FIC: Prompt#1 New (Sherlock BBC, Gen, Ficlet)
This was originally a fic prompt posted for the thegameison_sh in January. My beta penfold_x has convinced me to post this de-anon. Blame her…LOL.
Title: Prompt #1: New
Author: mrwubbles aka Yuma
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Words: 734 words (wheeze, gasp, barely made it! LOL)
Genre: Gen
Warnings/Triggers: I'm not Brit, can't even play one on TV (telly?) but I thoroughly enjoy Hob Nobs. Does that help? :)
Spoilers: none
Summary: Murder, a chase, a car. Same old, same old. Until Sherlock learns something new…
Right turn, construction…
His running couldn't keep up with his thinking.
Yield sign…
Albert Hornsford, husband, banker, piss-poor murderer, was driving around, pretending to be an ordinary man performing ordinary errands.
Red route…no left turns…
He deduced from discarded receipts, the shovel binned behind the house, Hornsford was going to flee before Yard finally found the body Sherlock knew existed.
Unacceptable.
Shoes were soaked as they splashed through puddles. He ran so hard he could hear his echo doggedly behind him. He heard voices as he elbowed past pedestrians. He heard profanity, the stray apology, and shouting.
Irrelevent.
The only thing that mattered was arresting Holmsford for his wife's murder. Hornsford thought himself clever; called 999 pretending she went missing.
He ignored the burning in his legs. He fixed his gaze to the car. Dented boot, whitish mud. Dover. He's been to Dover, and it’s not since rained. Recently then. His aunt's cottage? Location of the body?
The deduction spurred him on. He didn't even register the dark shape off to his side until tires screeched.
Startled, he glanced off its bonnet. Before he went under its wheel, he was tackled, his breath forced out with a rush that left him dizzy.
The world grayed.
Sherlock woke to chaos.
"Should we call an ambulance?"
"I didn't see him. He flew out in front of me!"
"Is he all right?"
Sherlock struggled to get up. A hand gripped his shoulder, halting him. Sherlock huffed and knocked the hand away, then his wrist was caught in an iron grip.
"Stay still," a voice commanded. Sherlock bristled. "Sherlock, wait. Nothing looks broken but-no, ma'am, he's fine."
"If you're sure…"
"Didn't he see the light?"
"Couldn't believe…"
Sherlock stared at worn boots, leather bleached from sand, dry sand, but not from the ocean, hold on-
"John?" Sherlock rasped. The clamoring voices around him retreated. John guided him to sit on the curb.
"Hornsford," Sherlock scanned the streets. Nothing. He made to rise again when John crouched in front of him.
"Don't," John said bluntly, the hard tone of a soldier. His hands, however, were those of a doctor as he carefully probed the base of Sherlock's skull. Sherlock flinched as John found the gash under his hair.
"I rung up Lestrade. Told him about the car. They'll get him. Look over here. Follow my finger."
Lestrade? Sherlock ignored the finger and was about to argue when his mobile chirped. John sighed, reached in and rummaged around his coat pocket.
John didn't look at the mobile. He simply thrust it towards Sherlock.
Your Inspector caught Holmsford in a shop buying crimson paint. No point getting up. MH
Sherlock scowled at it with squinty eyes. Squinty because John was still probing the gash.
"Well?" John murmured as he peered into Sherlock's eyes with a frown.
"Lestrade caught him," Sherlock grumbled. He snatched back his phone. "Red handed."
John rocked back on his heels and stared at Sherlock. "We have time then. Explain to me why you took off like that?"
Before he could respond, John continued.
"Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes dashing off to catch a murderer. You could have waited one moment for me. What if I hadn't caught up? You think you're impervious to cars?"
Sherlock paused.
"Sherlock?"
"Actually," Sherlock said slowly, suddenly finding himself flooded with the alien feeling of being wrong footed, "I forgot."
"Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed, his eyes sliding away. "I forgot you were with me. I'm usually running after them myself." Sherlock shrugged. "Habit."
"Habit," John repeated flatly.
Sherlock coughed. "Yes." He got up unsteadily. He needed to blink several times before the streets, gray with the morning drizzle, sharpened. He raised a hand to hail a cab; it was pointless to continue.
"Habit," John muttered again as he stepped up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "You should learn a new one."
Sherlock glanced over, eyebrow arched. The sudden lightness in his head took him aback. Concussion, perhaps?
"New one? Oh, I should be looking behind me from now on?" Sherlock guessed.
"Behind you?" John snorted. "Think I can't keep up with those ruddy skinny legs of yours?" John smirked as a taxi stopped. "Beside you. Get used to it, Sherlock." And with that, John climbed into the cab.
Sherlock shook his head, but found himself smiling as he entered the cab. "I can learn to get used to that."
`fin`
| master fic list | (should you be interested)
Title: Prompt #1: New
Author: mrwubbles aka Yuma
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Rating: G
Words: 734 words (wheeze, gasp, barely made it! LOL)
Genre: Gen
Warnings/Triggers: I'm not Brit, can't even play one on TV (telly?) but I thoroughly enjoy Hob Nobs. Does that help? :)
Spoilers: none
Summary: Murder, a chase, a car. Same old, same old. Until Sherlock learns something new…
Right turn, construction…
His running couldn't keep up with his thinking.
Yield sign…
Albert Hornsford, husband, banker, piss-poor murderer, was driving around, pretending to be an ordinary man performing ordinary errands.
Red route…no left turns…
He deduced from discarded receipts, the shovel binned behind the house, Hornsford was going to flee before Yard finally found the body Sherlock knew existed.
Unacceptable.
Shoes were soaked as they splashed through puddles. He ran so hard he could hear his echo doggedly behind him. He heard voices as he elbowed past pedestrians. He heard profanity, the stray apology, and shouting.
Irrelevent.
The only thing that mattered was arresting Holmsford for his wife's murder. Hornsford thought himself clever; called 999 pretending she went missing.
He ignored the burning in his legs. He fixed his gaze to the car. Dented boot, whitish mud. Dover. He's been to Dover, and it’s not since rained. Recently then. His aunt's cottage? Location of the body?
The deduction spurred him on. He didn't even register the dark shape off to his side until tires screeched.
Startled, he glanced off its bonnet. Before he went under its wheel, he was tackled, his breath forced out with a rush that left him dizzy.
The world grayed.
Sherlock woke to chaos.
"Should we call an ambulance?"
"I didn't see him. He flew out in front of me!"
"Is he all right?"
Sherlock struggled to get up. A hand gripped his shoulder, halting him. Sherlock huffed and knocked the hand away, then his wrist was caught in an iron grip.
"Stay still," a voice commanded. Sherlock bristled. "Sherlock, wait. Nothing looks broken but-no, ma'am, he's fine."
"If you're sure…"
"Didn't he see the light?"
"Couldn't believe…"
Sherlock stared at worn boots, leather bleached from sand, dry sand, but not from the ocean, hold on-
"John?" Sherlock rasped. The clamoring voices around him retreated. John guided him to sit on the curb.
"Hornsford," Sherlock scanned the streets. Nothing. He made to rise again when John crouched in front of him.
"Don't," John said bluntly, the hard tone of a soldier. His hands, however, were those of a doctor as he carefully probed the base of Sherlock's skull. Sherlock flinched as John found the gash under his hair.
"I rung up Lestrade. Told him about the car. They'll get him. Look over here. Follow my finger."
Lestrade? Sherlock ignored the finger and was about to argue when his mobile chirped. John sighed, reached in and rummaged around his coat pocket.
John didn't look at the mobile. He simply thrust it towards Sherlock.
Your Inspector caught Holmsford in a shop buying crimson paint. No point getting up. MH
Sherlock scowled at it with squinty eyes. Squinty because John was still probing the gash.
"Well?" John murmured as he peered into Sherlock's eyes with a frown.
"Lestrade caught him," Sherlock grumbled. He snatched back his phone. "Red handed."
John rocked back on his heels and stared at Sherlock. "We have time then. Explain to me why you took off like that?"
Before he could respond, John continued.
"Yes, the great Sherlock Holmes dashing off to catch a murderer. You could have waited one moment for me. What if I hadn't caught up? You think you're impervious to cars?"
Sherlock paused.
"Sherlock?"
"Actually," Sherlock said slowly, suddenly finding himself flooded with the alien feeling of being wrong footed, "I forgot."
"Sorry?"
Sherlock sighed, his eyes sliding away. "I forgot you were with me. I'm usually running after them myself." Sherlock shrugged. "Habit."
"Habit," John repeated flatly.
Sherlock coughed. "Yes." He got up unsteadily. He needed to blink several times before the streets, gray with the morning drizzle, sharpened. He raised a hand to hail a cab; it was pointless to continue.
"Habit," John muttered again as he stepped up next to him, shoulder to shoulder. "You should learn a new one."
Sherlock glanced over, eyebrow arched. The sudden lightness in his head took him aback. Concussion, perhaps?
"New one? Oh, I should be looking behind me from now on?" Sherlock guessed.
"Behind you?" John snorted. "Think I can't keep up with those ruddy skinny legs of yours?" John smirked as a taxi stopped. "Beside you. Get used to it, Sherlock." And with that, John climbed into the cab.
Sherlock shook his head, but found himself smiling as he entered the cab. "I can learn to get used to that."
`fin`
| master fic list | (should you be interested)