So I love Sherlock a bit too much... (Or: I'm trying to get back into writing so FIC)
I haven't written anything fictional for ages (apart from job applications ho ho ho), so I've ended up being a bit scared to write anything that isn't an essay, a facebook post or the occasional drunken email. To remedy this, I'm going to start doing fic. Most of my f-list will probably not be as into Sherlock as I am. So... yeah. Don't mock too hard. (And don't be cross that I don't post for a year and then make my triumphant return in fic format. We established years ago that I'm monumentally crap at LJ).
Anyhoo, this was written as a fill for a prompt for jetaimerai on sherlockbbc_fic.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating/Warnings: pg-13 for swearing, femslash and slash
Pairings: Harry/Sarah, John/Sherlock
Part 1: Sarah
The word ‘crush’ first bubbled to the surface of Sarah’s mind as she goes about a lazy Saturday’s shopping. God, she found herself thinking, ‘crush’. How adolescent. Crushcrushcrush. She couldn’t tell John about it, no way. She half smiled, half grimaced imaging doing so:
Dear John,
I’m writing to tell you that I have a crush. While I was sifting through the lingerie sale in Debenhams I realized I was wondering how your sister might react to my choices, rather than you. Sorry, John, my lovely doctor-soldier. You’re so sweet, but she’s so hot.
Lots of love, your so called girlfriend who’s behaving like a teenager.
She thought back to meeting Harry for the first time. John had muttered something about his sister’s plans to visit in the same tone of voice weather forecasters use to warn people about potential flooding due to heavy rainfall. But he didn’t put up much of a fight when Sarah asked “Can I come too?” It was only natural to want to meet your boyfriend’s family. And it seemed like Harry, whatever her faults, was John’s only real family. It was the family-thing that first struck her about Harry. She looked like John from an alternate universe, where the chromosomes had come up XX instead of XY. A universe where John had preferred playing hockey to rugby, where he’d wanted to be an actor as a kid rather than a doctor, and had joined an accountancy firm instead of the army.
Dear John,
Listen to me being an overgrown schoolgirl. ‘She’s so hot’. I’m a doctor, a grown-up who owns property and pays taxes - who knew that I’m still secretly seventeen somewhere? She’s so like you and also really not like you at all. It’s been five years since I last fancied a woman, and I haven’t even kissed a girl since my second year studying medicine. Even that was a dare. I’m a coward.
Lots of love, Sarah and her treacherous thoughts.
“You two are so alike!” she’d found herself giggling after the third glass of the rapidly-disappearing wine, “It’s kind of, oh, uncanny.”
“Honey,” Harry had drawled, faux-serious, eyes sparkling and friendly though, “John and I. We’re related.”
“Harry, be nice.”
John didn’t seem to be enjoying himself much, but was trying. Sherlock had given up pretending to be polite within five minutes. He seemed agitated, alternating between silently observing the chit-chat, staring out of the window and texting furiously.
“We should meet up for a coffee sometime.” Harry said when she left, “Then I can tell you horror stories about baby-John without him trying to correct me.”
Numbers changed hands.
Dear John,
I knew when Harry said ‘a coffee’ she meant a drink. And that we’d have the coffee later. I’d invite her in, get as far as filling up the kettle and putting it on to boil. And that’s exactly how it happened. She curled up on the rug and when I popped my head round the door and said “sugar?” she said “Honey. I think there’s a joke here, somewhere.” I joined her on the rug and I’m now officially cheating on you. I’m so sorry, but not sorry enough.
Affectionately, Sarah, cheater.
“That’s something nobody ever wants to hear from their girlfriend, isn’t it? I’ve been sleeping with your sister.” Sarah lifted a hand, trembling, to wipe away the inevitable break-up tears. John’s face had turned to stone.
“Try not to hate her for this too much. She’s your sister, you’ll need each other. I don’t want you to hate me either, but if you have to hate somebody, take it out on me.”
John still silent. Then:
“I’m sorry what? Please say that again.”
“Which part? All of it?”
“The part where my sister has stolen my girlfriend.”
“Um…”
“I can’t believe this. She’s always doing this.”
Taken aback, Sarah asks: “Your other girlfriends, they’ve fallen for Harry too?”
“No. She’s just always messing with my life.” Now John is the teenager, petulant, on the verge of a tantrum “She. Is. Always. Taking. My. Stuff.”
“Your stuff?” incredulous, tears drying. “I’m a woman, John, not your mountain bike, not the last biscuit that you said you wanted, not your fucking Prefab Sprout album or whatever it was Harry used to nick when you were kids. It’s a little bit more complicated.”
John didn’t want to listen, clearly. Why should he? Sarah found herself straining for breath, frustration taking over from anger at his reaction, the shame at having cheated.
“I think I deserve a shot at love.”
He looked wounded.
“You couldn’t love me then?”
“Wrong. You couldn’t love me.”
Dear John,
My best excuse, the thing I tell myself before I get on the train to visit Harry in secret, the thing I repeat in my head after we have sex (I’m really sorry, but I don’t think of you at all during. I can’t think about anything at all), I’ll tell you. It’s ‘he has Sherlock’. I may be leaving you but you won’t be alone, you’ll be with Sherlock. Even when you’re with me I think you’re with him really. A man who’ll leave my bed at 3am because his flatmate texts him is a man who… oh come on, John. You’re too clever for this. You must know. I’m leaving you before you leave me. I have Harry now, you’ve had Sherlock all along.
Sarah.
Part 2: John
“You’re upset.” Sherlock appeared in the doorway, having broken the habbit of the lifetime and actually done some shopping. Some of what he’d bought might even be of the milk and bread persuasion, judging by the bulges of the white plastic bag.
“You really are a detective.” John deadpanned, “I’m drunk too. You’ll have deduct… deduced that too, yes? I’m drinking this.” He waved a bottle.
“I thought you hated vodka.”
John inspected the bottle in his hand.
“Well. It’s in a vodka bottle. But knowing this house it could be white spirit. Or clarified brain juice. Or some poisonous solution you knocked up in your spare time for a giggle. Think of it as Russian roulette with really foul liquids.”
“John…”
Dear Sarah,
You were wrong. I could have loved you. I did. Do. Tell her I hate her. You were right, Harry and I are alike. I’m just like her when I’m drunk, I just don’t drink as much or as often as she does. You’ll find that out.
John
Sherlock was pacing, filling the room, almost bouncing. His child-like glee and million-mile and hour talking suggested at the very least an unexplained double murder. The news played with the volume down. Sure enough, there was Lestrade heading a press conference, a pained expression, tired and running on empty. John wished he could use the mute button on Sherlock too. Only snatches of what his spiel filterd through the comforting fug of his despondency. Something something politician something heroin something something human trafficking something police are stupid etc.
The silence hit him like thunder. He looked up and found Sherlock completely still in front of him, staring. Sherlock placed strong hands on his shoulders shook, actually shook him.
“Stop sulking.”
“What?” indignant.
“John, stop sulking. We have a case, I need you.”
“Take the skull.” Another shake, gentler.
“I need you.” Sherlock straightened up, spun, left the room. His head appeared around the door again seconds later.
“Don’t forget the Browning.”
Dear Sarah,
You were right. But I’m still angry. I think.
John
Sprawled, exhausted on the sofa, just kind of on an adrenaline come down John realized he was smiling. And it wasn’t sarcastic, fake or polite. ‘Actually happy. When did that happen?’ Sherlock shifted next to him, their knees touched. ‘Ah.’ He wanted to say something, preferably clever or funny. Something to help prolong the glorious post-case glow. Giving up:
“Just when you think British politics can’t get any weirder…” he’s rewarded with a barked half-laugh and a smile. The MP involved was only a backbencher, the political fallout was likely to be minimal and was, of course, completely irrelevant to Sherlock. Mycroft might find himself with a tension headache in a few days, but he’d smoothed over much bigger crimes and more shocking scandals before, and would again before long.
“You’re feeling better now.” John wasn’t sure whether that was a question or a statement of fact.
Sitting there with Sherlock, a bit too close, too warm, physical tiredness turning into a sleepy-dreamy feeling, his first thought was ‘god, yes, so much’.
“Almost.”
Anyhoo, this was written as a fill for a prompt for jetaimerai on sherlockbbc_fic.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating/Warnings: pg-13 for swearing, femslash and slash
Pairings: Harry/Sarah, John/Sherlock
Part 1: Sarah
The word ‘crush’ first bubbled to the surface of Sarah’s mind as she goes about a lazy Saturday’s shopping. God, she found herself thinking, ‘crush’. How adolescent. Crushcrushcrush. She couldn’t tell John about it, no way. She half smiled, half grimaced imaging doing so:
Dear John,
I’m writing to tell you that I have a crush. While I was sifting through the lingerie sale in Debenhams I realized I was wondering how your sister might react to my choices, rather than you. Sorry, John, my lovely doctor-soldier. You’re so sweet, but she’s so hot.
Lots of love, your so called girlfriend who’s behaving like a teenager.
She thought back to meeting Harry for the first time. John had muttered something about his sister’s plans to visit in the same tone of voice weather forecasters use to warn people about potential flooding due to heavy rainfall. But he didn’t put up much of a fight when Sarah asked “Can I come too?” It was only natural to want to meet your boyfriend’s family. And it seemed like Harry, whatever her faults, was John’s only real family. It was the family-thing that first struck her about Harry. She looked like John from an alternate universe, where the chromosomes had come up XX instead of XY. A universe where John had preferred playing hockey to rugby, where he’d wanted to be an actor as a kid rather than a doctor, and had joined an accountancy firm instead of the army.
Dear John,
Listen to me being an overgrown schoolgirl. ‘She’s so hot’. I’m a doctor, a grown-up who owns property and pays taxes - who knew that I’m still secretly seventeen somewhere? She’s so like you and also really not like you at all. It’s been five years since I last fancied a woman, and I haven’t even kissed a girl since my second year studying medicine. Even that was a dare. I’m a coward.
Lots of love, Sarah and her treacherous thoughts.
“You two are so alike!” she’d found herself giggling after the third glass of the rapidly-disappearing wine, “It’s kind of, oh, uncanny.”
“Honey,” Harry had drawled, faux-serious, eyes sparkling and friendly though, “John and I. We’re related.”
“Harry, be nice.”
John didn’t seem to be enjoying himself much, but was trying. Sherlock had given up pretending to be polite within five minutes. He seemed agitated, alternating between silently observing the chit-chat, staring out of the window and texting furiously.
“We should meet up for a coffee sometime.” Harry said when she left, “Then I can tell you horror stories about baby-John without him trying to correct me.”
Numbers changed hands.
Dear John,
I knew when Harry said ‘a coffee’ she meant a drink. And that we’d have the coffee later. I’d invite her in, get as far as filling up the kettle and putting it on to boil. And that’s exactly how it happened. She curled up on the rug and when I popped my head round the door and said “sugar?” she said “Honey. I think there’s a joke here, somewhere.” I joined her on the rug and I’m now officially cheating on you. I’m so sorry, but not sorry enough.
Affectionately, Sarah, cheater.
“That’s something nobody ever wants to hear from their girlfriend, isn’t it? I’ve been sleeping with your sister.” Sarah lifted a hand, trembling, to wipe away the inevitable break-up tears. John’s face had turned to stone.
“Try not to hate her for this too much. She’s your sister, you’ll need each other. I don’t want you to hate me either, but if you have to hate somebody, take it out on me.”
John still silent. Then:
“I’m sorry what? Please say that again.”
“Which part? All of it?”
“The part where my sister has stolen my girlfriend.”
“Um…”
“I can’t believe this. She’s always doing this.”
Taken aback, Sarah asks: “Your other girlfriends, they’ve fallen for Harry too?”
“No. She’s just always messing with my life.” Now John is the teenager, petulant, on the verge of a tantrum “She. Is. Always. Taking. My. Stuff.”
“Your stuff?” incredulous, tears drying. “I’m a woman, John, not your mountain bike, not the last biscuit that you said you wanted, not your fucking Prefab Sprout album or whatever it was Harry used to nick when you were kids. It’s a little bit more complicated.”
John didn’t want to listen, clearly. Why should he? Sarah found herself straining for breath, frustration taking over from anger at his reaction, the shame at having cheated.
“I think I deserve a shot at love.”
He looked wounded.
“You couldn’t love me then?”
“Wrong. You couldn’t love me.”
Dear John,
My best excuse, the thing I tell myself before I get on the train to visit Harry in secret, the thing I repeat in my head after we have sex (I’m really sorry, but I don’t think of you at all during. I can’t think about anything at all), I’ll tell you. It’s ‘he has Sherlock’. I may be leaving you but you won’t be alone, you’ll be with Sherlock. Even when you’re with me I think you’re with him really. A man who’ll leave my bed at 3am because his flatmate texts him is a man who… oh come on, John. You’re too clever for this. You must know. I’m leaving you before you leave me. I have Harry now, you’ve had Sherlock all along.
Sarah.
Part 2: John
“You’re upset.” Sherlock appeared in the doorway, having broken the habbit of the lifetime and actually done some shopping. Some of what he’d bought might even be of the milk and bread persuasion, judging by the bulges of the white plastic bag.
“You really are a detective.” John deadpanned, “I’m drunk too. You’ll have deduct… deduced that too, yes? I’m drinking this.” He waved a bottle.
“I thought you hated vodka.”
John inspected the bottle in his hand.
“Well. It’s in a vodka bottle. But knowing this house it could be white spirit. Or clarified brain juice. Or some poisonous solution you knocked up in your spare time for a giggle. Think of it as Russian roulette with really foul liquids.”
“John…”
Dear Sarah,
You were wrong. I could have loved you. I did. Do. Tell her I hate her. You were right, Harry and I are alike. I’m just like her when I’m drunk, I just don’t drink as much or as often as she does. You’ll find that out.
John
Sherlock was pacing, filling the room, almost bouncing. His child-like glee and million-mile and hour talking suggested at the very least an unexplained double murder. The news played with the volume down. Sure enough, there was Lestrade heading a press conference, a pained expression, tired and running on empty. John wished he could use the mute button on Sherlock too. Only snatches of what his spiel filterd through the comforting fug of his despondency. Something something politician something heroin something something human trafficking something police are stupid etc.
The silence hit him like thunder. He looked up and found Sherlock completely still in front of him, staring. Sherlock placed strong hands on his shoulders shook, actually shook him.
“Stop sulking.”
“What?” indignant.
“John, stop sulking. We have a case, I need you.”
“Take the skull.” Another shake, gentler.
“I need you.” Sherlock straightened up, spun, left the room. His head appeared around the door again seconds later.
“Don’t forget the Browning.”
Dear Sarah,
You were right. But I’m still angry. I think.
John
Sprawled, exhausted on the sofa, just kind of on an adrenaline come down John realized he was smiling. And it wasn’t sarcastic, fake or polite. ‘Actually happy. When did that happen?’ Sherlock shifted next to him, their knees touched. ‘Ah.’ He wanted to say something, preferably clever or funny. Something to help prolong the glorious post-case glow. Giving up:
“Just when you think British politics can’t get any weirder…” he’s rewarded with a barked half-laugh and a smile. The MP involved was only a backbencher, the political fallout was likely to be minimal and was, of course, completely irrelevant to Sherlock. Mycroft might find himself with a tension headache in a few days, but he’d smoothed over much bigger crimes and more shocking scandals before, and would again before long.
“You’re feeling better now.” John wasn’t sure whether that was a question or a statement of fact.
Sitting there with Sherlock, a bit too close, too warm, physical tiredness turning into a sleepy-dreamy feeling, his first thought was ‘god, yes, so much’.
“Almost.”