Fanfiction: Echo (Sherlock BBC)
Title: "Echo"
Status: OneShot; complete
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, James Moriarty
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Moffat & Co. - I'm just playing.
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: unbeta'ed, takes places some time after ep01, S01; canon-AU
Summary: An echo of John Watson's past shows up to have a chat among 'fire flies' and 'spilled guts'...
Echo
John Watson side-stepped a shallow looking puddle, refusing to be fooled twice, as evident by a dirty pattern running up his trousers that Sherlock would find to be most fascinating, probably. John himself didn't need it to deduce anything, what with his socks soaked through and his shoes squeaking with every step. He ducked his head between his shoulders against the cold wind and sped up his already brisk pace.
Thanks to this little short cut through London's back alleys, 221 B was only five more minutes away on foot. A less scenic route to be sure, but better than to weave through masses of people on a shopping crazy Friday.
The pale early afternoon sun was blocked out by the old, overhanging brick buildings. Here, the wind whistled a hollow tune in the narrow pathways, but at least carried no more rain with him. Old newspapers stirred in the gust, while others clung as brown pulps to the cracked asphalt, long since dissolved.
John shivered, picturing himself already back in Baker Street, out of his clammy clothes and rid of two pounds of raw liver for Sherlock's latest experiment and as many liters milk that would end up in anything but his own cup of tea, no doubt. - The bitter sweet peculiarities of sharing your home with a 'high functioning sociopathic' genius. Not to speak of body parts, mold, fruit flies and acid eating its way through diverse surfaces.
Being distracted didn't mean, though, that John had gotten careless - a military man's instincts, once acquired, never dulled. Which would have been enough of a logical cover for his abrupt stop and turn to the right if Sherlock had been there. That the consulting detective was two streets ahead, probably still fiddling madly like Nero over burning Rome, was no coincidence, though.
John made no effort to conceal that his hand had wandered closer to his Sig Sauer. It was expected of him. His narrowed gaze fell on something darker, moving in the shadows between overflowing garbage containers.
“You've become protective fast, crack shot.”
The voice was familiar, as was its giddy quality. “Funny, you're the second person to remark on that,” John answered, shrugging.
He watched as James Moriarty came closer into the faint sunlight. Dressed in a crisp, hand-tailored suit and a dark overcoat, he looked his part of a dashing Bond villain.
“Hello, Jim.”
“You're the poster boy of understatement,“ Moriarty commented, giving him the once over.
No doubt he noted the ink stain on John's left index finger, the slight bulge in his clothes from both his gun and the knife he carried and even finer details, drawing his conclusions from them. For his own part, John noted the best spots to set up snipers - there, on those three rooftops.
Moriarty leered. “I like it, really. You being ordinary. 10 out of 10 for fooling Sherlock Holmes and his simple minded hanger-ons, Johnny-boy.”
“Thank you,” John said politely - the barrel of his Sig Sauer, pointing suddenly straight between Jim's dilating eyes spoke another language. The metal felt warm and the weight familiar in his calloused hands.
Both men ignored the dropped shopping bag spilling its white and red guts everywhere.
After a moment, Jim raised his hands with a theatrical sigh - and grinned like a loon as dots began to dance over John's skin and coat, like blood-red fireflies that finally settled right over his heart. He didn't react to the threat anymore than Moriarty had.
Jim lowered his hands, pulling a face to convey his mock hurt feelings. “Seriously? We're such close friends, Johnny-boy, we have no need for guns. But you're a traditionalist, I know - the same dance every time we meet, right? You wild free thing, you.” He winked.
“Can't blame me,” John muttered, allowing his stance to relax fractionally as he lowered his gun. Moriarty was right - their meetings followed a pattern, one that didn't include violence. At least 'not on the first date', like Jim had put it once. “Call them off.”
“Whatever,” Jim snapped his fingers and the red laser lights vanished. “But only because blood is nasty on Italian silk.”
“Right.”
“Don't be so serious, Johnny-boy. Another player in my grand game is always welcome, especially one who gives mundane jumpers such a bad name.” Jim winked again, but his eyes turned cold. “You will stick with him, right?”
John didn't need to consider the question. “Yes.”
“Pity, I still have those roses.”
“And he has eyeballs, right besides the leftover of our Chinese takeout.”
“Not to forget the head,” Jim added with a wry smile. “I'll give your regards to Seb...?”
“Please do.”
Jim nodded and vanished back into the shadows. Of course the only consulting detective had caught the attention of the only consulting criminal. And John was stuck in the middle, tangled in old and new loyalties. He sighed and looked down at his ruined trousers, spilled full of milk and bloody bits of liver. That' wasn't something he could hope to hide from anyone, much less from someone as observant as Sherlock... - It didn't matter.
John is used to lying and has an honest face.
End
Part Two
AN: And here I swore to never write anything for Sherlock Holmes, not classic ACD nor movies or tv series... *sigh* At least the writers block seems to be broken.
Status: OneShot; complete
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, James Moriarty
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, Moffat & Co. - I'm just playing.
Rating: T
Warnings/Spoilers: unbeta'ed, takes places some time after ep01, S01; canon-AU
Summary: An echo of John Watson's past shows up to have a chat among 'fire flies' and 'spilled guts'...
Echo
John Watson side-stepped a shallow looking puddle, refusing to be fooled twice, as evident by a dirty pattern running up his trousers that Sherlock would find to be most fascinating, probably. John himself didn't need it to deduce anything, what with his socks soaked through and his shoes squeaking with every step. He ducked his head between his shoulders against the cold wind and sped up his already brisk pace.
Thanks to this little short cut through London's back alleys, 221 B was only five more minutes away on foot. A less scenic route to be sure, but better than to weave through masses of people on a shopping crazy Friday.
The pale early afternoon sun was blocked out by the old, overhanging brick buildings. Here, the wind whistled a hollow tune in the narrow pathways, but at least carried no more rain with him. Old newspapers stirred in the gust, while others clung as brown pulps to the cracked asphalt, long since dissolved.
John shivered, picturing himself already back in Baker Street, out of his clammy clothes and rid of two pounds of raw liver for Sherlock's latest experiment and as many liters milk that would end up in anything but his own cup of tea, no doubt. - The bitter sweet peculiarities of sharing your home with a 'high functioning sociopathic' genius. Not to speak of body parts, mold, fruit flies and acid eating its way through diverse surfaces.
Being distracted didn't mean, though, that John had gotten careless - a military man's instincts, once acquired, never dulled. Which would have been enough of a logical cover for his abrupt stop and turn to the right if Sherlock had been there. That the consulting detective was two streets ahead, probably still fiddling madly like Nero over burning Rome, was no coincidence, though.
John made no effort to conceal that his hand had wandered closer to his Sig Sauer. It was expected of him. His narrowed gaze fell on something darker, moving in the shadows between overflowing garbage containers.
“You've become protective fast, crack shot.”
The voice was familiar, as was its giddy quality. “Funny, you're the second person to remark on that,” John answered, shrugging.
He watched as James Moriarty came closer into the faint sunlight. Dressed in a crisp, hand-tailored suit and a dark overcoat, he looked his part of a dashing Bond villain.
“Hello, Jim.”
“You're the poster boy of understatement,“ Moriarty commented, giving him the once over.
No doubt he noted the ink stain on John's left index finger, the slight bulge in his clothes from both his gun and the knife he carried and even finer details, drawing his conclusions from them. For his own part, John noted the best spots to set up snipers - there, on those three rooftops.
Moriarty leered. “I like it, really. You being ordinary. 10 out of 10 for fooling Sherlock Holmes and his simple minded hanger-ons, Johnny-boy.”
“Thank you,” John said politely - the barrel of his Sig Sauer, pointing suddenly straight between Jim's dilating eyes spoke another language. The metal felt warm and the weight familiar in his calloused hands.
Both men ignored the dropped shopping bag spilling its white and red guts everywhere.
After a moment, Jim raised his hands with a theatrical sigh - and grinned like a loon as dots began to dance over John's skin and coat, like blood-red fireflies that finally settled right over his heart. He didn't react to the threat anymore than Moriarty had.
Jim lowered his hands, pulling a face to convey his mock hurt feelings. “Seriously? We're such close friends, Johnny-boy, we have no need for guns. But you're a traditionalist, I know - the same dance every time we meet, right? You wild free thing, you.” He winked.
“Can't blame me,” John muttered, allowing his stance to relax fractionally as he lowered his gun. Moriarty was right - their meetings followed a pattern, one that didn't include violence. At least 'not on the first date', like Jim had put it once. “Call them off.”
“Whatever,” Jim snapped his fingers and the red laser lights vanished. “But only because blood is nasty on Italian silk.”
“Right.”
“Don't be so serious, Johnny-boy. Another player in my grand game is always welcome, especially one who gives mundane jumpers such a bad name.” Jim winked again, but his eyes turned cold. “You will stick with him, right?”
John didn't need to consider the question. “Yes.”
“Pity, I still have those roses.”
“And he has eyeballs, right besides the leftover of our Chinese takeout.”
“Not to forget the head,” Jim added with a wry smile. “I'll give your regards to Seb...?”
“Please do.”
Jim nodded and vanished back into the shadows. Of course the only consulting detective had caught the attention of the only consulting criminal. And John was stuck in the middle, tangled in old and new loyalties. He sighed and looked down at his ruined trousers, spilled full of milk and bloody bits of liver. That' wasn't something he could hope to hide from anyone, much less from someone as observant as Sherlock... - It didn't matter.
John is used to lying and has an honest face.
End
Part Two
AN: And here I swore to never write anything for Sherlock Holmes, not classic ACD nor movies or tv series... *sigh* At least the writers block seems to be broken.