A Completely Different Untitled Police Force John Fic
Title: Untitled Forensics John Fic (Ideas? Anyone..?)
Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Uncouth language, if that sort of thing bothers you.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Surprising, I know.
Author's Notes: A fill for this prompt, that asks for an AU meeting between John (who is the new head of forensics) and Sherlock (...who is Sherlock).
"What in the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Engrossed as he is with the letters carved into the floor, Sherlock doesn’t realize that statement is directed at him until it is repeated. Twice.
He swings his head up.
Inquiry made by a Caucasian male between the ages of 35 and 40. Blond haired, blue eyed, average height, with a military stance. Subject is wearing a blue disposable jumpsuit, and is very, very angry. Not angry enough to leave him in peace, but that can be remedied.
“I believe,” he drawls, words laced with enough condescension that even Anderson could pick up on it, “that I am investigating this crime scene.”
“That’s funny, because, to me? It looks like you’re contaminating it. What’s going on, Lestrade?”
“Right, uh, Watson, this is our consulting detective-“
“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock interrupts with a dramatic straightening of his spine, which, coupled his fiercest glare and an ominous twirl of his coat, has made grown men cower on more than one occasion.
Watson- right, yes, new head of forensics Lestrade mentioned- blinks at him slowly.
“I- what? Did you forget your spotlight at the last crime scene? Is that supposed to mean something?” Watson doesn’t look so much angry any more as much as he does bewildered and frustrated. It is a difficult combination to pull off, and Sherlock mentally commends him on it as the man's attention shifts from Sherlock to Lestrade.
“Why isn’t he suited up?”
Lestrade, in a rather impressive feat of facial control, manages to hide his grin under an expression of abashment.
“He won’t wear one.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Right, yes, because flapping a ridiculously voluminous coat through every doorway and stairwell of a dusty, old house, and then letting it drag on, around, and over a dead body, is clearly a sound way to ensure that your presence has a non-effect on this particular crime scene.”
“…My coat is not ridiculous.”
Watson rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it’s very expensive and makes you look appropriately dramatic. Give it here.”
Sherlock can’t keep the horrified expression off his face, and his hands come up automatically to clutch at his lapels before he realizes what he’s doing.
“I will not!”
Watson’s expression goes from irritated to gravely serious instantly; Sherlock feels an involuntary shiver travel down his spine, and he clutches his lapels tighter.
“You will give me your coat.” Watson says in a low voice, “You will go downstairs, and you will suit up in full. Or you will be removed from my crime scene.”
The by force went unsaid. Sherlock clenches his jaw and glares as he removes his coat with short, angry movements. Carefully folding it, he shoves it at Watson with far more force than necessary.
“This coat,” he hisses, “is worth more than your life.”
Watson smiles benignly. Sherlock resorts to clenching his fists and muttering angrily as he stomps down the stairs.
“I think he likes you.” Lestrade grins as Watson tucks the wad of wool under his arm.
“I think he’s mad. And you’re mad, for letting him up here like that. Must be a brilliant detective, if you’re willing to let that slide.” Watson murmurs, glancing down the stairs where the thump of Italian footwear and shouts of irate constables could still be heard.
“You know,” The Inspector watches Watson watch the stairwell, “I hear he’s looking for a flat mate.”
THE END!
Now with a sequel: The Inconsequential Death of Mr. Stevens!
Characters: John, Sherlock, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Uncouth language, if that sort of thing bothers you.
Spoilers: None
Disclaimers: Sadly, not mine. Surprising, I know.
Author's Notes: A fill for this prompt, that asks for an AU meeting between John (who is the new head of forensics) and Sherlock (...who is Sherlock).
"What in the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Engrossed as he is with the letters carved into the floor, Sherlock doesn’t realize that statement is directed at him until it is repeated. Twice.
He swings his head up.
Inquiry made by a Caucasian male between the ages of 35 and 40. Blond haired, blue eyed, average height, with a military stance. Subject is wearing a blue disposable jumpsuit, and is very, very angry. Not angry enough to leave him in peace, but that can be remedied.
“I believe,” he drawls, words laced with enough condescension that even Anderson could pick up on it, “that I am investigating this crime scene.”
“That’s funny, because, to me? It looks like you’re contaminating it. What’s going on, Lestrade?”
“Right, uh, Watson, this is our consulting detective-“
“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock interrupts with a dramatic straightening of his spine, which, coupled his fiercest glare and an ominous twirl of his coat, has made grown men cower on more than one occasion.
Watson- right, yes, new head of forensics Lestrade mentioned- blinks at him slowly.
“I- what? Did you forget your spotlight at the last crime scene? Is that supposed to mean something?” Watson doesn’t look so much angry any more as much as he does bewildered and frustrated. It is a difficult combination to pull off, and Sherlock mentally commends him on it as the man's attention shifts from Sherlock to Lestrade.
“Why isn’t he suited up?”
Lestrade, in a rather impressive feat of facial control, manages to hide his grin under an expression of abashment.
“He won’t wear one.”
“I don’t need one.”
“Right, yes, because flapping a ridiculously voluminous coat through every doorway and stairwell of a dusty, old house, and then letting it drag on, around, and over a dead body, is clearly a sound way to ensure that your presence has a non-effect on this particular crime scene.”
“…My coat is not ridiculous.”
Watson rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it’s very expensive and makes you look appropriately dramatic. Give it here.”
Sherlock can’t keep the horrified expression off his face, and his hands come up automatically to clutch at his lapels before he realizes what he’s doing.
“I will not!”
Watson’s expression goes from irritated to gravely serious instantly; Sherlock feels an involuntary shiver travel down his spine, and he clutches his lapels tighter.
“You will give me your coat.” Watson says in a low voice, “You will go downstairs, and you will suit up in full. Or you will be removed from my crime scene.”
The by force went unsaid. Sherlock clenches his jaw and glares as he removes his coat with short, angry movements. Carefully folding it, he shoves it at Watson with far more force than necessary.
“This coat,” he hisses, “is worth more than your life.”
Watson smiles benignly. Sherlock resorts to clenching his fists and muttering angrily as he stomps down the stairs.
“I think he likes you.” Lestrade grins as Watson tucks the wad of wool under his arm.
“I think he’s mad. And you’re mad, for letting him up here like that. Must be a brilliant detective, if you’re willing to let that slide.” Watson murmurs, glancing down the stairs where the thump of Italian footwear and shouts of irate constables could still be heard.
“You know,” The Inspector watches Watson watch the stairwell, “I hear he’s looking for a flat mate.”
THE END!
Now with a sequel: The Inconsequential Death of Mr. Stevens!