Fic(let): Stephen Hawking is an Idiot (Sherlock/John, PG)
Title: Stephen Hawking is an Idiot
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rated: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: 900
Notes: I wrote this for a prompt over at comment_fic and it just sort of (a little bit) got away from me so I'm just posting it. The prompt was the movie title Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel.
Laying in bed beside Sherlock, John made the horrible mistake of speaking before he thought and said, “I sort of wish I never had to move again.”
Sherlock made a dismissive sound in his throat and sat up. “Yes, well you have to.”
“Or I could just lay here,” John said. He stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then closed his eyes.
Sherlock threw a pillow over his head and smirked when John flailed and swatted it away. “See?”
John blinked at him. “What?”
“You moved. You have to move. You have to breathe, your heart has to beat, your blood has to pump, and I will not even mention all of the ghastly things your stomach and intestines are doing right this moment,” Sherlock said.
“Alright,” John said thoughtfully. “Maybe I want to go back in time then.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “Assuming such a thing were even possible, to where--or rather, when?”
John rolled his eyes. “Twenty minutes ago would about do it, I think.”
Sherlock thought about that with a frown, then leapt up and snatched his pants from the floor to pull them back on. “Not possible,” he said.
John propped himself up on his elbows and frowned at him moving about at the foot of the bed. “What do you mean, ‘not possible‘? It’s very possible.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock said. He shrugged his shirt on and started to button it, was thinking too fast, got distracted, and ended up sitting on the side of the bed tying his shoes with his shirt half buttoned. “Time is not a thing, time is time. Theoretically,” and Sherlock curled his lip disdainfully at the use of this word, “forward time travel is possible. Time dilation, relativity… but probably not. And that wouldn’t help you in any case--damn this shoelace.”
Sherlock yanked the offending shoelace and it unknotted.
“What about what Stephen Hawking said about--?”
Sherlock stopped in the middle of re-tying his shoe and scowled. “Stephen Hawking is an idiot,” he said flatly.
John stared at him in surprise for a moment, then made a sound of disbelief in his throat. “He is not.”
“Well, of course you would think not as you’re also an idiot,” Sherlock said.
“Sherlock,” John said, annoyed.
Sherlock sighed. “Now you’re offended. I keep telling you not to be.”
“Yes, and I keep telling you to quit calling me an idiot,” John said.
“He is, though,” Sherlock said, jumping up from the bed. He noticed his shirt and finished buttoning it as he walked around the bed. “One minute he’s saying that it’s completely possible that the universe was created by a god, the next he’s saying there doesn’t need to be a god for the universe to exist. I could have told him that.”
“Of course you could have,” John said patiently. “This from the man who doesn’t think it’s important that the earth moves around the sun.”
“It isn’t important,” Sherlock said.
“Fine,” John said with a sigh. “Fine. You’re right and Stephen Hawking is a great big moron. Now will you quit running around the room and come back over here?”
Sherlock halted on his way toward the door and looked at John suspiciously. “What for?”
“Well, since I can’t stay right here forever and since I can’t travel back in time except for theoretically, I thought we might just do it again,” John said, and he wasn’t an idiot except in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. Who was also an idiot sometimes, though John would never tell him that.
“Nonsense, I just put my clothes back on,” Sherlock said distractedly. His mobile phone was beeping somewhere in the room and he looked around as though expecting it to appear floating in front of his face. “Where… never mind.”
Sherlock dropped to his knees on the floor beside the bed and started rooting around beneath it. John sat up to peer over the side of the bed at him. “It’s not under there,” he said.
“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, pulling the sheets away from his face to lift his head over the edge of the mattress.
His hair was sticking up in all directions and John grinned as he patted it down before handing Sherlock his phone. “It fell out of your pocket into the bed,” he said.
Sherlock snatched it from him and bounded to his feet, reading the screen as he walked out of the room. “It’s Lestrade!” he called back.
“Of course it is,” John muttered, already sitting up to get his clothes. “Sherlock, we can’t go out like this!”
Sherlock poked his head back in the room and ran his eyes over John. “I assume you will be putting your clothes back on.”
“I mean, we should… you know… wash up,” John said.
“No one will notice,” Sherlock said.
“You of all people should know that’s not--”
“I would notice,” Sherlock said.
“Yeah, well that’s what I mean--”
“I’m not going to tell anybody. Now get dressed, come on,” Sherlock said, disappearing from the doorway again.
With an exasperated sigh, John flopped back on the bed. He didn’t care if it was theoretical or impossible or what, but at the moment, he’d have killed Lestrade just to be able to go back in time half an hour. It was his day off, for Christ’s sake.
“John!“
“I’m coming!”
XXX
Fandom: Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rated: PG
Warnings: None
Word Count: 900
Notes: I wrote this for a prompt over at comment_fic and it just sort of (a little bit) got away from me so I'm just posting it. The prompt was the movie title Frequently Asked Questions About Time Travel.
Laying in bed beside Sherlock, John made the horrible mistake of speaking before he thought and said, “I sort of wish I never had to move again.”
Sherlock made a dismissive sound in his throat and sat up. “Yes, well you have to.”
“Or I could just lay here,” John said. He stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then closed his eyes.
Sherlock threw a pillow over his head and smirked when John flailed and swatted it away. “See?”
John blinked at him. “What?”
“You moved. You have to move. You have to breathe, your heart has to beat, your blood has to pump, and I will not even mention all of the ghastly things your stomach and intestines are doing right this moment,” Sherlock said.
“Alright,” John said thoughtfully. “Maybe I want to go back in time then.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “Assuming such a thing were even possible, to where--or rather, when?”
John rolled his eyes. “Twenty minutes ago would about do it, I think.”
Sherlock thought about that with a frown, then leapt up and snatched his pants from the floor to pull them back on. “Not possible,” he said.
John propped himself up on his elbows and frowned at him moving about at the foot of the bed. “What do you mean, ‘not possible‘? It’s very possible.”
“No, it isn’t,” Sherlock said. He shrugged his shirt on and started to button it, was thinking too fast, got distracted, and ended up sitting on the side of the bed tying his shoes with his shirt half buttoned. “Time is not a thing, time is time. Theoretically,” and Sherlock curled his lip disdainfully at the use of this word, “forward time travel is possible. Time dilation, relativity… but probably not. And that wouldn’t help you in any case--damn this shoelace.”
Sherlock yanked the offending shoelace and it unknotted.
“What about what Stephen Hawking said about--?”
Sherlock stopped in the middle of re-tying his shoe and scowled. “Stephen Hawking is an idiot,” he said flatly.
John stared at him in surprise for a moment, then made a sound of disbelief in his throat. “He is not.”
“Well, of course you would think not as you’re also an idiot,” Sherlock said.
“Sherlock,” John said, annoyed.
Sherlock sighed. “Now you’re offended. I keep telling you not to be.”
“Yes, and I keep telling you to quit calling me an idiot,” John said.
“He is, though,” Sherlock said, jumping up from the bed. He noticed his shirt and finished buttoning it as he walked around the bed. “One minute he’s saying that it’s completely possible that the universe was created by a god, the next he’s saying there doesn’t need to be a god for the universe to exist. I could have told him that.”
“Of course you could have,” John said patiently. “This from the man who doesn’t think it’s important that the earth moves around the sun.”
“It isn’t important,” Sherlock said.
“Fine,” John said with a sigh. “Fine. You’re right and Stephen Hawking is a great big moron. Now will you quit running around the room and come back over here?”
Sherlock halted on his way toward the door and looked at John suspiciously. “What for?”
“Well, since I can’t stay right here forever and since I can’t travel back in time except for theoretically, I thought we might just do it again,” John said, and he wasn’t an idiot except in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. Who was also an idiot sometimes, though John would never tell him that.
“Nonsense, I just put my clothes back on,” Sherlock said distractedly. His mobile phone was beeping somewhere in the room and he looked around as though expecting it to appear floating in front of his face. “Where… never mind.”
Sherlock dropped to his knees on the floor beside the bed and started rooting around beneath it. John sat up to peer over the side of the bed at him. “It’s not under there,” he said.
“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, pulling the sheets away from his face to lift his head over the edge of the mattress.
His hair was sticking up in all directions and John grinned as he patted it down before handing Sherlock his phone. “It fell out of your pocket into the bed,” he said.
Sherlock snatched it from him and bounded to his feet, reading the screen as he walked out of the room. “It’s Lestrade!” he called back.
“Of course it is,” John muttered, already sitting up to get his clothes. “Sherlock, we can’t go out like this!”
Sherlock poked his head back in the room and ran his eyes over John. “I assume you will be putting your clothes back on.”
“I mean, we should… you know… wash up,” John said.
“No one will notice,” Sherlock said.
“You of all people should know that’s not--”
“I would notice,” Sherlock said.
“Yeah, well that’s what I mean--”
“I’m not going to tell anybody. Now get dressed, come on,” Sherlock said, disappearing from the doorway again.
With an exasperated sigh, John flopped back on the bed. He didn’t care if it was theoretical or impossible or what, but at the moment, he’d have killed Lestrade just to be able to go back in time half an hour. It was his day off, for Christ’s sake.
“John!“
“I’m coming!”
XXX