So this is a show I watch now
Title: Vinegar Valentine
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Possibly one-sided Sherlock/Moriarty...ish
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,027
Warnings: Body parts. Nothing you won't see in the show
Summary: Jim sends Sherlock a gift in the spirit of the holiday. Moriarty-style.
A/N: This is the first fic I've written for this fandom, so. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
February the 14th. Hateful. Sherlock cared little for matters of the heart, but he cared even less for shameless commercial falsity that brought forced smiles to the faces of adulterers in loveless marriages and hideous shop front displays of red hearts, red flowers, red red red, he was sick to death of red.
John was on a weekend holiday with what's-her-name, and Mrs. Hudson was spending the day with some man she met in the downstairs café, and Sherlock had nothing on. So it would be him and the skull, ignoring repeats of cloying romantic comedies and glowering out the window at young lovers who'd taken society's permission to get as close as possible to having sex in public.
Wrapped up in a dark cloud of loathing, Sherlock almost - almost - failed to notice what was right in front of his face as he trudged up to the front door of the flat. In his absence, someone had affixed a post-it to the front door. It was attached to the end of the label 221B, and read simply: Mine.
Sherlock treated himself to an eye roll of epic proportions. Fan type B. There was also a package, roughly the size of a shoebox, sitting on the doorstep. It was wrapped luxuriously in bright velvet and a white lace bow and the thing was as red as arterial spray and phenolsulfonphthalein and roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and Sherlock was just about to kick the bloody thing out into the street before something - doubt prickling at the back of his neck - gave him pause.
Instead, he stooped and opened the small card attached to the lace ribbon.
Hello, sexy. Will you be my Valentine? - JM
Sherlock's blood ran cold. He was tempted to chuck the thing into the nearest skip and put it out of his mind, but it could be a bomb or some sort of terrible spore or bacterium. It had to be handled with care and removed from the path of unwitting civilians. Right. He lifted the package and transported it as cautiously as possible up the stairs.
After running every rigorous scientific test on the package that he knew, including weighing, measuring, listening with a stethoscope, gently shifting the box to determine the contents' size and shape, and finally throwing a paperweight at it from behind a riot shield he'd liberated from police headquarters, Sherlock determined the box safe to open. With careful, steady hands, he untied the lace bow, undid the velvet wrapping, and, with a deep breath, lifted the lid.
It was a heart.
A real, human heart, so fresh Sherlock was surprised it wasn't still beating.
There was an arrow through it.
Sherlock sat down at the table and stared at the spectacle, feeling numb. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but…
It was, Sherlock couldn't help but note, a beautiful specimen of an organ. It appeared strong and healthy according to cursory examination, and it had been carefully cleaned to ensure that pale silk on which it rested - he glimpsed the corners of a few icepacks underneath - was not stained with blood. It probably would have been marvelous for a transplant before someone had shot it with an arrow. Entry and exit determined that it had in fact been shot, rather than skewered, likely from some distance. The arrow itself was finely crafted as well; silver head glinting in the light, actual white and red feathers for fletching. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.
No. No, he would not touch it; he would not look at it, think about it, or plot out fascinating experiments to perform on it because it wasn't every day that one found a flawless specimen of a human heart whether it had a hole in it or otherwise--
No. Absolutely not. On no account would he think about the heart at all until he could transport it safely to Bart's mortuary where it could be properly disposed of.
Resolute, Sherlock replaced the lid and moved the box to the fridge so that it wouldn't go bad before his next trip out. With that settled, he binned the package's wrapping, went out to the sitting room, opened the window, and picked up his violin to serenade the streets below with the most grim and shrieking pieces he knew.
Halfway through his second rendition of Stravinsky's Elegie and his fourth grin at a glaring passerby, Sherlock caught his thoughts wandering back to the fridge. He switched to Ysaye's Sonata no. 2, which required more concentration.
It didn't entirely work.
**
Four days later, Sherlock heard "Oh, for - Jesus Christ!" and immediately concealed himself behind the morning paper.
It wasn't long before John's footsteps came to a stop a few feet in front of his chair. "Sherlock."
"John."
"Care to explain what a human heart is doing hidden under the spinach?"
"The crisper drawer stays at the ideal temperature for preservation," Sherlock explained, not-reading an advertisement for peppermint foot cream.
"Sherlock."
"It was a Valentine's Day gift," he began, and then paused to run the situation through his nascent not good filter. "…To myself."
"Ha," said John, mirthlessly. "A heart for Valentine's Day. Of course. And why exactly is there a bloody arrow through it?"
Because I didn't want to ruin the craftsmanship, Sherlock didn't say. He cleared his throat. "Experiment."
Very deliberately, John sighed. "Right." Sherlock could practically hear John's hand covering his own face. "Right. Just keep your experiments away from the actual food in the future, yeah?"
"Of course," Sherlock lied, and John went back to the kitchen.
Tea-making sounds ensued, but after a moment, John inquired: "And what is this Valentine's gift business, anyway? I thought you hated Valentine's Day."
Hello, sexy, Sherlock thought, and smirked a little. "Oh, I don't know," he called back. "Many authors think the church converted the holiday from the Roman festival of Lupercalia." He snapped his paper. "It involved lashings and sacrificial goats. Much more interesting."
John didn't respond, but Sherlock knew he was rolling his eyes.
It didn't bother him in the slightest.
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Possibly one-sided Sherlock/Moriarty...ish
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,027
Warnings: Body parts. Nothing you won't see in the show
Summary: Jim sends Sherlock a gift in the spirit of the holiday. Moriarty-style.
A/N: This is the first fic I've written for this fandom, so. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
February the 14th. Hateful. Sherlock cared little for matters of the heart, but he cared even less for shameless commercial falsity that brought forced smiles to the faces of adulterers in loveless marriages and hideous shop front displays of red hearts, red flowers, red red red, he was sick to death of red.
John was on a weekend holiday with what's-her-name, and Mrs. Hudson was spending the day with some man she met in the downstairs café, and Sherlock had nothing on. So it would be him and the skull, ignoring repeats of cloying romantic comedies and glowering out the window at young lovers who'd taken society's permission to get as close as possible to having sex in public.
Wrapped up in a dark cloud of loathing, Sherlock almost - almost - failed to notice what was right in front of his face as he trudged up to the front door of the flat. In his absence, someone had affixed a post-it to the front door. It was attached to the end of the label 221B, and read simply: Mine.
Sherlock treated himself to an eye roll of epic proportions. Fan type B. There was also a package, roughly the size of a shoebox, sitting on the doorstep. It was wrapped luxuriously in bright velvet and a white lace bow and the thing was as red as arterial spray and phenolsulfonphthalein and roses and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates and Sherlock was just about to kick the bloody thing out into the street before something - doubt prickling at the back of his neck - gave him pause.
Instead, he stooped and opened the small card attached to the lace ribbon.
Hello, sexy. Will you be my Valentine? - JM
Sherlock's blood ran cold. He was tempted to chuck the thing into the nearest skip and put it out of his mind, but it could be a bomb or some sort of terrible spore or bacterium. It had to be handled with care and removed from the path of unwitting civilians. Right. He lifted the package and transported it as cautiously as possible up the stairs.
After running every rigorous scientific test on the package that he knew, including weighing, measuring, listening with a stethoscope, gently shifting the box to determine the contents' size and shape, and finally throwing a paperweight at it from behind a riot shield he'd liberated from police headquarters, Sherlock determined the box safe to open. With careful, steady hands, he untied the lace bow, undid the velvet wrapping, and, with a deep breath, lifted the lid.
It was a heart.
A real, human heart, so fresh Sherlock was surprised it wasn't still beating.
There was an arrow through it.
Sherlock sat down at the table and stared at the spectacle, feeling numb. He hadn't been sure what to expect, but…
It was, Sherlock couldn't help but note, a beautiful specimen of an organ. It appeared strong and healthy according to cursory examination, and it had been carefully cleaned to ensure that pale silk on which it rested - he glimpsed the corners of a few icepacks underneath - was not stained with blood. It probably would have been marvelous for a transplant before someone had shot it with an arrow. Entry and exit determined that it had in fact been shot, rather than skewered, likely from some distance. The arrow itself was finely crafted as well; silver head glinting in the light, actual white and red feathers for fletching. Sherlock resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.
No. No, he would not touch it; he would not look at it, think about it, or plot out fascinating experiments to perform on it because it wasn't every day that one found a flawless specimen of a human heart whether it had a hole in it or otherwise--
No. Absolutely not. On no account would he think about the heart at all until he could transport it safely to Bart's mortuary where it could be properly disposed of.
Resolute, Sherlock replaced the lid and moved the box to the fridge so that it wouldn't go bad before his next trip out. With that settled, he binned the package's wrapping, went out to the sitting room, opened the window, and picked up his violin to serenade the streets below with the most grim and shrieking pieces he knew.
Halfway through his second rendition of Stravinsky's Elegie and his fourth grin at a glaring passerby, Sherlock caught his thoughts wandering back to the fridge. He switched to Ysaye's Sonata no. 2, which required more concentration.
It didn't entirely work.
**
Four days later, Sherlock heard "Oh, for - Jesus Christ!" and immediately concealed himself behind the morning paper.
It wasn't long before John's footsteps came to a stop a few feet in front of his chair. "Sherlock."
"John."
"Care to explain what a human heart is doing hidden under the spinach?"
"The crisper drawer stays at the ideal temperature for preservation," Sherlock explained, not-reading an advertisement for peppermint foot cream.
"Sherlock."
"It was a Valentine's Day gift," he began, and then paused to run the situation through his nascent not good filter. "…To myself."
"Ha," said John, mirthlessly. "A heart for Valentine's Day. Of course. And why exactly is there a bloody arrow through it?"
Because I didn't want to ruin the craftsmanship, Sherlock didn't say. He cleared his throat. "Experiment."
Very deliberately, John sighed. "Right." Sherlock could practically hear John's hand covering his own face. "Right. Just keep your experiments away from the actual food in the future, yeah?"
"Of course," Sherlock lied, and John went back to the kitchen.
Tea-making sounds ensued, but after a moment, John inquired: "And what is this Valentine's gift business, anyway? I thought you hated Valentine's Day."
Hello, sexy, Sherlock thought, and smirked a little. "Oh, I don't know," he called back. "Many authors think the church converted the holiday from the Roman festival of Lupercalia." He snapped his paper. "It involved lashings and sacrificial goats. Much more interesting."
John didn't respond, but Sherlock knew he was rolling his eyes.
It didn't bother him in the slightest.