Twisting And Turning The Colours In Rows (6/6)
Title: Twisting And Turning The Colours In Rows Part 6
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Moriarty, Moran & other various Sherlock characters plus minor OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence, blood/gore, minor character death, bullying, homophobia, allusions to eating disorders
Notes: For sherlockbigbang 2012! Massive thanks to harlequinehands for creating such a beautiful piece of artwork for this undeserving fic, to a8c_sock for being a brilliant mod and friend and to everyone else who has helped me out with it, including my extremely helpful beta circ_bamboo (any mistakes that remain are my own), and my lovely cheerleader paintedame, and thanks also to my unofficial cheerleaders along the way (you know who you are, if I mention you all this will end up like an awards ceremony and someone will tell me to sit down)
Summary: Sherlock/Let The Right One In Fusion (knowledge of film/book not needed). John Watson is an isolated thirteen year old boy: he’s got a distant mother, a resentful older sister, and a sadistic bully at school called Moriarty who’s got it in for him. When Sherlock Holmes moves in next door, he and John form a rapid, intense friendship based on their mutual loneliness. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock has issues that go much deeper than loneliness.
“I need blood to live, yes.”
John lets that sink in. “So are you… are you dead? Undead? How old are you, really?”
The lightbulb above them flickers and Sherlock’s fingers tap out a short rhythm on the glass as he thinks about his answer. John copies the rhythm, softer, quieter.
“I’m conscious,” Sherlock says with a small shrug of one shoulder. “I move, respire, react to my environment… I miss a few of the basic life processes, but I think I qualify as ‘alive’. And I’m thirteen, like I told you.” A rueful smile, and his hand drops to his side. “But I have been thirteen for longer than is naturally possible.”
Disclaimer: This is the bit where they make me say I don't own anything. Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and, of course, the one and only Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Let The Right One In belongs to John Ajvide Lindqvist
Word Count: ~28,500
On AO3
The stunning artwork of harlequinehands can be found here. Please go and lavish praise on her for her fantastic work.
Nothing happens to me.
John looks at the blinking cursor on the screen of his laptop and sighs. This was a terrible idea and his counsellor, Ella, should be sacked. Keeping a blog about everything that happens to him is not going to help him readjust to civilian life.
Looking at his last rather depressing statement again, John holds down the backspace key and then deletes the entry he had been about to make. Best not to let Ella think he might do something stupid. He puts the laptop away in the desk drawer where it will sit unused, innocuous next to his (highly illegal, sometimes highly tempting) Browning L9A1, and closes the drawer with a shove.
Perhaps the shove was slightly too forceful, perhaps it was not, but that’s when he hears it:
Two scrapes against his door.
A knock followed by another scrape.
A scrape, a knock, two more scrapes.
It’s Morse code.
- - . - - . - -
. .
- . - . - - - - - .
. . - .
John’s heart beats frantically as he listens to the message and he leaps to his feet at the end of it, his cane forgotten as he races across the room to pull open the door.
“Yes,” he says to the man he finds on the threshold. He reaches out to grasp the lapels of the man’s coat, dragging him inside with a breathless laugh, keeping hold of him as though he might disappear while John tries to take him all in at once. Tall, still too thin, just as sharp in the face, a little younger than me now.
He has the same eyes.
“Yes,” John says again, “but this time, you have to stay.”
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AN: Thank you for reading! Any and all comments are greatly appreciated.
Masterpost
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John; Mrs Hudson, Mycroft, Lestrade, Moriarty, Moran & other various Sherlock characters plus minor OCs
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: Violence, blood/gore, minor character death, bullying, homophobia, allusions to eating disorders
Notes: For sherlockbigbang 2012! Massive thanks to harlequinehands for creating such a beautiful piece of artwork for this undeserving fic, to a8c_sock for being a brilliant mod and friend and to everyone else who has helped me out with it, including my extremely helpful beta circ_bamboo (any mistakes that remain are my own), and my lovely cheerleader paintedame, and thanks also to my unofficial cheerleaders along the way (you know who you are, if I mention you all this will end up like an awards ceremony and someone will tell me to sit down)
Summary: Sherlock/Let The Right One In Fusion (knowledge of film/book not needed). John Watson is an isolated thirteen year old boy: he’s got a distant mother, a resentful older sister, and a sadistic bully at school called Moriarty who’s got it in for him. When Sherlock Holmes moves in next door, he and John form a rapid, intense friendship based on their mutual loneliness. Unfortunately for John, Sherlock has issues that go much deeper than loneliness.
“I need blood to live, yes.”
John lets that sink in. “So are you… are you dead? Undead? How old are you, really?”
The lightbulb above them flickers and Sherlock’s fingers tap out a short rhythm on the glass as he thinks about his answer. John copies the rhythm, softer, quieter.
“I’m conscious,” Sherlock says with a small shrug of one shoulder. “I move, respire, react to my environment… I miss a few of the basic life processes, but I think I qualify as ‘alive’. And I’m thirteen, like I told you.” A rueful smile, and his hand drops to his side. “But I have been thirteen for longer than is naturally possible.”
Disclaimer: This is the bit where they make me say I don't own anything. Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and, of course, the one and only Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Let The Right One In belongs to John Ajvide Lindqvist
Word Count: ~28,500
On AO3
The stunning artwork of harlequinehands can be found here. Please go and lavish praise on her for her fantastic work.
Nothing happens to me.
John looks at the blinking cursor on the screen of his laptop and sighs. This was a terrible idea and his counsellor, Ella, should be sacked. Keeping a blog about everything that happens to him is not going to help him readjust to civilian life.
Looking at his last rather depressing statement again, John holds down the backspace key and then deletes the entry he had been about to make. Best not to let Ella think he might do something stupid. He puts the laptop away in the desk drawer where it will sit unused, innocuous next to his (highly illegal, sometimes highly tempting) Browning L9A1, and closes the drawer with a shove.
Perhaps the shove was slightly too forceful, perhaps it was not, but that’s when he hears it:
Two scrapes against his door.
A knock followed by another scrape.
A scrape, a knock, two more scrapes.
It’s Morse code.
- - . - - . - -
. .
- . - . - - - - - .
. . - .
John’s heart beats frantically as he listens to the message and he leaps to his feet at the end of it, his cane forgotten as he races across the room to pull open the door.
“Yes,” he says to the man he finds on the threshold. He reaches out to grasp the lapels of the man’s coat, dragging him inside with a breathless laugh, keeping hold of him as though he might disappear while John tries to take him all in at once. Tall, still too thin, just as sharp in the face, a little younger than me now.
He has the same eyes.
“Yes,” John says again, “but this time, you have to stay.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AN: Thank you for reading! Any and all comments are greatly appreciated.
Masterpost