FIC: Here Be Dragons (8/?)
Title: Here Be Dragons (8/?)
Author: WinterofourDiscontent
Beta by LaReineNoire and themegaloo
Company while I write at the coffeeshop by stupid_drawings
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock eventual
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2000 for this part, currently 10000 overall with more to come
Warnings: canon-typical violence
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.
Special Chapter Notes: Sorry for the delay, there was this thing *cough*Reichenbach*cough*… hey, look, a longer chapter.
Special thanks to analineblue for her invaluable assistance with plot and to lareinenoire and themegaloo for their noble efforts beta reading. Any remaining mistakes, inaccuracies, or problems are my own fault.
Extra special thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments or kudos on Here Be Dragons. It’s really wonderful to know that people are enjoying this.
Chapter One
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight on AO3 or beneath this
***
“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then - to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.”
― T.H. White, The Once and Future King
***
John had taken to what his granddad would have called ‘constitutionals,’ his therapist ‘walks,’ but which he personally thought of as ‘if I have to stare at the walls of my ruddy bedsit for one more sodding minute I am going to do something unbefitting a former member of Her Majesty’s Medical Corps.’
Tonight, on a whim, he’d begun on a path heading the opposite way from most of his usual routes.
An hour of walking in no particular direction found him in an unfamiliar neighborhood with an aching leg and a strong desire to find the nearest Tube stop.
He’d just about decided to turn around and try retracing his steps when he heard sounds of some sort of scuffle nearby.
John reacted without conscious thought, running towards the noise with his cane in his left hand like a weapon.
Three men… they looked not much older than teenagers, really, were kicking at a man curled up on the ground.
“Alright, stop that!” John bellowed.
They did stop for a minute, turning to look at John and his cane. The tallest, a rail thin boy wearing an orange knit cap, snorted. “Whatever, gramps, just having a bit of fun here.”
His companion with a shaved head turned back to the victim, “yeah, leave off, it’s none of your business is it? Unless you’d like us to have a go at you too.”
“He’s a bloody cripple, probably only take one hit,” said the third, who looked as though he’d decided a standing target was likely to be more interesting than one already on the ground. He advanced on John, a piece of board held in front of him. “Come on, then, stop us.”
He moved to swing the board at John.
Everything after that happened a bit fast.
It turned out that a cane sturdy enough to support the weight of a full-grown man was also sturdy enough to do damage when wielded offensively.
It also transpired that a trained ex-soldier, even one recovering from various wounds, was more than a match for three idiots with more bollocks than brains.
Ten minutes later, John found himself standing alone in the alley, bruised, panting heavily, and feeling more alive than he’d felt in ages.
“You alright, mate?” he asked solicitously, dropping to his knees to look over the attack victim. From the state of his clothing and his general appearance, John guessed the man was homeless, or at least what John’s mother would have euphemistically referred to as ‘down on his luck.’ The phrase now seemed uncannily apt, considering. “Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.”
“Fuck, mate, I’d have guessed commando or summat.” The man accepted a hand from John, pulling himself off the ground. “I’ve had worse.”
“You ought to get checked out, might have concussion, cracked ribs, some sort of swelling around your neck…” John fought the urge to physically examine him for injuries. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
The man waved away John’s arm and his concern. “No ambulance, an’ no police… I’ll be fine. Right as rain in the morning.” It was hard to get a good look at him in the dim light, but John could see enough to make him highly skeptical of the man’s claim.
“Aren’t you going to at least report them?” asked John, frustrated.
“Met ain’t all that concerned wit’ the likes of me, Doc. An’ after the fright you gave those bastards I doubt they’ll be after anyone else anytime soon.”
He patted John on the back, then began slowly ambling away. “Thanks for the help, doc. Best be gettin’ home. Cheers!”
John stared after the man, feeling more than a little useless, until he’d turned a corner and was out of sight.
He sighed, turned around, and began trying to retrace his steps back to his flat. Nothing looked familiar, so he finally gave in and limped into a convenience store.
“Erm… could you tell me the way to the nearest Tube stop?” he asked, feeling like a bloody tourist.
“No worries, love, it’s just a couple of blocks that way,” she said, gesturing to his left.
John nodded, feeling half embarrassed and half relieved that it was so close.
He reached into his pocket to buy a packet of crisps as a thank you and found an empty space where his wallet should have been.
Bloody hell. It was really not his night.
***
“Anderson, there’s something different about you today.”
“Sherlock, don’t start.”
Sherlock went on as if he hadn’t heard Lestrade. “You’ve shaved off that atrocious bit of pubic hair you had growing on your chin! Well done, you’re looking at least eleven point one five percent less stupid! Of course you’re still working from a negative, but it is a step in the right direction.”
“Oh fuck off, Holmes.”
“Of course, if you were better at forensics you might perhaps have caught the killer by now instead of devoting your energy to making sure you’re not his next victim…”
“You…” Anderson suddenly lunged at Sherlock, who effortlessly sidestepped out of the way. It looked more like a scene from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon than anything Lestrade wanted to see at his crime scene.
“STOP IT, NOW. Both of you.” Lestrade glared at them both until he was sure neither was about to do something idiotic. Well, more idiotic, anyway. He wondered, not for the first time, what he’d done in a past life to deserve this.
“Sherlock, I will have you off this scene if you can’t leave off the insults to my personnel, and Anderson, if you can’t handle a rude comment from the public you’ve no business in the force. And don’t think I didn’t hear you egging him on earlier, Christ, are you both five years old?”
Both looked about to say something.
“I mean it. Now get back to work. Anderson, secure the body for transport. Sherlock, come with me.”
He turned around and strode to the perimeter of the crime scene, where they’d be less likely to be overheard.
“Dammit, Sherlock, I need you to leave off my people. If nothing else, if any of them complains to the rubber heelers you’re going to be banned from this… all of this” he gestured expansively around them, “fast enough to make your head spin and I will not be able to do a bloody thing about it.”
Hopefully the threat of banishment would succeed, because god knew common courtesy hadn’t a chance. He continued, the anger in his voice replaced with frustration. “Three bodies, now, so please tell me you’ve got something we can use.”
Sherlock began to tick off data points on his black-gloved fingers. “The victims were a chef, an MP, and the CEO of an internet startup that has recently gone public. All were rich, moderately well-known and successful in their chosen fields… which means Anderson would have been safe anyway.”
“Sherlock…”
“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock said, already dismissing Anderson from his thoughts. “While historically facial hair has gone in and out of fashion, currently it is less common, especially among what is generally termed the ‘middle‘ and ‘upper’ classes. The fact that the killer has taken so much time to carefully remove their beards as well as their scalp suggests it is as important to him…”
“Him?”
“Statistically, yes, much more likely to be a him. Of course, it also takes a not insignificant amount of strength to move the bodies, again, making it likely the killer is male. He’ll have experience hunting, likely grew up or spent time in the countryside, not many people have the kind of experience he’s demonstrated at skinning.”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair as he struggled to keep up with the rapid fire monologue. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”
Sherlock gave him one of his ‘why is everyone around me so stupid’ looks, though Lestrade knew the version reserved for him was a bit milder than the one most people received. “Borrowed a head from the morgue, do keep up.”
“When you say ‘borrowed’…”
Sherlock waved his hands dismissively. “I gave it back when I was done.” He clasped both hands together and brought them to his face in a pose that might have looked prayerful on anyone else. “Now, the taxidermy is very suggestive…”
“Taxidermy?”
Sherlock paused in his pacing to glance over at the DI. “What did you think he was doing with the beards, Lestrade?”
“Christ.”
And that, there, was why he would keep working with Sherlock. Because no matter how much of a right bastard he could be, on the truly odd cases like this he was often the difference between lives lost and saved. As far as Greg was concerned, that meant he was on the side of the angels.
Though it sure as hell didn’t make him any easier to work with.
Lestrade took a deep breath and tried really, really hard not to think too heavily about the actual implications of what Sherlock was telling him. He was a hardened copper, yeah, but some things were supposed to still mess with your head, at least, if you weren’t a sociopathic genius. “Alright, what else can you give me?”
“Like most serial killers, he’s secretly looking for recognition, due to…” Sherlock froze, eyes staring ahead blankly. He looked almost corpse white, as though he’d somehow passed out standing straight up.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “Are you…” and then he heard it too. A low noise with a deep resonant thrum, like a strange cross between a heartbeat and a church bell, filling his ears. It grew louder, taking up residence in his chest cavity and expanding until his own heart was forced to beat in awkward synchronization with it.
He couldn’t move, could barely breathe, could only stand frozen wondering what the hell was holding them there like a drumbeat by the Pied Piper. Gradually, though, he became aware of an easing off, the noise beginning to fade away until it was… finally… entirely…
...gone.
His body sagged as he regained autonomy, leaving him catching his breath like he’d been chasing criminals on foot before he’d quit smoking. Greg glanced around at his team, but apparently only he and Sherlock had been affected. Hell, if Sherlock hadn’t obviously been affected as well, and first, he’d have wondered if he’d just suffered a heart attack like his old man.
Sherlock, who stood quietly in front of him, facial colour returned to its usual pale shade. His eyes, though... if he’d been a more fanciful man, Lestrade would have said they were glowing. Fucking hell, now he was seeing things too.
“Sherlock, what…” he asked, “the hell was that?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised you heard it too.” Sherlock was practically purring, his lips curled up at the corners and overall looking far too damn pleased for someone who’d just experienced some sort of group panic attack.
“I swear to God if you don’t tell me what the hell just happened…” the panic was fading, leaving anger in its place.
“I’ll explain later. Must run. Text once you’ve got the forensics report. Ta!“ Sherlock spun on his heel and began striding away from the crime scene as fast as his ridiculously long legs could carry him.
“Sherlock… what’s going on? Sherlock!” Christ.
A moment or two later, he felt his mobile vibrate.
Meeting up with an old friend. SH
***
Author: WinterofourDiscontent
Beta by LaReineNoire and themegaloo
Company while I write at the coffeeshop by stupid_drawings
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock eventual
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2000 for this part, currently 10000 overall with more to come
Warnings: canon-typical violence
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.
Special Chapter Notes: Sorry for the delay, there was this thing *cough*Reichenbach*cough*… hey, look, a longer chapter.
Special thanks to analineblue for her invaluable assistance with plot and to lareinenoire and themegaloo for their noble efforts beta reading. Any remaining mistakes, inaccuracies, or problems are my own fault.
Extra special thanks to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments or kudos on Here Be Dragons. It’s really wonderful to know that people are enjoying this.
Chapter One
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight on AO3 or beneath this
***
“The best thing for being sad," replied Merlin, beginning to puff and blow, "is to learn something. That's the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then - to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.”
― T.H. White, The Once and Future King
***
John had taken to what his granddad would have called ‘constitutionals,’ his therapist ‘walks,’ but which he personally thought of as ‘if I have to stare at the walls of my ruddy bedsit for one more sodding minute I am going to do something unbefitting a former member of Her Majesty’s Medical Corps.’
Tonight, on a whim, he’d begun on a path heading the opposite way from most of his usual routes.
An hour of walking in no particular direction found him in an unfamiliar neighborhood with an aching leg and a strong desire to find the nearest Tube stop.
He’d just about decided to turn around and try retracing his steps when he heard sounds of some sort of scuffle nearby.
John reacted without conscious thought, running towards the noise with his cane in his left hand like a weapon.
Three men… they looked not much older than teenagers, really, were kicking at a man curled up on the ground.
“Alright, stop that!” John bellowed.
They did stop for a minute, turning to look at John and his cane. The tallest, a rail thin boy wearing an orange knit cap, snorted. “Whatever, gramps, just having a bit of fun here.”
His companion with a shaved head turned back to the victim, “yeah, leave off, it’s none of your business is it? Unless you’d like us to have a go at you too.”
“He’s a bloody cripple, probably only take one hit,” said the third, who looked as though he’d decided a standing target was likely to be more interesting than one already on the ground. He advanced on John, a piece of board held in front of him. “Come on, then, stop us.”
He moved to swing the board at John.
Everything after that happened a bit fast.
It turned out that a cane sturdy enough to support the weight of a full-grown man was also sturdy enough to do damage when wielded offensively.
It also transpired that a trained ex-soldier, even one recovering from various wounds, was more than a match for three idiots with more bollocks than brains.
Ten minutes later, John found himself standing alone in the alley, bruised, panting heavily, and feeling more alive than he’d felt in ages.
“You alright, mate?” he asked solicitously, dropping to his knees to look over the attack victim. From the state of his clothing and his general appearance, John guessed the man was homeless, or at least what John’s mother would have euphemistically referred to as ‘down on his luck.’ The phrase now seemed uncannily apt, considering. “Don’t worry, I’m a doctor.”
“Fuck, mate, I’d have guessed commando or summat.” The man accepted a hand from John, pulling himself off the ground. “I’ve had worse.”
“You ought to get checked out, might have concussion, cracked ribs, some sort of swelling around your neck…” John fought the urge to physically examine him for injuries. “I’ll call for an ambulance.”
The man waved away John’s arm and his concern. “No ambulance, an’ no police… I’ll be fine. Right as rain in the morning.” It was hard to get a good look at him in the dim light, but John could see enough to make him highly skeptical of the man’s claim.
“Aren’t you going to at least report them?” asked John, frustrated.
“Met ain’t all that concerned wit’ the likes of me, Doc. An’ after the fright you gave those bastards I doubt they’ll be after anyone else anytime soon.”
He patted John on the back, then began slowly ambling away. “Thanks for the help, doc. Best be gettin’ home. Cheers!”
John stared after the man, feeling more than a little useless, until he’d turned a corner and was out of sight.
He sighed, turned around, and began trying to retrace his steps back to his flat. Nothing looked familiar, so he finally gave in and limped into a convenience store.
“Erm… could you tell me the way to the nearest Tube stop?” he asked, feeling like a bloody tourist.
“No worries, love, it’s just a couple of blocks that way,” she said, gesturing to his left.
John nodded, feeling half embarrassed and half relieved that it was so close.
He reached into his pocket to buy a packet of crisps as a thank you and found an empty space where his wallet should have been.
Bloody hell. It was really not his night.
***
“Anderson, there’s something different about you today.”
“Sherlock, don’t start.”
Sherlock went on as if he hadn’t heard Lestrade. “You’ve shaved off that atrocious bit of pubic hair you had growing on your chin! Well done, you’re looking at least eleven point one five percent less stupid! Of course you’re still working from a negative, but it is a step in the right direction.”
“Oh fuck off, Holmes.”
“Of course, if you were better at forensics you might perhaps have caught the killer by now instead of devoting your energy to making sure you’re not his next victim…”
“You…” Anderson suddenly lunged at Sherlock, who effortlessly sidestepped out of the way. It looked more like a scene from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon than anything Lestrade wanted to see at his crime scene.
“STOP IT, NOW. Both of you.” Lestrade glared at them both until he was sure neither was about to do something idiotic. Well, more idiotic, anyway. He wondered, not for the first time, what he’d done in a past life to deserve this.
“Sherlock, I will have you off this scene if you can’t leave off the insults to my personnel, and Anderson, if you can’t handle a rude comment from the public you’ve no business in the force. And don’t think I didn’t hear you egging him on earlier, Christ, are you both five years old?”
Both looked about to say something.
“I mean it. Now get back to work. Anderson, secure the body for transport. Sherlock, come with me.”
He turned around and strode to the perimeter of the crime scene, where they’d be less likely to be overheard.
“Dammit, Sherlock, I need you to leave off my people. If nothing else, if any of them complains to the rubber heelers you’re going to be banned from this… all of this” he gestured expansively around them, “fast enough to make your head spin and I will not be able to do a bloody thing about it.”
Hopefully the threat of banishment would succeed, because god knew common courtesy hadn’t a chance. He continued, the anger in his voice replaced with frustration. “Three bodies, now, so please tell me you’ve got something we can use.”
Sherlock began to tick off data points on his black-gloved fingers. “The victims were a chef, an MP, and the CEO of an internet startup that has recently gone public. All were rich, moderately well-known and successful in their chosen fields… which means Anderson would have been safe anyway.”
“Sherlock…”
“Yes, yes, fine,” Sherlock said, already dismissing Anderson from his thoughts. “While historically facial hair has gone in and out of fashion, currently it is less common, especially among what is generally termed the ‘middle‘ and ‘upper’ classes. The fact that the killer has taken so much time to carefully remove their beards as well as their scalp suggests it is as important to him…”
“Him?”
“Statistically, yes, much more likely to be a him. Of course, it also takes a not insignificant amount of strength to move the bodies, again, making it likely the killer is male. He’ll have experience hunting, likely grew up or spent time in the countryside, not many people have the kind of experience he’s demonstrated at skinning.”
Lestrade ran a hand through his hair as he struggled to keep up with the rapid fire monologue. “I’m not going to ask how you know that.”
Sherlock gave him one of his ‘why is everyone around me so stupid’ looks, though Lestrade knew the version reserved for him was a bit milder than the one most people received. “Borrowed a head from the morgue, do keep up.”
“When you say ‘borrowed’…”
Sherlock waved his hands dismissively. “I gave it back when I was done.” He clasped both hands together and brought them to his face in a pose that might have looked prayerful on anyone else. “Now, the taxidermy is very suggestive…”
“Taxidermy?”
Sherlock paused in his pacing to glance over at the DI. “What did you think he was doing with the beards, Lestrade?”
“Christ.”
And that, there, was why he would keep working with Sherlock. Because no matter how much of a right bastard he could be, on the truly odd cases like this he was often the difference between lives lost and saved. As far as Greg was concerned, that meant he was on the side of the angels.
Though it sure as hell didn’t make him any easier to work with.
Lestrade took a deep breath and tried really, really hard not to think too heavily about the actual implications of what Sherlock was telling him. He was a hardened copper, yeah, but some things were supposed to still mess with your head, at least, if you weren’t a sociopathic genius. “Alright, what else can you give me?”
“Like most serial killers, he’s secretly looking for recognition, due to…” Sherlock froze, eyes staring ahead blankly. He looked almost corpse white, as though he’d somehow passed out standing straight up.
“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked. “Are you…” and then he heard it too. A low noise with a deep resonant thrum, like a strange cross between a heartbeat and a church bell, filling his ears. It grew louder, taking up residence in his chest cavity and expanding until his own heart was forced to beat in awkward synchronization with it.
He couldn’t move, could barely breathe, could only stand frozen wondering what the hell was holding them there like a drumbeat by the Pied Piper. Gradually, though, he became aware of an easing off, the noise beginning to fade away until it was… finally… entirely…
...gone.
His body sagged as he regained autonomy, leaving him catching his breath like he’d been chasing criminals on foot before he’d quit smoking. Greg glanced around at his team, but apparently only he and Sherlock had been affected. Hell, if Sherlock hadn’t obviously been affected as well, and first, he’d have wondered if he’d just suffered a heart attack like his old man.
Sherlock, who stood quietly in front of him, facial colour returned to its usual pale shade. His eyes, though... if he’d been a more fanciful man, Lestrade would have said they were glowing. Fucking hell, now he was seeing things too.
“Sherlock, what…” he asked, “the hell was that?”
“I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised you heard it too.” Sherlock was practically purring, his lips curled up at the corners and overall looking far too damn pleased for someone who’d just experienced some sort of group panic attack.
“I swear to God if you don’t tell me what the hell just happened…” the panic was fading, leaving anger in its place.
“I’ll explain later. Must run. Text once you’ve got the forensics report. Ta!“ Sherlock spun on his heel and began striding away from the crime scene as fast as his ridiculously long legs could carry him.
“Sherlock… what’s going on? Sherlock!” Christ.
A moment or two later, he felt his mobile vibrate.
Meeting up with an old friend. SH
***