Of Fears And Phobias
Title: Of Fears And Phobias
Summary: Sometimes fear is irrational even in the most rational of people.
Series: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Characters belong to someone else; story belongs to me.
Author's Notes: I originally wrote this as part of a Fic Comment War, but I thought it was good enough to move it to my journal. I really like this, even if it is a bit silly. I don't think I've ever written a fic faster or with more ease than this one right here.
*beepbeep* 14:28- Your assistance is required at 221B. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:29- You are to return home immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:30- Of the utmost importance you return to the flat. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:31- You should have arrived by now. Where are you? -SH
*boop* 14:32- I'm at the clinic, where I will remain until the end of my shift. -JW
*beepbeep* 14:33- Could be dangerous. -SH
*boop* 14:35- Need me to send another text, do you? I think I'll ask Sarah to coffee. -JW
*beepbeep* 14:36- You can't honestly still be sore about that. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:37- Fine. I apologize and will refrain from such actions in the future. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:39- John I apologized. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:41- John come home. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:43- John come home. PLEASE. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:45- I will remove the pickled fetus from the bookshelf if you return immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:49- I will remove the pickled fetus from the sitting room if you return immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:54- I will dispose of the pickled fetus if you return immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:57- I will dispose the pickled fetus PROPERLY if you return immediately. -SH
*boop* 15:01- Really? You MUST be in some real trouble. Shift's over anyways. Let me pop over to the Tesco, then I'll come home. -JW
*beepbeep* 15:02- What don't you understand about "immediately"? -SH
*boop* 15:06- Stop being dramatic, Sherlock. You are texting me, obviously your situation isn't life threatening. -JW
*beepbeep* 15:12- Your presence is no longer required. Have requested Mycroft's assistance. We're out of milk. -SH
++
John had never run so fast in his life. John knew Sherlock Holmes was capable of many things, FANTASTIC things, IMPOSSIBLE things- If someone had told John that Sherlock was actually Harry Potter he would believe them; their life would almost make more sense. However, there was one thing, just ONE thing that even the great and powerful consulting detective was incapable of doing:
Asking his older brother for "assistance" with ANYTHING. EVER.
John couldn't even begin to fathom a situation dire enough for Sherlock to request Mycroft's help. Murderous kidnappings, semtex-laden vests and the BIGGEST FUCKING RATS John had ever seen had not driven Sherlock to request the elder Holmes' aid. The flat must have exploded- Not "Oh no we have to buy new windows again" exploded, "Demolished" exploded. "There's nothing left of the building" exploded. "It took out three surrounding city blocks" exploded. That's it, that had to be it. Sherlock had finally mixed one too many chemicals, resulting in a nuclear blast that had taken out half of London. Oh God, Sherlock had accidentally a nuclear bomb in their flat- The WHOLE THING.
John stopped dead in his tracks as he rounded the corner onto Baker Street.
The building at 221 stood with an almost reassuring intact-ness before him.
There was what looked like an entire division of MI6 packing up discreet black vans in front of his flat.
++
It took John nearly three minutes to make his way through the security checkpoints and up the familiar seventeen steps. It felt like a lifetime had passed before he reached the sitting room.
Sherlock was huddled, knees under chin, in a corner of the sofa. An orange shock blanket was draped around his shoulders and his slender hands were wrapped around a long-cold mug of tea. He was staring blankly into the middle-distance while rocking back and forth.
Mycroft had been sitting, with precision posture, in the armchair closest to where Sherlock was perched. Upon John's entirely anticipated entrance, however, Mycroft had collected his umbrella and promptly made his way towards freedom. John moved to stop him, of course. Mycroft couldn't really expect to leave John with no explanation and what was looking to be a emotionally scarred Sherlock, did he? However, before John could even open his mouth to even attempt to get a word in edgewise, he was being moved aside for the elder Holmes' convenience by a very persuasive man clad in a black suit. John had the great honor of receiving one of Mycroft's tight-lipped smiles before the insufferable man turned and descended the stairs.
++
It didn't take long for John to give up the entire event as a lost cause. As far as he could tell Sherlock had not been physically injured, though he refused to do more than stare vacantly at nothing, and the flat was in no worse shape than when John had left that morning for the surgery. Obviously, since John was not going to be getting answers anytime soon, he should make the most of what was left of the evening.
It was one cup of tea, five chocolate biscuits and thirty-five pages of DWJ's Hexwood later that he finally noticed it. Sitting on the coffee table, next to the small tower of chemistry textbooks was a jar. A mason jar to be exact. A mason jar with small holes poked in the lid. A mason jar with a label that read "Pholcus Phalangioides" in small, precise text.
John had never laughed so hard in his life.
~~
Summary: Sometimes fear is irrational even in the most rational of people.
Series: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: None
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Characters belong to someone else; story belongs to me.
Author's Notes: I originally wrote this as part of a Fic Comment War, but I thought it was good enough to move it to my journal. I really like this, even if it is a bit silly. I don't think I've ever written a fic faster or with more ease than this one right here.
*beepbeep* 14:28- Your assistance is required at 221B. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:29- You are to return home immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:30- Of the utmost importance you return to the flat. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:31- You should have arrived by now. Where are you? -SH
*boop* 14:32- I'm at the clinic, where I will remain until the end of my shift. -JW
*beepbeep* 14:33- Could be dangerous. -SH
*boop* 14:35- Need me to send another text, do you? I think I'll ask Sarah to coffee. -JW
*beepbeep* 14:36- You can't honestly still be sore about that. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:37- Fine. I apologize and will refrain from such actions in the future. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:39- John I apologized. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:41- John come home. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:43- John come home. PLEASE. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:45- I will remove the pickled fetus from the bookshelf if you return immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:49- I will remove the pickled fetus from the sitting room if you return immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:54- I will dispose of the pickled fetus if you return immediately. -SH
*beepbeep* 14:57- I will dispose the pickled fetus PROPERLY if you return immediately. -SH
*boop* 15:01- Really? You MUST be in some real trouble. Shift's over anyways. Let me pop over to the Tesco, then I'll come home. -JW
*beepbeep* 15:02- What don't you understand about "immediately"? -SH
*boop* 15:06- Stop being dramatic, Sherlock. You are texting me, obviously your situation isn't life threatening. -JW
*beepbeep* 15:12- Your presence is no longer required. Have requested Mycroft's assistance. We're out of milk. -SH
++
John had never run so fast in his life. John knew Sherlock Holmes was capable of many things, FANTASTIC things, IMPOSSIBLE things- If someone had told John that Sherlock was actually Harry Potter he would believe them; their life would almost make more sense. However, there was one thing, just ONE thing that even the great and powerful consulting detective was incapable of doing:
Asking his older brother for "assistance" with ANYTHING. EVER.
John couldn't even begin to fathom a situation dire enough for Sherlock to request Mycroft's help. Murderous kidnappings, semtex-laden vests and the BIGGEST FUCKING RATS John had ever seen had not driven Sherlock to request the elder Holmes' aid. The flat must have exploded- Not "Oh no we have to buy new windows again" exploded, "Demolished" exploded. "There's nothing left of the building" exploded. "It took out three surrounding city blocks" exploded. That's it, that had to be it. Sherlock had finally mixed one too many chemicals, resulting in a nuclear blast that had taken out half of London. Oh God, Sherlock had accidentally a nuclear bomb in their flat- The WHOLE THING.
John stopped dead in his tracks as he rounded the corner onto Baker Street.
The building at 221 stood with an almost reassuring intact-ness before him.
There was what looked like an entire division of MI6 packing up discreet black vans in front of his flat.
++
It took John nearly three minutes to make his way through the security checkpoints and up the familiar seventeen steps. It felt like a lifetime had passed before he reached the sitting room.
Sherlock was huddled, knees under chin, in a corner of the sofa. An orange shock blanket was draped around his shoulders and his slender hands were wrapped around a long-cold mug of tea. He was staring blankly into the middle-distance while rocking back and forth.
Mycroft had been sitting, with precision posture, in the armchair closest to where Sherlock was perched. Upon John's entirely anticipated entrance, however, Mycroft had collected his umbrella and promptly made his way towards freedom. John moved to stop him, of course. Mycroft couldn't really expect to leave John with no explanation and what was looking to be a emotionally scarred Sherlock, did he? However, before John could even open his mouth to even attempt to get a word in edgewise, he was being moved aside for the elder Holmes' convenience by a very persuasive man clad in a black suit. John had the great honor of receiving one of Mycroft's tight-lipped smiles before the insufferable man turned and descended the stairs.
++
It didn't take long for John to give up the entire event as a lost cause. As far as he could tell Sherlock had not been physically injured, though he refused to do more than stare vacantly at nothing, and the flat was in no worse shape than when John had left that morning for the surgery. Obviously, since John was not going to be getting answers anytime soon, he should make the most of what was left of the evening.
It was one cup of tea, five chocolate biscuits and thirty-five pages of DWJ's Hexwood later that he finally noticed it. Sitting on the coffee table, next to the small tower of chemistry textbooks was a jar. A mason jar to be exact. A mason jar with small holes poked in the lid. A mason jar with a label that read "Pholcus Phalangioides" in small, precise text.
John had never laughed so hard in his life.
~~