cold person. And I am perfectly fine.”
John has gotten better at reading between Sherlock’s clipped words. He’s not sure, but he thinks that means: I’d rather be cold than you be cold. Aha, John thinks. Unfortunately for Sherlock’s crusade for poor health, he feels exactly the same way. And he’s much better at getting his own way when it comes to Sherlock. He slips his fingers along Sherlock’s hand, ungloved of course, and winds them together, cold-numb skin against warm callouses. He’s not looking at Sherlock’s face but he can practically hear the eye-roll, the reluctant smile.
Sherlock looks a little overwhelmed in John’s larger jacket, but the sleeves hanging over his fingertips will at least maybe keep the cold at bay. John grins up into Sherlock’s eyes, happy to have gotten his own way, and Sherlock smiles back with so much veiled affection that John has to avert his gaze.
“Shouldn’t be allowed,” comes the grumble from their left, a smoker in a police uniform eying them with distaste.
Sherlock stiffens under his -under John’s- jacket. John blinks, once. Twice. This is all a bit unexpected, which is stupid of him. There are laws against homophobia, so it must exist. There’s that bloke who got his head kicked in, in Trafalgar Square. Broad daylight. Nobody helped.
John feels sick.
He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock, who is tense with something. John can never tell what it is that makes him so emotional. It happens sometimes, confronted by his brother or confronted by John, and John can never work out if it’s anger or fear or pity. He doesn’t like it, not at all. His eyes he keeps fixed on the spaces between his shoes and the cracks in the pavement, shying away a little, not that he’d ever admit it.
And the officer keeps going. “It’s disgusting, there could be kids about. Those aren’t the sorts of values we should be giving the youth of today. You ought to be ashamed of yourself...”
John realises the officer is speaking just to him, him personally and not the pair of them. He looks up, looks the man in the eye, and he hates himself for flushing red.
“Yeah, that’s right. Him, I can forgive, but you mate, you’re older. You ought to know better...”
And then Sherlock hits him.
It’s quite a satisfying punch, actually, it breaks the man’s nose at least, and then his head ricochets against the wall behind him, sending him into a graceless fall onto the grimy street. John had a second’s warning, Sherlock’s hand ripped from his, and now Sherlock stands over his blustering victim, silent as an avenging angel. There’s time enough for a snappy kick to the ribs, and there’s a nice solid noise as Sherlock’s foot connects. But somehow, this isn’t helping John as much as Sherlock being back by his side would. He feels a little bit lost, a little bit adrift.
A heavy, friendly hand claps him on the shoulder.
“Hello boys,” Lestrade says conversationally, as if Sherlock wasn’t just kicking the shit out of one of his employees.
“Sir,” the assaulted man gasps, pawing at Sherlock’s -John’s- jacket. Sherlock flicks him off viciously, and the man continues talking. “This man assaulted me, sir-“
John turns his head to the side to see Lestrade’s reaction. He huffs a little, bemoans Sherlock’s impetuousness. Couldn’t he have chosen this time to be cold and indifferent and not assault a police officer in front of a police station?
He needn’t have worried. Lestrade cups a hand to his ear as if he’s gone a little bit deaf, a pantomime parody for all their benefit.
“What’s that? You’re not going to press charges, and you’re going to accept a dock of your pay in sight of the homophobic remarks you just made? Good man, good man.”
The man is shocked, silent, and Sherlock finally stops pinning him with his eyes and slinks back to John’s side, firmly taking his hand again as if to say: ‘Don’t you dare be ashamed.’
“I’m not,” John mutters, knowing Sherlock’s sharp ears will pick it up and Lestrade will cheerfully ignore it.
“C’mon boys,” Lestrade says, striding forward like the leader of a revolution. “Let’s wrap this meeting up quickly: I don’t want to be late for dinner with Mycroft. Mycroft, my boyfriend.”
And he turns and gives that rakish grin, the one that John sees and thinks ‘Yeah. This man could have definitely seduced the most unapproachable man in Britain.’
There’s a sort of spluttering behind them, a satisfied noise from Sherlock’s throat, and a bounce in Lestrade’s step. John shakes his head.
Not heroes indeed.
It’s common knowledge now, and that’s nice.
Lestrade, at least, has known for weeks, after Sherlock very helpfully doesn’t tell John that the DI was approaching the flat when they were both shirtless and messy-haired. Thankfully, Lestrade has an unshakable sense of humour. He raised an eyebrow, muttered something about Anderson paying for his drinks for the next four years, and gave them a cheery wave before he shut the door. Donovan and Anderson were quickly informed, mainly, John figures, so that Lestrade could collect on his bet. Sally glared at him like he was a mentally retarded five year old the next time they saw each other, and Anderson looked like he’d seen an alien, but that was more to do with the fact that it was Sherlock, rather than the fact that everybody, including John himself, had assumed he was straight.
And of course, Mycroft had possibly known for his entire life.
Outside police station iss all sharp wind and icy air, and John's glad for his jacket. Sherlock, woefully reckless as ever, is visibly trying not to shiver in his shirt. Like a small child, he's pretty much convinced that when the sun was shining, it's unnecessary to wear a coat. And while John greatly appreciates being able to look at the fine lines of his hands, he would appreciate it more if Sherlock didn’t catch hypothermia. Dealing with the man when he had a cold was hard work enough.
Sighing as if he's far more put-upon than he actually was, John shrugs off his jacket and threw it at Sherlock. The detective catches it with a surprised look on his face. John snorts, shaking his head. Only Sherlock can tell a man’s life story from his footprints, and yet be completely blindsided by an act of generosity.
“Put it on, Sherlock,” John advises, smirking slightly.
“This makes no logical sense, John,” Sherlock admonishes him superiorly.
“This is simply swapping the identity of the cold person. And I am perfectly fine.”
John has gotten better at reading between Sherlock’s clipped words. He’s not sure, but he thinks that means: I’d rather be cold than you be cold. Aha, John thinks. Unfortunately for Sherlock’s crusade for poor health, he feels exactly the same way. And he’s much better at getting his own way when it comes to Sherlock. He slips his fingers along Sherlock’s hand, ungloved of course, and winds them together, cold-numb skin against warm callouses. He’s not looking at Sherlock’s face but he can practically hear the eye-roll, the reluctant smile.
Sherlock looks a little overwhelmed in John’s larger jacket, but the sleeves hanging over his fingertips will at least maybe keep the cold at bay. John grins up into Sherlock’s eyes, happy to have gotten his own way, and Sherlock smiles back with so much veiled affection that John has to avert his gaze.
“Shouldn’t be allowed,” comes the grumble from their left, a smoker in a police uniform eying them with distaste.
Sherlock stiffens under his -under John’s- jacket. John blinks, once. Twice. This is all a bit unexpected, which is stupid of him. There are laws against homophobia, so it must exist. There’s that bloke who got his head kicked in, in Trafalgar Square. Broad daylight. Nobody helped.
John feels sick.
He tightens his grip on Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock, who is tense with something. John can never tell what it is that makes him so emotional. It happens sometimes, confronted by his brother or confronted by John, and John can never work out if it’s anger or fear or pity. He doesn’t like it, not at all. His eyes he keeps fixed on the spaces between his shoes and the cracks in the pavement, shying away a little, not that he’d ever admit it.
And the officer keeps going. “It’s disgusting, there could be kids about. Those aren’t the sorts of values we should be giving the youth of today. You ought to be ashamed of yourself...”
John realises the officer is speaking just to him, him personally and not the pair of them. He looks up, looks the man in the eye, and he hates himself for flushing red.
“Yeah, that’s right. Him, I can forgive, but you mate, you’re older. You ought to know better...”
And then Sherlock hits him.
It’s quite a satisfying punch, actually, it breaks the man’s nose at least, and then his head ricochets against the wall behind him, sending him into a graceless fall onto the grimy street. John had a second’s warning, Sherlock’s hand ripped from his, and now Sherlock stands over his blustering victim, silent as an avenging angel. There’s time enough for a snappy kick to the ribs, and there’s a nice solid noise as Sherlock’s foot connects. But somehow, this isn’t helping John as much as Sherlock being back by his side would. He feels a little bit lost, a little bit adrift.
A heavy, friendly hand claps him on the shoulder.
“Hello boys,” Lestrade says conversationally, as if Sherlock wasn’t just kicking the shit out of one of his employees.
“Sir,” the assaulted man gasps, pawing at Sherlock’s -John’s- jacket. Sherlock flicks him off viciously, and the man continues talking. “This man assaulted me, sir-“
John turns his head to the side to see Lestrade’s reaction. He huffs a little, bemoans Sherlock’s impetuousness. Couldn’t he have chosen this time to be cold and indifferent and not assault a police officer in front of a police station?
He needn’t have worried. Lestrade cups a hand to his ear as if he’s gone a little bit deaf, a pantomime parody for all their benefit.
“What’s that? You’re not going to press charges, and you’re going to accept a dock of your pay in sight of the homophobic remarks you just made? Good man, good man.”
The man is shocked, silent, and Sherlock finally stops pinning him with his eyes and slinks back to John’s side, firmly taking his hand again as if to say: ‘Don’t you dare be ashamed.’
“I’m not,” John mutters, knowing Sherlock’s sharp ears will pick it up and Lestrade will cheerfully ignore it.
“C’mon boys,” Lestrade says, striding forward like the leader of a revolution. “Let’s wrap this meeting up quickly: I don’t want to be late for dinner with Mycroft. Mycroft, my boyfriend.”
And he turns and gives that rakish grin, the one that John sees and thinks ‘Yeah. This man could have definitely seduced the most unapproachable man in Britain.’
There’s a sort of spluttering behind them, a satisfied noise from Sherlock’s throat, and a bounce in Lestrade’s step. John shakes his head.
Not heroes indeed.