FIC: Here Be Dragons (3/?)
Title: Here Be Dragons (3/?)
Author: WinterofourDiscontent
Beta by LaReineNoire Company while I write at the coffeeshop by stupid_drawings
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock eventual
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1000 for this part, currently 4000 overall with more to come
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine, Arthur is everyone's
Summary: From this fic prompt in the kinkmeme: Sherlock is an irritating and bored version of Merlin. John is a dubious, reincarnated Arthur who wants to pretend he's not a complete BAMF.
A/N:
Originally posted anonymously in the kinkmeme, now de-anoned, cleaned up and slightly edited to make more sense overall. Finally putting that minor in Medieval/Renaissance Studies to good questionable use.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three on AO3 or under this
***
Half a world away from London, a lone doctor in a field hospital manages to hold off several dozen insurgents for over twenty hours. The insurgents sustain heavy casualties, but miraculously, the two nurses and all the hospital’s wounded are left unscathed by the shelling. When backup finally arrives, the doctor insists on finishing the rest of his shift and checking on all of the patients before he’ll consent to sleep. The paperwork for a medal is begun before his head hits the pillow.
***
“The killer had a dog, long-haired, likely an Irish setter mix...” Sherlock stood from his crouch, still staring at the corpse. “One of her neighbors has a dog in the flat illegally, she was going to report them, they argued, pushed her, she hit her head, the neighbor panicked and tried to make it look like a break-in. But you hardly have tea with a burglar, do you?” he gestured to the sink, where two empty mugs sat forlornly on an empty counter. “She was tidy, yet the mugs aren’t washed, still residue from the leaves and sugar... careless of them not to clean up. Boring.”
He glanced at the police in the room with him. “The neighbor’s dog will be staying with the boyfriend for a few days, but the hairs will still be around if you look when you interview. She’s kept the victim’s jewelry, because she’s been too nervous to pawn it or throw it out, that should be more than enough evidence. Mention that the fish have died and she’ll likely confess anyway.”
Bedivere (as was, Lestrade now, must remember) waved his officers out of the room. As soon as they’d left, Sherlock added, “Of course you know that because she’s already confessed, and this was all a test.”
Lestrade is too much an officer to look sheepish, but it’s close. “I can’t expect my superiors to take your... theories seriously unless I can show them you’re good on the crimes we already have answers to.”
“Well, at least make sure they arrest the boyfriend, he’s an accessory to the killing even if she’s trying to cover for him, and you’ll find he’s wanted under another name for embezzlement in Leith.” He pulled the latex gloves off with a snap and shoved them in one of his pockets. “And maybe now that I’ve passed you can let me in on some of the actually interesting cases. I know there’s a string of so-called mercy killings you lot aren’t having any luck on, and the bank robbery a fortnight ago practically has dust on it.”
Sherlock had been clean for several months now, and felt certain his idea of helping the police solve crimes might be his best since the time he’d decided to teach John Harrison clockmaking.
When he’d finally gotten out of rehab, he’d decided to start stalk…. following Bedivere around, since he was currently the best lead Sherlock had.
He’d begun by spending several weeks hovering at the edges of crime scenes in various disguises, including cleaning women, sidewalk vendors, a press photographer, and various homeless persons. Then he’d become bored just observing Bed... Lestrade and his team, and had turned some of his attention to the actual crime scenes themselves.
They were fascinating. Well, most of them were so straightforward the murderers may as well have pinned handwritten confessions on the bodies, but every so often there’d be one he couldn’t solve without getting closer to the bodies. Which meant he needed to find a way to get closer to the bodies.
At that point Sherlock had abandoned the disguises and begun wearing suits, though it frustrated him to do anything that could be interpreted as even vaguely resembling something Mycroft-ish. It had taken weeks more of showing up at crime scenes, loudly making observations about the victims, perpetrators, and various officers present, until Bedivere had let him through the blue tape because he’d promised if he couldn’t demonstratively solve it in under ten minutes, he would go away and stay away.
He’d solved it in six.
To keep solving crimes vaguely challenging, he’d decided to use nothing more than mundane senses and facts. He’d already been called a freak by one of Lestrade’s minions, which was almost amusing in its wrongheadedness. If he’d summoned fire or caused plants to bloom out of season, certainly, he’d have at least understood it, goodness knows he’d seen that reaction before, but being called names for bothering to actually use the five senses all normal humans had was laughable.
Lestrade, at least, never called him names, and while Sherlock could tell he irritated the man on a semi-constant basis, the policeman was too intelligent to let annoyance get in the way of solving crimes and generally helping people as he’d signed on to do.
In a slightly manic mood, Sherlock put his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder for just a moment, said fondly, “You always were one of my favourite knights” and then dashed out the door and down the front steps, already calling for a cab.
Lestrade decided it was just as well no one else had heard that, he had a hard enough time getting his squad to work with the volatile ‘consulting detective’ without Sherlock Holmes getting any odder than he already was.
Which, after all, was pretty bloody odd.
***
The thing about being in the RAMC is that you’re not actually supposed to see much combat. You’re to be kept back from the front lines of the conflict while still being close enough to the action that you can duel Death for the lives of wounded soldiers.
The thing about Afghanistan is that there aren’t any front lines. Or perhaps it’s all front lines. Only they’re shaped like fractals. Or something.
The point is that logically, there should not be a bullet speeding through the dusk in a trajectory that will take it entirely through Captain John Watson’s shoulder and into the ground beyond him.
Of course, nothing else about this war has ever been logical.
He thinks “Oh God, please let me live” and then, just before things go mercifully black, “Oh bloody fucking hell, not again.”
And noble Kynge Arthure felle in swoughe to the erthe, and there he sowned oftyntymes; and Sir Lucan and Sir Bedwere offtetymys hove hym up, and so waykly betwyxte them they lad hum to a lytell chapell nat farre frome the see-- and whan the Kyng was there, he thought hym resonabely eased.
--Sir Thomas Malory
Chapter Four
Author: WinterofourDiscontent
Beta by LaReineNoire Company while I write at the coffeeshop by stupid_drawings
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock eventual
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1000 for this part, currently 4000 overall with more to come
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine, Arthur is everyone's
Summary: From this fic prompt in the kinkmeme: Sherlock is an irritating and bored version of Merlin. John is a dubious, reincarnated Arthur who wants to pretend he's not a complete BAMF.
A/N:
Originally posted anonymously in the kinkmeme, now de-anoned, cleaned up and slightly edited to make more sense overall. Finally putting that minor in Medieval/Renaissance Studies to good questionable use.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three on AO3 or under this
***
Half a world away from London, a lone doctor in a field hospital manages to hold off several dozen insurgents for over twenty hours. The insurgents sustain heavy casualties, but miraculously, the two nurses and all the hospital’s wounded are left unscathed by the shelling. When backup finally arrives, the doctor insists on finishing the rest of his shift and checking on all of the patients before he’ll consent to sleep. The paperwork for a medal is begun before his head hits the pillow.
***
“The killer had a dog, long-haired, likely an Irish setter mix...” Sherlock stood from his crouch, still staring at the corpse. “One of her neighbors has a dog in the flat illegally, she was going to report them, they argued, pushed her, she hit her head, the neighbor panicked and tried to make it look like a break-in. But you hardly have tea with a burglar, do you?” he gestured to the sink, where two empty mugs sat forlornly on an empty counter. “She was tidy, yet the mugs aren’t washed, still residue from the leaves and sugar... careless of them not to clean up. Boring.”
He glanced at the police in the room with him. “The neighbor’s dog will be staying with the boyfriend for a few days, but the hairs will still be around if you look when you interview. She’s kept the victim’s jewelry, because she’s been too nervous to pawn it or throw it out, that should be more than enough evidence. Mention that the fish have died and she’ll likely confess anyway.”
Bedivere (as was, Lestrade now, must remember) waved his officers out of the room. As soon as they’d left, Sherlock added, “Of course you know that because she’s already confessed, and this was all a test.”
Lestrade is too much an officer to look sheepish, but it’s close. “I can’t expect my superiors to take your... theories seriously unless I can show them you’re good on the crimes we already have answers to.”
“Well, at least make sure they arrest the boyfriend, he’s an accessory to the killing even if she’s trying to cover for him, and you’ll find he’s wanted under another name for embezzlement in Leith.” He pulled the latex gloves off with a snap and shoved them in one of his pockets. “And maybe now that I’ve passed you can let me in on some of the actually interesting cases. I know there’s a string of so-called mercy killings you lot aren’t having any luck on, and the bank robbery a fortnight ago practically has dust on it.”
Sherlock had been clean for several months now, and felt certain his idea of helping the police solve crimes might be his best since the time he’d decided to teach John Harrison clockmaking.
When he’d finally gotten out of rehab, he’d decided to start stalk…. following Bedivere around, since he was currently the best lead Sherlock had.
He’d begun by spending several weeks hovering at the edges of crime scenes in various disguises, including cleaning women, sidewalk vendors, a press photographer, and various homeless persons. Then he’d become bored just observing Bed... Lestrade and his team, and had turned some of his attention to the actual crime scenes themselves.
They were fascinating. Well, most of them were so straightforward the murderers may as well have pinned handwritten confessions on the bodies, but every so often there’d be one he couldn’t solve without getting closer to the bodies. Which meant he needed to find a way to get closer to the bodies.
At that point Sherlock had abandoned the disguises and begun wearing suits, though it frustrated him to do anything that could be interpreted as even vaguely resembling something Mycroft-ish. It had taken weeks more of showing up at crime scenes, loudly making observations about the victims, perpetrators, and various officers present, until Bedivere had let him through the blue tape because he’d promised if he couldn’t demonstratively solve it in under ten minutes, he would go away and stay away.
He’d solved it in six.
To keep solving crimes vaguely challenging, he’d decided to use nothing more than mundane senses and facts. He’d already been called a freak by one of Lestrade’s minions, which was almost amusing in its wrongheadedness. If he’d summoned fire or caused plants to bloom out of season, certainly, he’d have at least understood it, goodness knows he’d seen that reaction before, but being called names for bothering to actually use the five senses all normal humans had was laughable.
Lestrade, at least, never called him names, and while Sherlock could tell he irritated the man on a semi-constant basis, the policeman was too intelligent to let annoyance get in the way of solving crimes and generally helping people as he’d signed on to do.
In a slightly manic mood, Sherlock put his hand on Lestrade’s shoulder for just a moment, said fondly, “You always were one of my favourite knights” and then dashed out the door and down the front steps, already calling for a cab.
Lestrade decided it was just as well no one else had heard that, he had a hard enough time getting his squad to work with the volatile ‘consulting detective’ without Sherlock Holmes getting any odder than he already was.
Which, after all, was pretty bloody odd.
***
The thing about being in the RAMC is that you’re not actually supposed to see much combat. You’re to be kept back from the front lines of the conflict while still being close enough to the action that you can duel Death for the lives of wounded soldiers.
The thing about Afghanistan is that there aren’t any front lines. Or perhaps it’s all front lines. Only they’re shaped like fractals. Or something.
The point is that logically, there should not be a bullet speeding through the dusk in a trajectory that will take it entirely through Captain John Watson’s shoulder and into the ground beyond him.
Of course, nothing else about this war has ever been logical.
He thinks “Oh God, please let me live” and then, just before things go mercifully black, “Oh bloody fucking hell, not again.”
And noble Kynge Arthure felle in swoughe to the erthe, and there he sowned oftyntymes; and Sir Lucan and Sir Bedwere offtetymys hove hym up, and so waykly betwyxte them they lad hum to a lytell chapell nat farre frome the see-- and whan the Kyng was there, he thought hym resonabely eased.
--Sir Thomas Malory
Chapter Four