"In my defense, the cheese was a rectangular prism."
Hello my dear flistees~ It's been a terribly long time since I've posted anything, so lest you think that I've drifted off into the internet, I'm posting some WIP snippets of fics I've been working on. YES, IT IS TRUE. I HAVE ACTUALLY BEEN DOING SOMETHING FOR THE LAST MONTH OR TWO. 8D
Okay, here's the good stuff. Note that none of them actually have titles yet, because....titles are evil and evade me like evasive things.
Apart from the physicality of it, Lestrade noted, very little had changed. They saw nothing of each other for some weeks after the Merridew affair, and it had been one of MacDonald’s cases which happened to intersect with his own that had thrown them in together again. Holmes had been as distant and imperious as ever, to Lestrade’s deepest irritation, but a hand on his arm outside the station, and a breath against his ear, bearing the whisper to come round tomorrow, had satisfied him that their interlude had not been forgotten. Thus had begun Lestrade’s weekly tradition of coming to Baker Street on Thursday nights. It had become like clockwork, which suited him, unless of course Holmes had a case on hand. On those occasions the best Lestrade could hope for was a curt apology for forgetting to wire, and at worst a snarl to the effect that he was a distraction the amateur could ill afford at the moment. It was truly bothersome to be used so poorly, and with so little notice, and after scarcely a month Lestrade had begun to develop a deep sympathy for Dr. Watson. The landlady shared his exasperation with long-suffering, sympathetic looks as he invariably trudged down the stairs on the nights he was ejected. There were times, early on when the weather was still cold and his leg pained him, when she would prepare food and push it at him before he could get out the door. He had always refused the gesture, and she always insisted, sending him onto the street with her delicious Scottish cooking. It had become another tradition, as had the street Arabs’ curious glances as the days lengthened and the sun began to see him onto Baker Street. They no longer mocked him when he passed, a courtesy extended to no one else from the Yard. Bradstreet had been sporting about it at the time, but Lestrade knew it annoyed him to see the smaller policeman pass with immunity. In truth, he was a bit perplexed by it himself. There had clearly been a test which he had passed, and yet he could hardly imagine what it might have been. The rituals of Baker Street were a puzzle to him, even after several months.
At the moment, however, the street Arabs were not predominant in his thoughts. The Darbies rattled as he flexed his hands and took a deep breath, shifting his weight to press back against the tall, gaunt figure poised above him. There was an answering chuckle from Sherlock Holmes that made Lestrade very glad he could not see the other man’s face. He closed his eyes as a shudder stole through him, eliciting another chuckle from Holmes. The taller man’s breath tickled his ear as he leaned down and pressed his thin chest flush against Lestrade’s back.
“You needn’t hide your face in the linens,” he purred, smug as a cat with a helpless mouse.
Lestrade growled. “And you needn’t sound so damnably pleased about it,” he snapped in response. He had known since first clapping eyes on the amateur detective that Holmes was dangerous, but it had never occurred to him that his playful moods were the worst.
“You’ve only your own carelessness to blame,” replied Holmes easily, coaxing his knee between Lestrade’s thighs. “I should think you would know by now to always keep your back against a wall.”
“I hardly expected to be chased about your sitting room!” Lestrade cried, shoving his face into the sheets once more as one of Holmes’ fingers caressed the back of his knee. He did not have to look to know the taller man was smiling.
“Ah, my dear Lestrade,” murmured Holmes, his voice silky and soothing as he bent to press a gentle kiss to Lestrade’s shoulder, “I was under the impression, from your overly dilated pupils and shortness of breath, that you enjoyed it quite as much as I did.”
****
Torbin Zixx was in a bind
Not that this was unusual. In fact, he could think of dozens of worse situations he’d gotten out of off the top of his head. What made today different was simply the fact that he had for once been captured by the authorities.
Which meant that he had finally been identified.
There went his claim to fame. He couldn’t really be Zixx the Enigma if his face was all over the six o’clock news.
And it was really hard to contemplate a new career with the Tanellan gangbanger snoring loudly in the bunk below him. They’d hauled him in two hours ago, cursing and drunk, and thrown him in with Zixx in spite of his protests. He just hoped the creep didn’t wake up any time soon, because he looked familiar. He probably owed the guy money.
As he stared at the ugly gray ceiling of his cell, he noticed that someone had carved a myriad of obscenities, most aimed at the cops, in a spiral pattern that seemed to spin as he looked at it. Nice writing, too. Clearly an artist. Probably smuggled the laser up his ass, now that he thought about it. Either way it was impressive.
The Tanellan farted once and rolled over in his sleep.
Zixx let out a pained sigh and closed his eyes.
---
“You have got to be kidding me.” Baxter Stockman stared at the security monitor in blank disbelief. “He’s been involved in everything from that Sh’Okenabo business to robbing the Jones boy! And he failed at all of it,” he added tartly.
“Your own track record has been less than perfect as well, Doctor,” said Bishop mildly, watching the hooded man cast another disgusted look at his sleeping cellmate.
Stockman threw the president a filthy look and crossed his arms. “Do you really think he’s up to this?”
“I do.” Bishop tilted his head, his eyes hidden behind the visor. “He’s evaded us for years now, and considering the people he’s worked with in the past, the mere fact that he’s alive is testament to his abilities.”
Stockman grunted, his mouth twisted into a sour expression.
“Besides,” added Bishop, “Torbin Zixx is already involved in the matter at hand. We learned as much from the turtles when they returned my personal craft.”
“Didn’t he steal your coffee maker?” interrupted Stockman.
Bishop’s mouth thinned. “Indeed, Doctor,” he said grimly, “but that’s not the point.”
Stockman grunted again, looking back at the monitor. “Well, I suppose I just have to trust that you know what you’re doing, Mr. President.”
Bishop smirked and adjusted his visor. “Really, Doctor. Listening to you, anyone would believe I was up to something nefarious.” He turned and strode toward the door.
“Because that would be so out of character,” muttered Stockman as he followed the taller man out of the security room.
****
The turtle doesn’t wake up for two days. Bishop stares at his sleeping form, taking in the new scars, and wonders what exactly happened that would drive Leonardo off Manhattan. The rat’s death is not news to him. Nor is the missing brother. He’s been keeping a watchful eye on the island, waiting for any weakness, any opening. It grates at him to watch any part of his country fall to that alien menace.
His own personal version of hell on earth, right across the river.
His lips twist into a bitter smirk, directed perhaps at himself. Two hundred years, and he still doesn’t have the power to protect. Pitiful.
He watches Leonardo’s mouth work, silent screams forming words Bishop can’t understand. The doctor will be in soon to check the scars already forming over his eyes. They’re ugly things, just like the scar that traces its jagged line down the turtle’s face, marring the mouth that keeps moving.
Bishop finally leans closer, curious. Unguarded, Leonardo might be able to reveal something useful. Some plan, some idea he’s keeping in his head as leverage. Because he wants Bishop’s help, Bishop is sure of it. So he puts his ear close to that scarred mouth and listens.
And draws back quickly. Because it’s not a plan Leonardo is mouthing over and over again.
Names. In an anguished litany, one after the other. Leonardo is naming the dead in his sleep. Naming the dead in a voice so raw that Bishop has to distance himself from it. Has to pull back to safety before the despair in Leonardo’s voice sucks him down.
Bishop knows all about despair, after all.
The doctor comes in then, and the relief he feels is alarming. He leaves before it can show on his face, resolves to put this out of his mind and maybe go over the latest surveillance from the island.
Two steps later, the doctor calls him.
He turns and arches an eyebrow at the news, and then he’s walking again, back toward the very thing he’d been fleeing.
Leonardo’s eyes are gone, cannot open, but the brow ridges furrow as he turns his head, obviously confused. Bishop crosses his arms, feeling slightly uncomfortable at seeing Leonardo this vulnerable.
“Where…?” Leonardo’s voice is very soft, hesitant. He trails off, fingers skimming the edge of his blanket.
“You’re in my medical bay, Leonardo, where you’ve been for the last two days.” Bishop stares at the turtle calmly as the head whips around to face him. The brow ridges furrow deeper, and then smooth out. The set of his shoulders changes, and for some reason this sets Bishop on edge. So, he was right. Leonardo undoubtedly wants his help, but with what? He’s expending all his resources, and then some, just to keep the alien’s armies confined to Manhattan. Pursing his lips, he remembers the last time they asked him to join. April O’Neil’s face has a terribly honest quality about it. He remembers that very well, just like he remembers the darkness moving behind her eyes as he dashed her hopes and left them bleeding.
Leonardo is nodding, looking almost serene. “Thank you,” he says in the same soft voice, touched now with wonder as he raises a hand to his face and feels the bandages. “You didn’t have to patch me up.”
“I’m aware of that,” says Bishop shortly, an uncharacteristic burst of annoyance shooting through him. He moves silently around the turtle’s bed, feeling a stab of cruel satisfaction as Leonardo’s expression becomes anxious, trying to follow him. “Perhaps it’s best we get down to business. Why did you come here?”
“I…” The turtle sounds less sure now, straining to hear him, to face the right direction when speaking. Bishop takes no pity and remains silent, letting Leonardo think he’s further toward the foot of the bed than he is. So the turtle looks earnestly, pleadingly into the empty air and whispers, “Help them.”
Bishop feels his jaw clench and is unsure why he’s suddenly furious. It’s irrelevant. He is, and so he speaks, savoring the look on Leonardo’s face as he becomes suddenly and painfully aware of the humiliation Bishop has inflicted. “I believe, Leonardo-” and he rolls the name off his tongue, infusing it with contempt- “I made my position clear to you and your companions. I have neither the ability nor the inclination to lead a suicide mission. And that,” he adds flatly, “Is exactly what it will be if you are to try again.”
Leonardo’s face tightens, becomes a mask. He goes very still, and Bishop realizes, belatedly, that he’s struck a nerve.
“I can’t…” he trails off again, sounding tired. Like he’s using all his energy to keep his emotions back behind his face. “There has to be a way. There is a way.”
Bishop studies the turtle, unwillingly impressed by the quiet determination in Leonardo’s voice. He’s seen flashes of it before, of course, but he’s never really stopped to appreciate the steel beneath the very green exterior.
Now he looks at Leonardo and sees someone who could become an equal. It isn’t enough to change his mind. He has too much to do to throw away good men to this madness, but he finds himself unwilling to abandon the ones willing to fight the good fight. They have a face now, he thinks to himself. One that isn’t so easy to ignore as April O’Neil’s wild-eyed hope. Desperation is easy to come by. Corner an animal, and it will scratch and bite. It’s expected. This quiet, dignified resolve, though…
Bishop sighs. “Rest now. I’ll discuss this with you later, when you’re well enough.”
And he walks out the door, feeling the weight of Leonardo’s attention on his back the rest of the day.
SEE? I HAVE BEEN PRODUCTIVE.
Okay, here's the good stuff. Note that none of them actually have titles yet, because....titles are evil and evade me like evasive things.
Apart from the physicality of it, Lestrade noted, very little had changed. They saw nothing of each other for some weeks after the Merridew affair, and it had been one of MacDonald’s cases which happened to intersect with his own that had thrown them in together again. Holmes had been as distant and imperious as ever, to Lestrade’s deepest irritation, but a hand on his arm outside the station, and a breath against his ear, bearing the whisper to come round tomorrow, had satisfied him that their interlude had not been forgotten. Thus had begun Lestrade’s weekly tradition of coming to Baker Street on Thursday nights. It had become like clockwork, which suited him, unless of course Holmes had a case on hand. On those occasions the best Lestrade could hope for was a curt apology for forgetting to wire, and at worst a snarl to the effect that he was a distraction the amateur could ill afford at the moment. It was truly bothersome to be used so poorly, and with so little notice, and after scarcely a month Lestrade had begun to develop a deep sympathy for Dr. Watson. The landlady shared his exasperation with long-suffering, sympathetic looks as he invariably trudged down the stairs on the nights he was ejected. There were times, early on when the weather was still cold and his leg pained him, when she would prepare food and push it at him before he could get out the door. He had always refused the gesture, and she always insisted, sending him onto the street with her delicious Scottish cooking. It had become another tradition, as had the street Arabs’ curious glances as the days lengthened and the sun began to see him onto Baker Street. They no longer mocked him when he passed, a courtesy extended to no one else from the Yard. Bradstreet had been sporting about it at the time, but Lestrade knew it annoyed him to see the smaller policeman pass with immunity. In truth, he was a bit perplexed by it himself. There had clearly been a test which he had passed, and yet he could hardly imagine what it might have been. The rituals of Baker Street were a puzzle to him, even after several months.
At the moment, however, the street Arabs were not predominant in his thoughts. The Darbies rattled as he flexed his hands and took a deep breath, shifting his weight to press back against the tall, gaunt figure poised above him. There was an answering chuckle from Sherlock Holmes that made Lestrade very glad he could not see the other man’s face. He closed his eyes as a shudder stole through him, eliciting another chuckle from Holmes. The taller man’s breath tickled his ear as he leaned down and pressed his thin chest flush against Lestrade’s back.
“You needn’t hide your face in the linens,” he purred, smug as a cat with a helpless mouse.
Lestrade growled. “And you needn’t sound so damnably pleased about it,” he snapped in response. He had known since first clapping eyes on the amateur detective that Holmes was dangerous, but it had never occurred to him that his playful moods were the worst.
“You’ve only your own carelessness to blame,” replied Holmes easily, coaxing his knee between Lestrade’s thighs. “I should think you would know by now to always keep your back against a wall.”
“I hardly expected to be chased about your sitting room!” Lestrade cried, shoving his face into the sheets once more as one of Holmes’ fingers caressed the back of his knee. He did not have to look to know the taller man was smiling.
“Ah, my dear Lestrade,” murmured Holmes, his voice silky and soothing as he bent to press a gentle kiss to Lestrade’s shoulder, “I was under the impression, from your overly dilated pupils and shortness of breath, that you enjoyed it quite as much as I did.”
****
Torbin Zixx was in a bind
Not that this was unusual. In fact, he could think of dozens of worse situations he’d gotten out of off the top of his head. What made today different was simply the fact that he had for once been captured by the authorities.
Which meant that he had finally been identified.
There went his claim to fame. He couldn’t really be Zixx the Enigma if his face was all over the six o’clock news.
And it was really hard to contemplate a new career with the Tanellan gangbanger snoring loudly in the bunk below him. They’d hauled him in two hours ago, cursing and drunk, and thrown him in with Zixx in spite of his protests. He just hoped the creep didn’t wake up any time soon, because he looked familiar. He probably owed the guy money.
As he stared at the ugly gray ceiling of his cell, he noticed that someone had carved a myriad of obscenities, most aimed at the cops, in a spiral pattern that seemed to spin as he looked at it. Nice writing, too. Clearly an artist. Probably smuggled the laser up his ass, now that he thought about it. Either way it was impressive.
The Tanellan farted once and rolled over in his sleep.
Zixx let out a pained sigh and closed his eyes.
---
“You have got to be kidding me.” Baxter Stockman stared at the security monitor in blank disbelief. “He’s been involved in everything from that Sh’Okenabo business to robbing the Jones boy! And he failed at all of it,” he added tartly.
“Your own track record has been less than perfect as well, Doctor,” said Bishop mildly, watching the hooded man cast another disgusted look at his sleeping cellmate.
Stockman threw the president a filthy look and crossed his arms. “Do you really think he’s up to this?”
“I do.” Bishop tilted his head, his eyes hidden behind the visor. “He’s evaded us for years now, and considering the people he’s worked with in the past, the mere fact that he’s alive is testament to his abilities.”
Stockman grunted, his mouth twisted into a sour expression.
“Besides,” added Bishop, “Torbin Zixx is already involved in the matter at hand. We learned as much from the turtles when they returned my personal craft.”
“Didn’t he steal your coffee maker?” interrupted Stockman.
Bishop’s mouth thinned. “Indeed, Doctor,” he said grimly, “but that’s not the point.”
Stockman grunted again, looking back at the monitor. “Well, I suppose I just have to trust that you know what you’re doing, Mr. President.”
Bishop smirked and adjusted his visor. “Really, Doctor. Listening to you, anyone would believe I was up to something nefarious.” He turned and strode toward the door.
“Because that would be so out of character,” muttered Stockman as he followed the taller man out of the security room.
****
The turtle doesn’t wake up for two days. Bishop stares at his sleeping form, taking in the new scars, and wonders what exactly happened that would drive Leonardo off Manhattan. The rat’s death is not news to him. Nor is the missing brother. He’s been keeping a watchful eye on the island, waiting for any weakness, any opening. It grates at him to watch any part of his country fall to that alien menace.
His own personal version of hell on earth, right across the river.
His lips twist into a bitter smirk, directed perhaps at himself. Two hundred years, and he still doesn’t have the power to protect. Pitiful.
He watches Leonardo’s mouth work, silent screams forming words Bishop can’t understand. The doctor will be in soon to check the scars already forming over his eyes. They’re ugly things, just like the scar that traces its jagged line down the turtle’s face, marring the mouth that keeps moving.
Bishop finally leans closer, curious. Unguarded, Leonardo might be able to reveal something useful. Some plan, some idea he’s keeping in his head as leverage. Because he wants Bishop’s help, Bishop is sure of it. So he puts his ear close to that scarred mouth and listens.
And draws back quickly. Because it’s not a plan Leonardo is mouthing over and over again.
Names. In an anguished litany, one after the other. Leonardo is naming the dead in his sleep. Naming the dead in a voice so raw that Bishop has to distance himself from it. Has to pull back to safety before the despair in Leonardo’s voice sucks him down.
Bishop knows all about despair, after all.
The doctor comes in then, and the relief he feels is alarming. He leaves before it can show on his face, resolves to put this out of his mind and maybe go over the latest surveillance from the island.
Two steps later, the doctor calls him.
He turns and arches an eyebrow at the news, and then he’s walking again, back toward the very thing he’d been fleeing.
Leonardo’s eyes are gone, cannot open, but the brow ridges furrow as he turns his head, obviously confused. Bishop crosses his arms, feeling slightly uncomfortable at seeing Leonardo this vulnerable.
“Where…?” Leonardo’s voice is very soft, hesitant. He trails off, fingers skimming the edge of his blanket.
“You’re in my medical bay, Leonardo, where you’ve been for the last two days.” Bishop stares at the turtle calmly as the head whips around to face him. The brow ridges furrow deeper, and then smooth out. The set of his shoulders changes, and for some reason this sets Bishop on edge. So, he was right. Leonardo undoubtedly wants his help, but with what? He’s expending all his resources, and then some, just to keep the alien’s armies confined to Manhattan. Pursing his lips, he remembers the last time they asked him to join. April O’Neil’s face has a terribly honest quality about it. He remembers that very well, just like he remembers the darkness moving behind her eyes as he dashed her hopes and left them bleeding.
Leonardo is nodding, looking almost serene. “Thank you,” he says in the same soft voice, touched now with wonder as he raises a hand to his face and feels the bandages. “You didn’t have to patch me up.”
“I’m aware of that,” says Bishop shortly, an uncharacteristic burst of annoyance shooting through him. He moves silently around the turtle’s bed, feeling a stab of cruel satisfaction as Leonardo’s expression becomes anxious, trying to follow him. “Perhaps it’s best we get down to business. Why did you come here?”
“I…” The turtle sounds less sure now, straining to hear him, to face the right direction when speaking. Bishop takes no pity and remains silent, letting Leonardo think he’s further toward the foot of the bed than he is. So the turtle looks earnestly, pleadingly into the empty air and whispers, “Help them.”
Bishop feels his jaw clench and is unsure why he’s suddenly furious. It’s irrelevant. He is, and so he speaks, savoring the look on Leonardo’s face as he becomes suddenly and painfully aware of the humiliation Bishop has inflicted. “I believe, Leonardo-” and he rolls the name off his tongue, infusing it with contempt- “I made my position clear to you and your companions. I have neither the ability nor the inclination to lead a suicide mission. And that,” he adds flatly, “Is exactly what it will be if you are to try again.”
Leonardo’s face tightens, becomes a mask. He goes very still, and Bishop realizes, belatedly, that he’s struck a nerve.
“I can’t…” he trails off again, sounding tired. Like he’s using all his energy to keep his emotions back behind his face. “There has to be a way. There is a way.”
Bishop studies the turtle, unwillingly impressed by the quiet determination in Leonardo’s voice. He’s seen flashes of it before, of course, but he’s never really stopped to appreciate the steel beneath the very green exterior.
Now he looks at Leonardo and sees someone who could become an equal. It isn’t enough to change his mind. He has too much to do to throw away good men to this madness, but he finds himself unwilling to abandon the ones willing to fight the good fight. They have a face now, he thinks to himself. One that isn’t so easy to ignore as April O’Neil’s wild-eyed hope. Desperation is easy to come by. Corner an animal, and it will scratch and bite. It’s expected. This quiet, dignified resolve, though…
Bishop sighs. “Rest now. I’ll discuss this with you later, when you’re well enough.”
And he walks out the door, feeling the weight of Leonardo’s attention on his back the rest of the day.
SEE? I HAVE BEEN PRODUCTIVE.