BBC Sherlock Crossover Collection
I decided to LJ-cut-index all my crossover ficlets from the kinkmeme in one master post to make them easier to find, if what tickles your fancy of an evening is despoiling the purity of one fandom with the crackiest crack bits of another. These are my favorite things to write. The first two are G, but the Good Omens one gets a bit porny.
"Ahh, I'm so excited," squealed Annie. "London! At Christmas! This is the best class trip ever, Professor Duncan."
"Oh, Annie, I could not agree more," Ian Duncan said, staring at her breasts. Jeff coughed pointedly in his direction.
"I used to have a private jet," Pierce noted loudly. Troy rolled his eyes. "I'd take my lady friends to London EVERY Christmas."
"Excuse us," a shortish Englishman in a cable-knit jumper said belatedly, as his tall companion forced his way through the clump of students from Greendale's Anthropology 101 class.
"You're excused," Shirly said tersely, as the taller gentleman carelessly elbowed her in the face.
"Sorry," said the man in the jumper.
"John?" Duncan said, strolling out of the crowd of Americans toward the two strangers.
"Ehm," John Watson said, squinting vaguely up at him. "Oh, gosh, Ian, hello."
"Cheers," Duncan grinned, then turned to the class. "This is my old university flatmate, John Watson. Little did we know, all those years ago, smoking and drinking and... bedding lots of sexy chicks... that we'd both end up as doctors, right, John?"
"Well, I mean, I sort of... nevermind," John said, smiling amiably. "Hello," he said to the assembled Greendale students. "Uh, Sherlock," he called to his friend, who was lurking some paces away. The pale gentleman hesitantly joined him.
"We need to be moving," he told John, not-so-quietly.
"Sherlock," John interrupted, ignoring him, "This is my old friend, Ian. And his... class?" The patchwork group of people nodded and murmured in apathetic confirmation.
"Hello," Sherlock said with a tight smile.
"Hi there," Britta answered, smile turning feral.
"Oh, come on," Jeff said under his breath.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Abed told him. "The appeal of his character basically relies on his never having sex with any female companion, much like the Doctor or Harry Potter or Troy."
"Hey!" Troy exclaimed, folding his arms.
"Any tension between him and Britta is destined to fizzle out. Mostly because the showrunners need Sherlock and John to be each other's main focus," Abed continued. "That way, you get the female demographic hooked. Also, a fairly rabid fanbase, fairly quickly."
Sherlock was staring at Abed with renewed interest. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Sherlock said benignly.
"No, you didn't. It's Abed. Abed Nadir. Pleased to meet you. I've read all the books." Troy stared at his friend in abject confusion. Jeff was looking disbelievingly between the three of them. Duncan had taken the opportunity to hedge closer to Annie. Shirley was shaking her head.
"As long as they can't get married in the Lord's house," she was saying quietly.
"All which books, sorry?" John butted in.
"Oh, I mean, your blog," Abed responded, winking at no one in particular.
"Right," Sherlock said, tone obviously suspicious. "Let me guess: younger than you look, obsessed with pop culture because you never made friends as a child, no-- make that into your teenage years-- these might be the only friends you've ever had, come to think of it, look at the frayed wrists of his shirt, John."
John shrugged helplessly.
"The son of immigrants," Sherlock continued, and Abed cocked his head to one side, watching him like some kind of amused pet bird. John covered his face with a hand in embarrassment. Troy looked impressed. "But they were from different countries-- one of them was Eastern European, correct? And the other clearly southeast Asia, I'd guess Pakistan or India but my American ethnography is a little rusty. Not autistic, not exactly, possibly a shade of Asperger's, but then it takes one to know one, doesn't it?" He gave a wry smile. Abed grinned widely.
"Careful, you'll have applause before you know it," Britta bit out bitterly, rolling her eyes at Abed. "Can we stop wasting our 24 hours in the world's coolest city?"
"You only like it because the American Hipster is rare here, like a flamingo in Paris. Back home, you're just another flamingo in Vegas," Jeff said nastily.
"We have to be going," John said politely. Sherlock and Abed were still smiling coolly at one another.
"Good luck with Moriarty," Abed called as the pair of them rushed off into the busy London streets. Sherlock turned around as they were crossing a distant street.
"Good luck with your film career!" he shouted, then they were out of sight. The class all turned to stare questioningly at Abed.
"Well, that was weird," Jeff remarked.
(original link)
"John, I want you to know that we have a... pest problem," Sherlock informs him one morning, as they're pouring coffee and pulling on jackets to face the blustery London autumn outside.
"Er, all right," John answers. "I'll pick up a few traps on my way home from work."
"No, don't," Sherlock retorts brusquely. "They're perfectly decent mice, clothed and everything. They've not made a mess and the worst they do is steal the toast remains we chuck into the rubbish bin, anyway."
"What--what are you talking about?" John asks warily, sipping his coffee with some apprehension. This must be the drugs Lestrade warned about talking, rearing their freakish head in his flatmate.
"The mice. Basil and Dr. Dawson. Wonderful, if you ask me. Utterly charming. If it were between the mice and Anderson, I'd rather work with the former. Apparently the one is a consulting detective for the vermin world, and the other is a war veteran and doctor for his kind. They live under the floorboards."
"A consulting detective and an army doctor, Sherlock?" John asks incredulously. "Really? And you see nothing psychologically unhealthy about projecting our relationship onto some strange fantasy world of talking mice?"
"What are you talking about now?" Sherlock asks irritably. "They've a shrew housekeeper named Mrs. Judson and a dreadful rat nemesis named Ratigan. Sometimes I aid Basil in his deductions."
"Great, great, this is just... brilliant," John mutters, holding his head in his hands. "Look, I don't know why you feel the need to discuss our... situation using thinly veiled metaphors, but for the love of--"
"Basil only just dealt with a one-legged bat the other day. Gave him a proper fight, actually."
"A bat?"
"Well of course a bat, they're rodents! A bat's a real threat when you're that small."
John shook his head. "Unbelievable," he roared. "Do me a favor, Sherlock, the next time you feel like warning me about some... Ratigan who's after us or your queer fascination with bats, do it straightforwardly. Otherwise I might call Lestrade in here and get you off to an institution." He stormed out of the flat, laughing to himself. "A consulting MOUSE, really!"
Basil peaked his head out from under the sugar bowl lid. "All things considered, I thought it went well."
Sherlock held out his hand for Basil to hop into. "Now, about that Olivia girl..."
(original link)
** The GMD/Sherlock vid someone awesome made to accompany the above fic can be found here.
Crowley and Aziraphale were really there for the same reason, much as Aziraphale wouldn't admit it. "You're as much about tempting as me, but with different aims," Crowley muttered. "'Sides, you could age down a bit, you know. You weren't half-bad looking in Greece." The Greece he was referring to, of course, was some two thousand years gone. Aziraphale raised a bemused eyebrow.
"You've been eying the tall brunette all night," he said casually. "I'm not offended. Go forth and tempt."
Crowley downed the last of his pint and wiped his hands on his black jeans, which fit him like a second skin (and perhaps actually were). Aziraphale chuckled and grabbed his coat, bidding him goodnight as Crowley stalked toward the pale, nervous-looking youth, looking out of place in his long coat and cuffed shirt.
"First time?" Crowley asked, smelling that it was. "At the pub, I mean."
"No," the young man said defensively, putting on an air of snobby detachment. "Hardly."
"Well, aren't you the coolest," Crowley grinned, baring his teeth. "What's your fancy, then?"
"You... you don't even want to know my name?" asked the young man, smiling back wickedly. Perfect, thought Crowley. This would be easy.
Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. "If you want to give me one, you're welcome to. I don't much care either way, with a mouth like yours." He trailed a finger over the young man's lips.
"It's Sherlock," the youth said, eyes fluttering closed for a half-second as Crowley leaned closer.
"Really?" Crowley said with renewed interest. So they were in that universe this century, hmm? "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm at university," he said. "But I'm going to leave, it's rubbish." Crowley nodded.
"Probably have some better idea of how to use your... unique talents, eh?" He winked, as though they were sharing a private joke. Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then quickly suppressed it.
"Well, yes," he answered. "Look, um, are we going to leave together, or...?"
Crowley smirked and snagged a cherry from behind the bar, sucking at it thoughtfully before replying.
"My brother knows how to tie a knot in those stems," Sherlock offered, boyish interest in the movements of Crowley's tongue giving way to adult fascination with what it was really doing. Crowley pulled out the intact stem and showed it to him: it was tied to resemble a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock's breath caught audibly in his throat. He tried vainly to clear it.
"We certainly could, in reply to your question," Crowley said smoothly, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder and leading him out of the back entrance. "Or we could have it off right here." Sherlock swallowed and Crowley laughed aloud, kissing the young man hard enough to bruise his gums.
"That... that will do fine," Sherlock gasped, as Crowley kneeled on the alley cobblestones.
Before long, Sherlock's hands had wrapped in Crowley's gel-stiffened hair and forced him forward still. Crowley's forked tongue flicked over the head of his cock, and Sherlock fell forward, shuddering.
"Please," he huffed into the brisk night air. "Christ."
Crowley pulled away. "What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, bemusement creeping into his voice as he caught the blue eyes staring piercingly at him. "Something I can do for you?"
"Ehm, finish?" Sherlock said hesitantly, nevertheless maintaining that imperious manner, as if he couldn't help himself.
"Very well," Crowley answered sweetly, head hovering over Sherlock's straining, still slick erection. Sherlock shuddered again openly. "And I get something in return." It wasn't a question, though Sherlock nodded in silent agreement. "After I'm finished, you let me fuck you."
Sherlock trembled wordlessly for a few moments, struggling to keep control. Finally, he opened his mouth to answer. "It's for science," he said weakly.
"Of course," Crowley said, and bent his head.
(original link)
"Ahh, I'm so excited," squealed Annie. "London! At Christmas! This is the best class trip ever, Professor Duncan."
"Oh, Annie, I could not agree more," Ian Duncan said, staring at her breasts. Jeff coughed pointedly in his direction.
"I used to have a private jet," Pierce noted loudly. Troy rolled his eyes. "I'd take my lady friends to London EVERY Christmas."
"Excuse us," a shortish Englishman in a cable-knit jumper said belatedly, as his tall companion forced his way through the clump of students from Greendale's Anthropology 101 class.
"You're excused," Shirly said tersely, as the taller gentleman carelessly elbowed her in the face.
"Sorry," said the man in the jumper.
"John?" Duncan said, strolling out of the crowd of Americans toward the two strangers.
"Ehm," John Watson said, squinting vaguely up at him. "Oh, gosh, Ian, hello."
"Cheers," Duncan grinned, then turned to the class. "This is my old university flatmate, John Watson. Little did we know, all those years ago, smoking and drinking and... bedding lots of sexy chicks... that we'd both end up as doctors, right, John?"
"Well, I mean, I sort of... nevermind," John said, smiling amiably. "Hello," he said to the assembled Greendale students. "Uh, Sherlock," he called to his friend, who was lurking some paces away. The pale gentleman hesitantly joined him.
"We need to be moving," he told John, not-so-quietly.
"Sherlock," John interrupted, ignoring him, "This is my old friend, Ian. And his... class?" The patchwork group of people nodded and murmured in apathetic confirmation.
"Hello," Sherlock said with a tight smile.
"Hi there," Britta answered, smile turning feral.
"Oh, come on," Jeff said under his breath.
"I wouldn't worry about it," Abed told him. "The appeal of his character basically relies on his never having sex with any female companion, much like the Doctor or Harry Potter or Troy."
"Hey!" Troy exclaimed, folding his arms.
"Any tension between him and Britta is destined to fizzle out. Mostly because the showrunners need Sherlock and John to be each other's main focus," Abed continued. "That way, you get the female demographic hooked. Also, a fairly rabid fanbase, fairly quickly."
Sherlock was staring at Abed with renewed interest. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name," Sherlock said benignly.
"No, you didn't. It's Abed. Abed Nadir. Pleased to meet you. I've read all the books." Troy stared at his friend in abject confusion. Jeff was looking disbelievingly between the three of them. Duncan had taken the opportunity to hedge closer to Annie. Shirley was shaking her head.
"As long as they can't get married in the Lord's house," she was saying quietly.
"All which books, sorry?" John butted in.
"Oh, I mean, your blog," Abed responded, winking at no one in particular.
"Right," Sherlock said, tone obviously suspicious. "Let me guess: younger than you look, obsessed with pop culture because you never made friends as a child, no-- make that into your teenage years-- these might be the only friends you've ever had, come to think of it, look at the frayed wrists of his shirt, John."
John shrugged helplessly.
"The son of immigrants," Sherlock continued, and Abed cocked his head to one side, watching him like some kind of amused pet bird. John covered his face with a hand in embarrassment. Troy looked impressed. "But they were from different countries-- one of them was Eastern European, correct? And the other clearly southeast Asia, I'd guess Pakistan or India but my American ethnography is a little rusty. Not autistic, not exactly, possibly a shade of Asperger's, but then it takes one to know one, doesn't it?" He gave a wry smile. Abed grinned widely.
"Careful, you'll have applause before you know it," Britta bit out bitterly, rolling her eyes at Abed. "Can we stop wasting our 24 hours in the world's coolest city?"
"You only like it because the American Hipster is rare here, like a flamingo in Paris. Back home, you're just another flamingo in Vegas," Jeff said nastily.
"We have to be going," John said politely. Sherlock and Abed were still smiling coolly at one another.
"Good luck with Moriarty," Abed called as the pair of them rushed off into the busy London streets. Sherlock turned around as they were crossing a distant street.
"Good luck with your film career!" he shouted, then they were out of sight. The class all turned to stare questioningly at Abed.
"Well, that was weird," Jeff remarked.
(original link)
"John, I want you to know that we have a... pest problem," Sherlock informs him one morning, as they're pouring coffee and pulling on jackets to face the blustery London autumn outside.
"Er, all right," John answers. "I'll pick up a few traps on my way home from work."
"No, don't," Sherlock retorts brusquely. "They're perfectly decent mice, clothed and everything. They've not made a mess and the worst they do is steal the toast remains we chuck into the rubbish bin, anyway."
"What--what are you talking about?" John asks warily, sipping his coffee with some apprehension. This must be the drugs Lestrade warned about talking, rearing their freakish head in his flatmate.
"The mice. Basil and Dr. Dawson. Wonderful, if you ask me. Utterly charming. If it were between the mice and Anderson, I'd rather work with the former. Apparently the one is a consulting detective for the vermin world, and the other is a war veteran and doctor for his kind. They live under the floorboards."
"A consulting detective and an army doctor, Sherlock?" John asks incredulously. "Really? And you see nothing psychologically unhealthy about projecting our relationship onto some strange fantasy world of talking mice?"
"What are you talking about now?" Sherlock asks irritably. "They've a shrew housekeeper named Mrs. Judson and a dreadful rat nemesis named Ratigan. Sometimes I aid Basil in his deductions."
"Great, great, this is just... brilliant," John mutters, holding his head in his hands. "Look, I don't know why you feel the need to discuss our... situation using thinly veiled metaphors, but for the love of--"
"Basil only just dealt with a one-legged bat the other day. Gave him a proper fight, actually."
"A bat?"
"Well of course a bat, they're rodents! A bat's a real threat when you're that small."
John shook his head. "Unbelievable," he roared. "Do me a favor, Sherlock, the next time you feel like warning me about some... Ratigan who's after us or your queer fascination with bats, do it straightforwardly. Otherwise I might call Lestrade in here and get you off to an institution." He stormed out of the flat, laughing to himself. "A consulting MOUSE, really!"
Basil peaked his head out from under the sugar bowl lid. "All things considered, I thought it went well."
Sherlock held out his hand for Basil to hop into. "Now, about that Olivia girl..."
(original link)
** The GMD/Sherlock vid someone awesome made to accompany the above fic can be found here.
Crowley and Aziraphale were really there for the same reason, much as Aziraphale wouldn't admit it. "You're as much about tempting as me, but with different aims," Crowley muttered. "'Sides, you could age down a bit, you know. You weren't half-bad looking in Greece." The Greece he was referring to, of course, was some two thousand years gone. Aziraphale raised a bemused eyebrow.
"You've been eying the tall brunette all night," he said casually. "I'm not offended. Go forth and tempt."
Crowley downed the last of his pint and wiped his hands on his black jeans, which fit him like a second skin (and perhaps actually were). Aziraphale chuckled and grabbed his coat, bidding him goodnight as Crowley stalked toward the pale, nervous-looking youth, looking out of place in his long coat and cuffed shirt.
"First time?" Crowley asked, smelling that it was. "At the pub, I mean."
"No," the young man said defensively, putting on an air of snobby detachment. "Hardly."
"Well, aren't you the coolest," Crowley grinned, baring his teeth. "What's your fancy, then?"
"You... you don't even want to know my name?" asked the young man, smiling back wickedly. Perfect, thought Crowley. This would be easy.
Crowley shrugged nonchalantly. "If you want to give me one, you're welcome to. I don't much care either way, with a mouth like yours." He trailed a finger over the young man's lips.
"It's Sherlock," the youth said, eyes fluttering closed for a half-second as Crowley leaned closer.
"Really?" Crowley said with renewed interest. So they were in that universe this century, hmm? "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm at university," he said. "But I'm going to leave, it's rubbish." Crowley nodded.
"Probably have some better idea of how to use your... unique talents, eh?" He winked, as though they were sharing a private joke. Sherlock looked confused for a moment, then quickly suppressed it.
"Well, yes," he answered. "Look, um, are we going to leave together, or...?"
Crowley smirked and snagged a cherry from behind the bar, sucking at it thoughtfully before replying.
"My brother knows how to tie a knot in those stems," Sherlock offered, boyish interest in the movements of Crowley's tongue giving way to adult fascination with what it was really doing. Crowley pulled out the intact stem and showed it to him: it was tied to resemble a pair of handcuffs. Sherlock's breath caught audibly in his throat. He tried vainly to clear it.
"We certainly could, in reply to your question," Crowley said smoothly, grabbing Sherlock by the shoulder and leading him out of the back entrance. "Or we could have it off right here." Sherlock swallowed and Crowley laughed aloud, kissing the young man hard enough to bruise his gums.
"That... that will do fine," Sherlock gasped, as Crowley kneeled on the alley cobblestones.
Before long, Sherlock's hands had wrapped in Crowley's gel-stiffened hair and forced him forward still. Crowley's forked tongue flicked over the head of his cock, and Sherlock fell forward, shuddering.
"Please," he huffed into the brisk night air. "Christ."
Crowley pulled away. "What is it you want, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, bemusement creeping into his voice as he caught the blue eyes staring piercingly at him. "Something I can do for you?"
"Ehm, finish?" Sherlock said hesitantly, nevertheless maintaining that imperious manner, as if he couldn't help himself.
"Very well," Crowley answered sweetly, head hovering over Sherlock's straining, still slick erection. Sherlock shuddered again openly. "And I get something in return." It wasn't a question, though Sherlock nodded in silent agreement. "After I'm finished, you let me fuck you."
Sherlock trembled wordlessly for a few moments, struggling to keep control. Finally, he opened his mouth to answer. "It's for science," he said weakly.
"Of course," Crowley said, and bent his head.
(original link)