Untitled Fanfiction #1
So, um yeah, first year or Grad school done. I suddenly have all this free time again since I’m not taking any summer classes, so I actually wrote a fanfic. It’s actually the first time I’ve ever written fanfic, as opposed to, um, fan doodles, I suppose... It’s BBC Sherlock, surprising no one.
Written for a kinkmeme prompt which asked for a modern adaptation of a canon story, with the addition of John being kidnapped, in keeping with the pattern the first three episodes have established.
Sherlock inspected the blueprints with little real interest, before returning them to the office and hailing a cab to take him back to Baker Street. It would seem that the young woman -signs of physical (sexual?) abuse and prolonged stress- he had spoken to that morning was correct. After being turned away by Scotland Yard, she had brought her strange story to him and he had, for a moment, thought that he might have finally been presented with a real locked room mystery.
However, his client had herself observed that the house she had moved into when her mother remarried had some slight architectural anomalies, not the least of which being that it seemed smaller on the inside then it appeared from the outside. The blueprints did in fact show that the upscale townhouse had been built with more rooms then she was aware of. The disappearances of Ms. Stoners' mother and sister could hardly even be called a mystery, really. In fact, it reminded Sherlock very much of that American serial killer he had read about once while Googling himself.
Ah, there really was nothing new under the sun. It was disappointing but at least Sherlock could look forward to John's cries of interest when he revealed a house full of secret passages and mysterious horrors to him. No doubt they would be sufficiently horrible; this Roylott was a doctor, after all. It would all make for a very exciting and overly dramatic blog post. Probably with a lot of unnecessary exclamation points and lurid details.
Sherlock opened the door of their apartment and this train of thought stopped abruptly, before blazing off in a different direction entirely. Clear signs of a fight. A broken chair. Blood where a person had fallen and lain for two to three minutes. A poker from the fireplace in the middle of the floor, bent nearly in two. It hadn't been used as a weapon, it had been bent after the fight, as a demonstration of strength.
Ah. Roylott had trailed his step-daughter. Judging by the blood, he had also had sufficient time to tuck John away somewhere in his house of mysterious horrors by now. As if in confirmation, Sherlock's cell phone rang. It was John's phone.
“Hello. Dr. Roylott, I presume.”
"And I know you! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler. Holmes, the busybody!” The man ranted at him, “Don't you dare to meddle with my affairs. I'm a dangerous man to get on the wrong side of! See that you keep yourself out of my grip!” And with that the line went dead.
Sherlock took a deep breath. Roylott hadn't bothered to make any threats or ultimatums concerning John. It was unclear whether Roylott was attempting to use John as a hostage, or merely as an example. Like the poker. Clearly, he could not get there too soon.
Sherlock raced outside and shoved a couple out of the way as he scrambled into a taxi, shoving the contents of his wallet into the cabbie’s hands and giving him directions to a house across town.
As they speed through the streets, he called Lestrade and informed him of a terrorist cell operating at the address. He would need all the police officers. Now. And some power tools. And a fire engine.
He arrived at the house and let himself in through the backdoor, using the key Ms. Stoner had given him. She had said that she was going to a hotel, which seemed to be the case. The house was quite, and there was some of John's blood on the floor. Not much, but a thin trail. If Roylott where not alone in the house, he would have taken more care about dragging a bleeding man inside. And she had mentioned that their maid had also left suddenly. That was for the best. Well, no, probably not, since it suggested that Roylott had killed her as well. But at least it meant that Sherlock wouldn't be responsible for killing anyone, if this didn't go as planned.
Sherlock located a smoke detector and set the drapes next to it on fire. It was only a moment before the smoke detector started beeping shrilly and a panel in the wall of the next room slid open. Roylott rushed out in a panic, saw Sherlock standing in front of the flaming curtains, and rushed for him. However, Sherlock had retained the poker when he had dashed into the taxi, and had had a moment, after talking to Lestrade, to straighten it out. He knocked Roylott out with one swing, kicked him once to make sure he was out, and then ran for the opening in the wall.
John lay bound and gagged on an old bed. He made eye contact with Sherlock, but otherwise remained perfectly still. A cobra lay on his chest. It seemed to be enjoying the warmth.
If there was one thing Sherlock couldn't stand, it was snakes. And if there was another thing he couldn't stand, it was anyone other than himself enjoying John's body heat. He very carefully insinuated the poker under the snake, who seemed to be, by far, the most relaxed person in the room, and flipped it into a corner several feet away. As soon as the snake was off of John, Sherlock took its place, scrambling to get off of the floor as if it had turned to lava.
“Did you see it?! That was a bloody cobra!” shrieked Sherlock. John attempted to say something snarky around the gag until Sherlock removed it.
“Did you see where it went?!”
“No, tied to a bed. Why is there so much smoke?”
“What? Oh, I set the dining room on fire. Where the hell is that snake?!”
Lestrade chose that moment to burst through the front door, along with several (though not all) other police officers. He had also been remiss about the power tools, Sherlock noted, but there was a fire engine at least, and they usually had axes. Finding Sherlock and John on a bed, to which one of them was bound, would have excited more comment from the agents of Scotland Yard if they were not busy discovering human remains in unusual places.
“I think I may have a concussion,” John told Sherlock, as he helped him to his feet, after the fire had been put out and the cobra taken away. “Do my pupils look uneven?”
“They do a bit. I'm to make sure you don't fall asleep?”
“Little chance of that happening any time soon.” John grinned suddenly. “Although, I don't think I'm half as rattled as you are.” Sherlock stiffened.
“I think you're hallucinating. That's a symptom of concussion, isn't it?”
“Not really, no. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about your phobia.”
“A phobia is irrational. It's perfectly reasonable to want to avoid a poisonous animal.” Which would have held more weight, if Sherlock hadn't trailed off, muttering something about “slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces...”
“I won't tell anyone, but I may hint at it in my blog...”
“Next time you get kidnapped, I'm going to do all the laundry and stop off for a haircut before rescuing you.”
“Well, if that's what it takes to get the laundry done.”
Written for a kinkmeme prompt which asked for a modern adaptation of a canon story, with the addition of John being kidnapped, in keeping with the pattern the first three episodes have established.
Sherlock inspected the blueprints with little real interest, before returning them to the office and hailing a cab to take him back to Baker Street. It would seem that the young woman -signs of physical (sexual?) abuse and prolonged stress- he had spoken to that morning was correct. After being turned away by Scotland Yard, she had brought her strange story to him and he had, for a moment, thought that he might have finally been presented with a real locked room mystery.
However, his client had herself observed that the house she had moved into when her mother remarried had some slight architectural anomalies, not the least of which being that it seemed smaller on the inside then it appeared from the outside. The blueprints did in fact show that the upscale townhouse had been built with more rooms then she was aware of. The disappearances of Ms. Stoners' mother and sister could hardly even be called a mystery, really. In fact, it reminded Sherlock very much of that American serial killer he had read about once while Googling himself.
Ah, there really was nothing new under the sun. It was disappointing but at least Sherlock could look forward to John's cries of interest when he revealed a house full of secret passages and mysterious horrors to him. No doubt they would be sufficiently horrible; this Roylott was a doctor, after all. It would all make for a very exciting and overly dramatic blog post. Probably with a lot of unnecessary exclamation points and lurid details.
Sherlock opened the door of their apartment and this train of thought stopped abruptly, before blazing off in a different direction entirely. Clear signs of a fight. A broken chair. Blood where a person had fallen and lain for two to three minutes. A poker from the fireplace in the middle of the floor, bent nearly in two. It hadn't been used as a weapon, it had been bent after the fight, as a demonstration of strength.
Ah. Roylott had trailed his step-daughter. Judging by the blood, he had also had sufficient time to tuck John away somewhere in his house of mysterious horrors by now. As if in confirmation, Sherlock's cell phone rang. It was John's phone.
“Hello. Dr. Roylott, I presume.”
"And I know you! I have heard of you before. You are Holmes, the meddler. Holmes, the busybody!” The man ranted at him, “Don't you dare to meddle with my affairs. I'm a dangerous man to get on the wrong side of! See that you keep yourself out of my grip!” And with that the line went dead.
Sherlock took a deep breath. Roylott hadn't bothered to make any threats or ultimatums concerning John. It was unclear whether Roylott was attempting to use John as a hostage, or merely as an example. Like the poker. Clearly, he could not get there too soon.
Sherlock raced outside and shoved a couple out of the way as he scrambled into a taxi, shoving the contents of his wallet into the cabbie’s hands and giving him directions to a house across town.
As they speed through the streets, he called Lestrade and informed him of a terrorist cell operating at the address. He would need all the police officers. Now. And some power tools. And a fire engine.
He arrived at the house and let himself in through the backdoor, using the key Ms. Stoner had given him. She had said that she was going to a hotel, which seemed to be the case. The house was quite, and there was some of John's blood on the floor. Not much, but a thin trail. If Roylott where not alone in the house, he would have taken more care about dragging a bleeding man inside. And she had mentioned that their maid had also left suddenly. That was for the best. Well, no, probably not, since it suggested that Roylott had killed her as well. But at least it meant that Sherlock wouldn't be responsible for killing anyone, if this didn't go as planned.
Sherlock located a smoke detector and set the drapes next to it on fire. It was only a moment before the smoke detector started beeping shrilly and a panel in the wall of the next room slid open. Roylott rushed out in a panic, saw Sherlock standing in front of the flaming curtains, and rushed for him. However, Sherlock had retained the poker when he had dashed into the taxi, and had had a moment, after talking to Lestrade, to straighten it out. He knocked Roylott out with one swing, kicked him once to make sure he was out, and then ran for the opening in the wall.
John lay bound and gagged on an old bed. He made eye contact with Sherlock, but otherwise remained perfectly still. A cobra lay on his chest. It seemed to be enjoying the warmth.
If there was one thing Sherlock couldn't stand, it was snakes. And if there was another thing he couldn't stand, it was anyone other than himself enjoying John's body heat. He very carefully insinuated the poker under the snake, who seemed to be, by far, the most relaxed person in the room, and flipped it into a corner several feet away. As soon as the snake was off of John, Sherlock took its place, scrambling to get off of the floor as if it had turned to lava.
“Did you see it?! That was a bloody cobra!” shrieked Sherlock. John attempted to say something snarky around the gag until Sherlock removed it.
“Did you see where it went?!”
“No, tied to a bed. Why is there so much smoke?”
“What? Oh, I set the dining room on fire. Where the hell is that snake?!”
Lestrade chose that moment to burst through the front door, along with several (though not all) other police officers. He had also been remiss about the power tools, Sherlock noted, but there was a fire engine at least, and they usually had axes. Finding Sherlock and John on a bed, to which one of them was bound, would have excited more comment from the agents of Scotland Yard if they were not busy discovering human remains in unusual places.
“I think I may have a concussion,” John told Sherlock, as he helped him to his feet, after the fire had been put out and the cobra taken away. “Do my pupils look uneven?”
“They do a bit. I'm to make sure you don't fall asleep?”
“Little chance of that happening any time soon.” John grinned suddenly. “Although, I don't think I'm half as rattled as you are.” Sherlock stiffened.
“I think you're hallucinating. That's a symptom of concussion, isn't it?”
“Not really, no. Don't worry, I won't tell anyone about your phobia.”
“A phobia is irrational. It's perfectly reasonable to want to avoid a poisonous animal.” Which would have held more weight, if Sherlock hadn't trailed off, muttering something about “slithery, gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened faces...”
“I won't tell anyone, but I may hint at it in my blog...”
“Next time you get kidnapped, I'm going to do all the laundry and stop off for a haircut before rescuing you.”
“Well, if that's what it takes to get the laundry done.”