Fic: Courtesy of the MoD [BBC Sherlock, Bluestone 42]
Title: Courtesy of the MoD
Fandom: BBC Sherlock, Bluestone 42 (I'm guessing very few of you have SEEN Bluestone 42 , but it's black British humour at its best, a 30-minute comedy set around a bombs disposal unit in Afghanistan.)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Captain Nick Medhurst
Rating: Teen
Length: 450 words
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP 2016 Prompt #16: "I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British": Have a character from another British work crop up in some way in your offering. Unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any errors.
Summary: Sherlock had grown steadily more aggravated as John tidied the flat and changed his shirt three times, waiting for his old friend to arrive.
Sherlock sat perched on the back of his chair, head at a slight tilt as he listened to John greet their prospective client and escort him up the stairs. His eyes flickered over the tall, attractive, well-dressed man as he navigated their sitting room and settled into the client chair.
"Second-tier public school, by the accent," Sherlock deduced. "A quality suit, conservative cut, not well-cared for. You come from a good family but live alone. Career military, not quite so respectable as it once was, but you obviously loved it until your discharge six months ago. Possible sex addict, signs of intercourse with two different women in the last three nights; I imagine you're milking that 'wounded war hero' angle for all it's worth."
"Sherlock," John snapped. "Captain Medhurst was one of the finest ATO's in Afghanistan."
"Bombs disposal?" Sherlock hummed, eyeing the scarring on his hand and the prosthetic leg, "Hate to see the worst of them, then."
Medhurst's lips tightened for a moment. Then he shook his head and barked a laugh. "You're right, Watson, he is a bit of a knob." He leaned forward. "Look, I don't care if you play well with others; I need someone who can figure out what happened to the explosives that went missing from my company."
"You've reported the theft?" Sherlock asked.
"Of course. New Scotland Yard, MI-5, called it into a couple of tip lines. No one gives a toss. They all say its low priority, because the amount missing isn't enough to make a credible car bomb. But someone who knows what they're doing could whip up fifteen very nasty anti-personnel IEDs with that much materiel."
He sat back and focused on John. "You know what those can do, Watson. Christ. Forget the soldiers - you were one of the doctors that triaged the wounded after that marketplace attack in 2009. Imagine those going off in Camden Market or a primary school. Daisy-chained across Trafalgar Square to be set off by a cell phone. No warnings, no grand-standing, no big terrorist organization. Just one man sitting in his kitchen, wanking off to fantasies of maximum casualties. Ten IEDs detonating in a tube at rush hour, ball bearings ripping through the crowd and ricocheting back off the walls to hit anyone left standing; a second round of them exploding five minutes later, to catch the first responders-"
Sherlock noted that John had gone pale, his knuckles white as his hands clenched into fists in his lap. "You can stop now," Sherlock snarled. "We'll take the case."
Medhurst, startled, looked at Sherlock, back at John, and then down at the floor. "Sorry, Watson," he muttered. "It's been a rough couple of nights."
Fandom: BBC Sherlock, Bluestone 42 (I'm guessing very few of you have SEEN Bluestone 42 , but it's black British humour at its best, a 30-minute comedy set around a bombs disposal unit in Afghanistan.)
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Captain Nick Medhurst
Rating: Teen
Length: 450 words
Alternate Link: AO3
Author's Notes: Written for the watsons_woes JWP 2016 Prompt #16: "I Feel A Bit Prouder Knowing Sherlock Holmes Is British": Have a character from another British work crop up in some way in your offering. Unbeta'd, so please feel free to point out any errors.
Summary: Sherlock had grown steadily more aggravated as John tidied the flat and changed his shirt three times, waiting for his old friend to arrive.
Sherlock sat perched on the back of his chair, head at a slight tilt as he listened to John greet their prospective client and escort him up the stairs. His eyes flickered over the tall, attractive, well-dressed man as he navigated their sitting room and settled into the client chair.
"Second-tier public school, by the accent," Sherlock deduced. "A quality suit, conservative cut, not well-cared for. You come from a good family but live alone. Career military, not quite so respectable as it once was, but you obviously loved it until your discharge six months ago. Possible sex addict, signs of intercourse with two different women in the last three nights; I imagine you're milking that 'wounded war hero' angle for all it's worth."
"Sherlock," John snapped. "Captain Medhurst was one of the finest ATO's in Afghanistan."
"Bombs disposal?" Sherlock hummed, eyeing the scarring on his hand and the prosthetic leg, "Hate to see the worst of them, then."
Medhurst's lips tightened for a moment. Then he shook his head and barked a laugh. "You're right, Watson, he is a bit of a knob." He leaned forward. "Look, I don't care if you play well with others; I need someone who can figure out what happened to the explosives that went missing from my company."
"You've reported the theft?" Sherlock asked.
"Of course. New Scotland Yard, MI-5, called it into a couple of tip lines. No one gives a toss. They all say its low priority, because the amount missing isn't enough to make a credible car bomb. But someone who knows what they're doing could whip up fifteen very nasty anti-personnel IEDs with that much materiel."
He sat back and focused on John. "You know what those can do, Watson. Christ. Forget the soldiers - you were one of the doctors that triaged the wounded after that marketplace attack in 2009. Imagine those going off in Camden Market or a primary school. Daisy-chained across Trafalgar Square to be set off by a cell phone. No warnings, no grand-standing, no big terrorist organization. Just one man sitting in his kitchen, wanking off to fantasies of maximum casualties. Ten IEDs detonating in a tube at rush hour, ball bearings ripping through the crowd and ricocheting back off the walls to hit anyone left standing; a second round of them exploding five minutes later, to catch the first responders-"
Sherlock noted that John had gone pale, his knuckles white as his hands clenched into fists in his lap. "You can stop now," Sherlock snarled. "We'll take the case."
Medhurst, startled, looked at Sherlock, back at John, and then down at the floor. "Sorry, Watson," he muttered. "It's been a rough couple of nights."