FIC: Here Be Dragons (7/?)
Title: Here Be Dragons (7/?)
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: 1200 for this part, currently 7800 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 Six
Chapter Seven on AO3 or below this
***
“On second thought, let’s not go to Camelot, it is a silly place.”
-Monty Python and the Holy Grail
***
“Johnny!”
From across the coffee shop, John winced as Harry’s piercing voice filled the small space, causing other patrons to turn and stare at her entrance. She’d always seemed to take up more space than her five foot two frame would have suggested.
He’d planned this meeting like a military campaign: early enough she shouldn’t be drinking, in a coffee shop in an area neither frequented so there would be no familiar faces, no alcohol so she wouldn’t be tempted, only light snacks available so they wouldn’t have to stay long, not so close to mealtime that she could reasonably suggest heading to a restaurant afterwards, and no pubs in the area so she couldn’t suggest that either...
Of course, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.
“Johnny boy!” Harriet declared as she arrived in front of his corner table. John worked his face into a smile and stood up.
“Harry,” he gasped as she pulled him into a surprisingly crushing hug that did his injured shoulder no favours. “Good to see you.” He wrapped his arms around her a good deal more gingerly.
“And you!” she said, grabbing his shoulders to push him backward, holding him at arm’s length and looking him up and down the way their mother had done when they were children. “Look at you, aged ten years at least. Anyone would think you were the older sibling now.”
John decided that, in the interest of making it at least a quarter of an hour before the inevitable argument broke out, he would forbear mentioning that it has been years since they had last seen each other, that anyone who watched them interact for more than thirty seconds would be able to tell she was the elder of them, and that the signs of alcohol abuse that any medical professional could read on her face were doing her no particular favours.
“You’re looking… very professional.” She was, too, wearing a suit and carrying a purse that looked designer to John’s admittedly untutored eyes. “Very successful.” Her hair, artificially blonder than his, was pulled up in some sort of chignon twisty thing, and the few pieces of jewelry she wore were understated but looked... nice.
She waved his compliment away cheerfully, though he could tell she was pleased by the acknowledgement. Especially as it carried the unspoken comparison with his own current status.
“Oh, Johnny, the coffee’s gone cold,” Harry said, “and yours is empty. I’ll get us both more.” Before John could respond in a way that would certainly not have involved the phrases ‘you’re’ and ‘over twenty minutes late’ she’d added “No, no, I’ll pay for them both, I insist,” in way that managed to imply magnanimity on her part and Dickensian levels of poverty on his.
Pick your battles, Watson, he reminded himself as she made her way to the counter. They’d been best friends, growing up. He allowed himself a minute to stare at her back, tried to see the bright girl in the prickly woman she’d become.
“Two coffees,” she said, setting them both down before seating herself across from him. “Now tell me what you’re planning next, now you’re done playing soldier.”
“I wasn’t…” John stopped himself. “I’m still making plans.” There, that was safe. Probably. He took a sip of his drink to find it still too hot and definitely too sweet.
“Well, you’re still a doctor, aren’t you? I can cosign a loan, get you started with a nice practice somewhere…” she waved the hand holding the cup, and a few drops of coffee spilled onto the table. “...nice and quiet, maybe someplace in the countryside, don’t want you having any of those… PTSD attacks, are you having those?”
Which was, of course, the exact moment that all noise in the coffee shop seemed to simultaneously and arbitrarily subside. John felt a number of covert and obvious eyes on him, no doubt wondering if he was about to snap.
“I am not having PTSD attacks, Harry.” He knew better than to mention the nightmares or his obligatory therapy appointments. He added, in his most deliberately calm voice, “I’m fine.”
Harry seemed not to have heard him, though. “You always were a one for soldiering on, brother mine, even when you were young you’d never admit you’d been injured...“
And suddenly she’s gone quiet, has wandered too close to a topic neither of them would willingly have gone anywhere near.
Harry recovered first. “Remember rescuing that moggy?”
And suddenly they were back again on safe ground, the danger temporarily passed. “Yeah,” John said, and the smile came without effort this time. “Got a few scratches for my effort.”
“Scratches? I was sure you were going to fall and break your arm climbing that tree.”
“And then you went and claimed you’d rescued her,” he reminded her ruefully.
“Yeah, well, Amelia looked so impressed when she saw I’d rescued her Callie from the tree, and I had such a crush on her at the time… you remember, John, she had such lovely ginger hair…”
“You don’t even like cats.”
“Well, she didn’t know that! Thought I could get at least a kiss for my troubles.”
“My troubles.”
“Well, she didn’t know that either.” Harry laughed, and John joined in. She looked years younger when she laughed.
“Worked, too,” she added conspiratorially. “That’s how I found out I was allergic.” She gave an exaggerated wink that had John giggling again.
“Reminds me, Johnny… I wanted to give you this before I forget…” Harry began rummaging through her handbag with an exaggerated concentration that suggested it was much bigger on the inside. “Here!” She said, pulling out a fancy looking mobile. “Now you’re back you need one.”
“Harry, this looks expensive,” John said warily. It also appeared to have at least eight times as many buttons as it could possibly need and looked more likely to have completed medical school than he currently did. “I can’t possibly...”
“Of course you can. Work’s just bought me a new one anyhow, this is last year’s model.”
“Harry, I…” John turned the phone over and stopped as he saw there was an inscription. From Clara. “I can’t. Really, really can’t.”
“John. Please.” Harry caught his eyes. “I want you to have it. I don’t have a use for it anymore, and you never spend money on yourself. I want to have a way to contact you besides email.” She put her hand over the phone, covering the writing, and pushed it across the table towards him.
He covered her hand with his own. He could take Harry’s anger, but he’d always been rubbish at dealing with her pain. “Fine.”
***
London breathes.
Rivers flow like veins, roadways like nerves. It is an exquisite corpse, a Frankenstein’s creation of a city born of a thousand successful and failed experiments, a million births, a billion deaths. It grafts newcomers to its trunk and then claims their fruit as its own.
London wears its past like scar tissue, bleeds in new growth. Speaks now in neon and loudspeakers and concrete alongside brick and stone. Is tattooed with monuments, adorned with gardens.
London is Londinium is the City is Eternal. It is paved in the coronations of kings and the funerals of paupers. Its church bells chime a heartbeat, as constant as Greenwich’s pips.
London dreams. London remembers. And London waits.
***
Chapter Eight
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: 1200 for this part, currently 7800 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 Six
Chapter Seven on AO3 or below this
***
“On second thought, let’s not go to Camelot, it is a silly place.”
-Monty Python and the Holy Grail
***
“Johnny!”
From across the coffee shop, John winced as Harry’s piercing voice filled the small space, causing other patrons to turn and stare at her entrance. She’d always seemed to take up more space than her five foot two frame would have suggested.
He’d planned this meeting like a military campaign: early enough she shouldn’t be drinking, in a coffee shop in an area neither frequented so there would be no familiar faces, no alcohol so she wouldn’t be tempted, only light snacks available so they wouldn’t have to stay long, not so close to mealtime that she could reasonably suggest heading to a restaurant afterwards, and no pubs in the area so she couldn’t suggest that either...
Of course, no battle plan survives first contact with the enemy.
“Johnny boy!” Harriet declared as she arrived in front of his corner table. John worked his face into a smile and stood up.
“Harry,” he gasped as she pulled him into a surprisingly crushing hug that did his injured shoulder no favours. “Good to see you.” He wrapped his arms around her a good deal more gingerly.
“And you!” she said, grabbing his shoulders to push him backward, holding him at arm’s length and looking him up and down the way their mother had done when they were children. “Look at you, aged ten years at least. Anyone would think you were the older sibling now.”
John decided that, in the interest of making it at least a quarter of an hour before the inevitable argument broke out, he would forbear mentioning that it has been years since they had last seen each other, that anyone who watched them interact for more than thirty seconds would be able to tell she was the elder of them, and that the signs of alcohol abuse that any medical professional could read on her face were doing her no particular favours.
“You’re looking… very professional.” She was, too, wearing a suit and carrying a purse that looked designer to John’s admittedly untutored eyes. “Very successful.” Her hair, artificially blonder than his, was pulled up in some sort of chignon twisty thing, and the few pieces of jewelry she wore were understated but looked... nice.
She waved his compliment away cheerfully, though he could tell she was pleased by the acknowledgement. Especially as it carried the unspoken comparison with his own current status.
“Oh, Johnny, the coffee’s gone cold,” Harry said, “and yours is empty. I’ll get us both more.” Before John could respond in a way that would certainly not have involved the phrases ‘you’re’ and ‘over twenty minutes late’ she’d added “No, no, I’ll pay for them both, I insist,” in way that managed to imply magnanimity on her part and Dickensian levels of poverty on his.
Pick your battles, Watson, he reminded himself as she made her way to the counter. They’d been best friends, growing up. He allowed himself a minute to stare at her back, tried to see the bright girl in the prickly woman she’d become.
“Two coffees,” she said, setting them both down before seating herself across from him. “Now tell me what you’re planning next, now you’re done playing soldier.”
“I wasn’t…” John stopped himself. “I’m still making plans.” There, that was safe. Probably. He took a sip of his drink to find it still too hot and definitely too sweet.
“Well, you’re still a doctor, aren’t you? I can cosign a loan, get you started with a nice practice somewhere…” she waved the hand holding the cup, and a few drops of coffee spilled onto the table. “...nice and quiet, maybe someplace in the countryside, don’t want you having any of those… PTSD attacks, are you having those?”
Which was, of course, the exact moment that all noise in the coffee shop seemed to simultaneously and arbitrarily subside. John felt a number of covert and obvious eyes on him, no doubt wondering if he was about to snap.
“I am not having PTSD attacks, Harry.” He knew better than to mention the nightmares or his obligatory therapy appointments. He added, in his most deliberately calm voice, “I’m fine.”
Harry seemed not to have heard him, though. “You always were a one for soldiering on, brother mine, even when you were young you’d never admit you’d been injured...“
And suddenly she’s gone quiet, has wandered too close to a topic neither of them would willingly have gone anywhere near.
Harry recovered first. “Remember rescuing that moggy?”
And suddenly they were back again on safe ground, the danger temporarily passed. “Yeah,” John said, and the smile came without effort this time. “Got a few scratches for my effort.”
“Scratches? I was sure you were going to fall and break your arm climbing that tree.”
“And then you went and claimed you’d rescued her,” he reminded her ruefully.
“Yeah, well, Amelia looked so impressed when she saw I’d rescued her Callie from the tree, and I had such a crush on her at the time… you remember, John, she had such lovely ginger hair…”
“You don’t even like cats.”
“Well, she didn’t know that! Thought I could get at least a kiss for my troubles.”
“My troubles.”
“Well, she didn’t know that either.” Harry laughed, and John joined in. She looked years younger when she laughed.
“Worked, too,” she added conspiratorially. “That’s how I found out I was allergic.” She gave an exaggerated wink that had John giggling again.
“Reminds me, Johnny… I wanted to give you this before I forget…” Harry began rummaging through her handbag with an exaggerated concentration that suggested it was much bigger on the inside. “Here!” She said, pulling out a fancy looking mobile. “Now you’re back you need one.”
“Harry, this looks expensive,” John said warily. It also appeared to have at least eight times as many buttons as it could possibly need and looked more likely to have completed medical school than he currently did. “I can’t possibly...”
“Of course you can. Work’s just bought me a new one anyhow, this is last year’s model.”
“Harry, I…” John turned the phone over and stopped as he saw there was an inscription. From Clara. “I can’t. Really, really can’t.”
“John. Please.” Harry caught his eyes. “I want you to have it. I don’t have a use for it anymore, and you never spend money on yourself. I want to have a way to contact you besides email.” She put her hand over the phone, covering the writing, and pushed it across the table towards him.
He covered her hand with his own. He could take Harry’s anger, but he’d always been rubbish at dealing with her pain. “Fine.”
***
London breathes.
Rivers flow like veins, roadways like nerves. It is an exquisite corpse, a Frankenstein’s creation of a city born of a thousand successful and failed experiments, a million births, a billion deaths. It grafts newcomers to its trunk and then claims their fruit as its own.
London wears its past like scar tissue, bleeds in new growth. Speaks now in neon and loudspeakers and concrete alongside brick and stone. Is tattooed with monuments, adorned with gardens.
London is Londinium is the City is Eternal. It is paved in the coronations of kings and the funerals of paupers. Its church bells chime a heartbeat, as constant as Greenwich’s pips.
London dreams. London remembers. And London waits.
***
Chapter Eight