Things My Father Taught Me (1/?)
anonymous
September 3 2010, 13:36:03 UTC
Because I am apparently unable to leave this 'verse along for one day. For those of you who wanted the story of her abduction.
-
She has a rape alarm in her coat pocket, a knife in her jeans and she knows enough of various different martial arts to take care of herself. She can list every useful pressure point in the human body and she knows how to kick a man in the crotch hard enough that he can’t see straight.
In theory, although she only turned eleven two weeks ago and her new school uniform still has the baggy flaps that she will ‘grow into’, she should be able to handle anything that comes at her.
The only problem is: she isn’t paying attention.
The last thought she has, after the needle sticks into her neck and before she crumples into the waiting arms of her kidnapper, is that Sherlock is going to lecture her on observation again.
Don’t just see! Observe.
*
221b is more active than it has ever been outside the frequent visits of the Yard’s finest.
Sherlock is pacing, hands fisted in his hair, eyes darting around as he tries to think... think.
John is standing in the kitchen, hand clenched around a cup of tea that is long since cold. He is standing to attention, entire body on a hair trigger.
Mrs Hudson flits between them, darting here, there, everywhere.
Mycroft is sitting in the armchair, swinging his umbrella, back and forth, back and forth. His face is impassive, the umbrella is the only sign of turmoil, like a cat, swishing its tail in fury. His assistant stands at his shoulder, her fingers flashing over the keys. She is not smiling.
Lestrade walks into the middle of this and all eyes are on him in a snap. He shakes his head.
“I told you she wouldn’t be there. This isn’t anything to do with that investigation,” Sherlock snaps. He continues, his voice rising into a lengthy rant about the idiocy of the police force and their inability to see beyond the length of their own eyelashes.
Lestrade sighs.
*
She wakes up blindfolded. There is a gap at the bottom though, thin and barely there, but through it she can see a pair of shoes. Her mind is still fuzzy, but she’s already been stupid enough for one day. The place on her neck where the needle went in stings. She ignores it.
Shoes, smudges of mud. Sherlock would tell you where from. She learnt this last week: the types of mud in London. She closes her eyes and remembers.
Things My Father Taught Me (2/4)
anonymous
September 3 2010, 13:37:48 UTC
Lestrade has gone again, disappearing out of the door to lead more useless searches.
Sherlock starts. He looks up, and he is the centre of attention.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
John’s at his side before the words have left Sherlock’s mouth. His hands drift to the back of his jeans where his gun is solid and reassuring. He nods.
They are out of the flat before Mycroft can even ask where they are going.
*
Three men, one of them is from the North East, but the others are both from London. She can recognise the accents, but the mud is still beyond her. She is almost out of the rope though, squirming and wriggling her hands. There is blood and her wrists hurt, but this is hardly the first time she has been tied to something.
I want dinner.
Then go and get it.
I’m tied to a chair.
If you want dinner that badly, you’ll figure it out.
Sherlock, we’re going to get done by bloody child line.
She had thought he was horrible then, wanted to run away and never come back - but not really, because he’s Sherlock and he taught her how to run along the top of a wall and not fall off and how to play hide and seek in Scotland Yard. Hunger had been eating at her and she hadn’t realised that that was the point. She had been tired and hungry and her mind hadn’t been working properly, but she is tired now, and she is hungry now and her mind is full of fear and anger and the need to sit down and just cry.
But she can get out of the rope.
*
“Right,” Sherlock calls to the driver. John is practically vibrating with concern beside him.
“Are you sure?” he asks for the five hundredth time. Sherlock tries not to be annoyed by the repetition, he knows that John trusts him but he is worried. He'd second guess anything, even his own name.
“Positive. Take the second left and pull up on the right. We’ll go on foot from there.”
“Positive,” John repeats again, but it’s not a question. “Right. Let’s go then.”
Things My Father Taught Me (3/4)
anonymous
September 3 2010, 13:38:59 UTC
She hears the gun shot and her first thought is ‘they’re going to kill me’.
Then she hears the voice and she is almost sick with relief and delight.
The barrel of a gun is pressed against the side of her head, but she isn’t scared because they’re here and the man on the other end of that gun has no idea, no clue, what he’s dealing with. She pushes the ropes fully off her wrists. She needs to be ready.
If one of your senses is removed, you have to concentrate on the others more.
She has to listen... listen. To the slight drip that might be coming from a leaky tap. To the hum of traffic. Footsteps to one side, in front. Steady, light, Sherlock She turns her face towards him slightly.
“You really shouldn’t have taken her,” Sherlock’s voice cuts across the room. He is calm and that calms her. She wonders where John is. She knows the gun must have been his, but she can’t hear his footsteps or his breathing.
“Come any closer and I’ll blow her fucking brains out.”
John’s going to be mad that he swore in front of her, he hates it when people do that.
“Lizzy,” Sherlock says, still sounding calm, “are you alright?”
She nods and makes sure to move her shoulders in a way that Sherlock will know she has her hands free.
“Good.”
“Lizzy,” John’s voice now. “Remember what you were practising last week?” She nods again. “Do it now.”
She pushes herself away from the chair and drops to the ground as fast as she can. There is a shot, one shot, and then there is silence, apart from her own breathing.
Things My Father Taught Me (4/4)
anonymous
September 3 2010, 13:43:09 UTC
“Keep the blindfold on,” John says, and she can hear him properly now, deep breaths, but calm ones. He walks towards her, but Sherlock’s running, pulling her up and running his hands up and down her arms, checking the rope burn on her wrists and the puncture wound from the needle, taking her pulse with long fingers.
“I’m fine,” she forces out. She wants to wrap her arms around them and hold on and never let go, but this is not the place and there will be time for that later and right now, all she wants, is home.
“Good.”
They lead her out and they don’t take the blindfold off until they’re downstairs and outside and none of them says anything but she knows those men are dead. She looks at John’s jaw, clenched slightly with anger still fizzing there and she knows that he would do it again.
There is a black, unmarked car outside and she waits for her Uncle Mycroft to get out, but two other men appear instead, dressed anonymously. They don’t say anything but they go into the house and Sherlock and John usher her into a cab instead.
When she gets back home Mrs Hudson tucks her up in a blanket on the sofa and John gives her an ice cream from the food freezer, just like he does when she gets a good report from school. Uncle Mycroft pats her on the shoulder while his assistant offers a small smile as they head for the door.
Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft have never got along, but as they pass each other in the doorway, Sherlock catches his eye and nods once, decisively, before John shakes his hand.
Then Sherlock picks up the newspaper and sighs.
“Wrong.”
John laughs and makes a cup of tea.
Half an hour later, when Uncle Greg comes crashing through the door, that is how he finds them. He crouches down next to her to check she’s alright and gives Sherlock a long look, but he doesn’t ask any questions. She doesn’t think he has to.
Right, so this is getting ridiculous now. I know it, you know it.
Thank you to everyone who's commented. I'm so glad that everyone's enjoying reading this so much. Even those of us (and I count myself among you) who aren't kid!fic people. Fair warning - there might be more.
Re: Things My Father Taught Me (4/4)jupiter_ashSeptember 3 2010, 20:27:55 UTC
You're right, this is getting ridiculous now. Utterly ridiculous... and I love every single minute of it! These stories are brilliant. Totally in character and manage to not go over the top. I can't believe how many times I've read these now or how much I'm looking forward to the next one.
So, uh, can I have some more please? Pretty please? With a cherry on top?
Re: Things My Father Taught Me (4/4)celstaredflowerSeptember 4 2010, 03:21:51 UTC
I'm quite picky when it comes to kid-fic, but I must say, you did this perfectly. You made this absolutely believable. Fantastic job. I will be happy to see more.
10 Birthdays (1/?)
anonymous
September 6 2010, 10:54:23 UTC
In which there is plot... no really. Just not explicit plot. This is kind of a sequel to something I wrote over the weekend, but haven't typed up yet. So - 10 birthdays in Lizzy's life. Starting with the infamous 18th and working backwards.
18
Harry’s been out with her for four hours. John’s losing his grip and Sherlock’s far too wrapped up in a case to notice anything is amiss.
“If she gets her into trouble I’ll-“ John starts. For once it is him pacing, backwards and forwards again and again.
“Are you more worried about Harry getting Lizzy into trouble or the other way round?” Sherlock asks, which shows that even after over thirteen years in a relationship with the man and almost two decades of living with him, John still can’t tell when he’s paying attention.
“Either... both. Harry’s going to get her drunk and Lizzy? She’ll probably break into somewhere just to prove she can.”
“After what happened the last time she did that, I doubt she will,” Sherlock tells him, staring at crime scene photos scattered across the walls. “And even if she did I highly doubt she would ever let you find out about it.”
John heaves a sigh and resumes his pacing. The carpet will wear through and Mrs Hudson will complain about the creaking of her ceiling, but he can’t keep still. He loves his sister and he loves his daughter, but the last time they were left alone together they had turned up again covered in feathers and with matching bruises on their arms. This time there will be alcohol involved.
He should have taken Lizzy away for her eighteenth, far, far away.
“Relax, Harry might not have the best impulse control in the world, but she won’t willingly let Lizzy get hurt.”
“I know,” John replies. It’s the only thing that’s keeping him from walking out of the door after them.
*
He wakes up the next day to find Lizzy fast asleep in her bed, headache pills and water next to her and the covers carefully tucked up around her chin.
Harry is in the kitchen making coffee. She doesn’t seem hung-over in the slightest.
John glares at her, but he can’t keep it up for long after she’s shoved a mug in his face.
“Good night?” he asks curiously. Harry grins like a shark - too many teeth.
“Brilliant. I have a hot niece. She got hit on by more women than I can count - and when she said no I got their numbers.”
“You took her to a gay bar.”
“Yep.”
“And got her drunk?”
“Actually, she got herself drunk, I only bought the first round. She seems to like mojitos. Or, she did last night,” Harry adds with a rueful shrug, “whether she still will today is doubtful.” John groans.
“Relax Johnny-boy,” Harry says, patting him on the shoulder. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.”
“You were both drunk,” John points out, “anything could have happened. God, Harry, she’s eighteen.” Harry sighs and turns round to sit at the dining room table.
-
She has a rape alarm in her coat pocket, a knife in her jeans and she knows enough of various different martial arts to take care of herself. She can list every useful pressure point in the human body and she knows how to kick a man in the crotch hard enough that he can’t see straight.
In theory, although she only turned eleven two weeks ago and her new school uniform still has the baggy flaps that she will ‘grow into’, she should be able to handle anything that comes at her.
The only problem is: she isn’t paying attention.
The last thought she has, after the needle sticks into her neck and before she crumples into the waiting arms of her kidnapper, is that Sherlock is going to lecture her on observation again.
Don’t just see! Observe.
*
221b is more active than it has ever been outside the frequent visits of the Yard’s finest.
Sherlock is pacing, hands fisted in his hair, eyes darting around as he tries to think... think.
John is standing in the kitchen, hand clenched around a cup of tea that is long since cold. He is standing to attention, entire body on a hair trigger.
Mrs Hudson flits between them, darting here, there, everywhere.
Mycroft is sitting in the armchair, swinging his umbrella, back and forth, back and forth. His face is impassive, the umbrella is the only sign of turmoil, like a cat, swishing its tail in fury. His assistant stands at his shoulder, her fingers flashing over the keys. She is not smiling.
Lestrade walks into the middle of this and all eyes are on him in a snap. He shakes his head.
“I told you she wouldn’t be there. This isn’t anything to do with that investigation,” Sherlock snaps. He continues, his voice rising into a lengthy rant about the idiocy of the police force and their inability to see beyond the length of their own eyelashes.
Lestrade sighs.
*
She wakes up blindfolded. There is a gap at the bottom though, thin and barely there, but through it she can see a pair of shoes. Her mind is still fuzzy, but she’s already been stupid enough for one day. The place on her neck where the needle went in stings. She ignores it.
Shoes, smudges of mud. Sherlock would tell you where from. She learnt this last week: the types of mud in London. She closes her eyes and remembers.
It doesn’t come.
Frustration rises.
She can’t remember.
*
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Sherlock starts. He looks up, and he is the centre of attention.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot.”
John’s at his side before the words have left Sherlock’s mouth. His hands drift to the back of his jeans where his gun is solid and reassuring. He nods.
They are out of the flat before Mycroft can even ask where they are going.
*
Three men, one of them is from the North East, but the others are both from London. She can recognise the accents, but the mud is still beyond her. She is almost out of the rope though, squirming and wriggling her hands. There is blood and her wrists hurt, but this is hardly the first time she has been tied to something.
I want dinner.
Then go and get it.
I’m tied to a chair.
If you want dinner that badly, you’ll figure it out.
Sherlock, we’re going to get done by bloody child line.
She had thought he was horrible then, wanted to run away and never come back - but not really, because he’s Sherlock and he taught her how to run along the top of a wall and not fall off and how to play hide and seek in Scotland Yard. Hunger had been eating at her and she hadn’t realised that that was the point. She had been tired and hungry and her mind hadn’t been working properly, but she is tired now, and she is hungry now and her mind is full of fear and anger and the need to sit down and just cry.
But she can get out of the rope.
*
“Right,” Sherlock calls to the driver. John is practically vibrating with concern beside him.
“Are you sure?” he asks for the five hundredth time. Sherlock tries not to be annoyed by the repetition, he knows that John trusts him but he is worried. He'd second guess anything, even his own name.
“Positive. Take the second left and pull up on the right. We’ll go on foot from there.”
“Positive,” John repeats again, but it’s not a question. “Right. Let’s go then.”
*
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Then she hears the voice and she is almost sick with relief and delight.
The barrel of a gun is pressed against the side of her head, but she isn’t scared because they’re here and the man on the other end of that gun has no idea, no clue, what he’s dealing with. She pushes the ropes fully off her wrists. She needs to be ready.
If one of your senses is removed, you have to concentrate on the others more.
She has to listen... listen. To the slight drip that might be coming from a leaky tap. To the hum of traffic. Footsteps to one side, in front. Steady, light, Sherlock She turns her face towards him slightly.
“You really shouldn’t have taken her,” Sherlock’s voice cuts across the room. He is calm and that calms her. She wonders where John is. She knows the gun must have been his, but she can’t hear his footsteps or his breathing.
“Come any closer and I’ll blow her fucking brains out.”
John’s going to be mad that he swore in front of her, he hates it when people do that.
“Lizzy,” Sherlock says, still sounding calm, “are you alright?”
She nods and makes sure to move her shoulders in a way that Sherlock will know she has her hands free.
“Good.”
“Lizzy,” John’s voice now. “Remember what you were practising last week?” She nods again. “Do it now.”
She pushes herself away from the chair and drops to the ground as fast as she can. There is a shot, one shot, and then there is silence, apart from her own breathing.
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“I’m fine,” she forces out. She wants to wrap her arms around them and hold on and never let go, but this is not the place and there will be time for that later and right now, all she wants, is home.
“Good.”
They lead her out and they don’t take the blindfold off until they’re downstairs and outside and none of them says anything but she knows those men are dead. She looks at John’s jaw, clenched slightly with anger still fizzing there and she knows that he would do it again.
There is a black, unmarked car outside and she waits for her Uncle Mycroft to get out, but two other men appear instead, dressed anonymously. They don’t say anything but they go into the house and Sherlock and John usher her into a cab instead.
When she gets back home Mrs Hudson tucks her up in a blanket on the sofa and John gives her an ice cream from the food freezer, just like he does when she gets a good report from school. Uncle Mycroft pats her on the shoulder while his assistant offers a small smile as they head for the door.
Sherlock and Uncle Mycroft have never got along, but as they pass each other in the doorway, Sherlock catches his eye and nods once, decisively, before John shakes his hand.
Then Sherlock picks up the newspaper and sighs.
“Wrong.”
John laughs and makes a cup of tea.
Half an hour later, when Uncle Greg comes crashing through the door, that is how he finds them. He crouches down next to her to check she’s alright and gives Sherlock a long look, but he doesn’t ask any questions. She doesn’t think he has to.
Right, so this is getting ridiculous now. I know it, you know it.
Thank you to everyone who's commented. I'm so glad that everyone's enjoying reading this so much. Even those of us (and I count myself among you) who aren't kid!fic people. Fair warning - there might be more.
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More! More! More!
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But your kid!fic?
LOVE LOVE LOVE!!! SO MUCH!
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So, uh, can I have some more please? Pretty please? With a cherry on top?
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Author anon. YOU ARE GOD AMONG MEN.
AND MORE? HELL YES.
Lizzy is just so cute. And badass Sherlock, Mycroft and John forever. ♥
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But your stuff is amazing <3
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Anon, you. Are. Brilliant to no end.
...Dare I ask for more?
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I LOVE YOUR VERSE AND YOU AUTHOR ANON. XOXO
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This was awesome! I liked the part where John tells her to keep the blindfold on so she doesn't see what exactly happened to those men. :D
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18
Harry’s been out with her for four hours. John’s losing his grip and Sherlock’s far too wrapped up in a case to notice anything is amiss.
“If she gets her into trouble I’ll-“ John starts. For once it is him pacing, backwards and forwards again and again.
“Are you more worried about Harry getting Lizzy into trouble or the other way round?” Sherlock asks, which shows that even after over thirteen years in a relationship with the man and almost two decades of living with him, John still can’t tell when he’s paying attention.
“Either... both. Harry’s going to get her drunk and Lizzy? She’ll probably break into somewhere just to prove she can.”
“After what happened the last time she did that, I doubt she will,” Sherlock tells him, staring at crime scene photos scattered across the walls. “And even if she did I highly doubt she would ever let you find out about it.”
John heaves a sigh and resumes his pacing. The carpet will wear through and Mrs Hudson will complain about the creaking of her ceiling, but he can’t keep still. He loves his sister and he loves his daughter, but the last time they were left alone together they had turned up again covered in feathers and with matching bruises on their arms. This time there will be alcohol involved.
He should have taken Lizzy away for her eighteenth, far, far away.
“Relax, Harry might not have the best impulse control in the world, but she won’t willingly let Lizzy get hurt.”
“I know,” John replies. It’s the only thing that’s keeping him from walking out of the door after them.
*
He wakes up the next day to find Lizzy fast asleep in her bed, headache pills and water next to her and the covers carefully tucked up around her chin.
Harry is in the kitchen making coffee. She doesn’t seem hung-over in the slightest.
John glares at her, but he can’t keep it up for long after she’s shoved a mug in his face.
“Good night?” he asks curiously. Harry grins like a shark - too many teeth.
“Brilliant. I have a hot niece. She got hit on by more women than I can count - and when she said no I got their numbers.”
“You took her to a gay bar.”
“Yep.”
“And got her drunk?”
“Actually, she got herself drunk, I only bought the first round. She seems to like mojitos. Or, she did last night,” Harry adds with a rueful shrug, “whether she still will today is doubtful.” John groans.
“Relax Johnny-boy,” Harry says, patting him on the shoulder. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to her.”
“You were both drunk,” John points out, “anything could have happened. God, Harry, she’s eighteen.” Harry sighs and turns round to sit at the dining room table.
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