FIC: Here Be Dragons (10/12)
Title: Here Be Dragons (10/12)
Author: WinterofourDiscontent (winter_hermit)
Beta by LaReineNoire and themegaloo
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock preslash
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1200 for this part, currently 13k 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.
Chapter One
Chapter Nine
Read Chapter Ten on AO3 or below this
Professor Yana: Oh, every human knows of Utopia. Where have you been?
The Doctor: Bit of a Hermit.
Prof. Yana: A-a hermit ...with, uh, friends?”
The Doctor: Hermits United. We meet up every 10 years, swap stories about caves. It's good fun. For a Hermit.
- Doctor Who 3.11 “Utopia”
***
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He blamed Mycroft.
Of course, it wasn’t actually Mycroft’s fault, but blaming anything Sherlock wasn’t happy with on on Mycroft’s meddlings, or alternately Mycroft’s lack of meddlings, was a time-honoured technique with the benefit of a great deal of tradition behind it.
He’d been spoiled by crime scenes, because even ones where half of Scotland Yard had apparently trampled through weren’t as bad as trying to get a bearing on a reasonably busy street in the middle of the day. Any evidence had likely been obliterated within minutes.
Not that there was much to be evidence of, just someone being too near a wall. There’d clearly been some sort of commotion here recently, but it might or might not have had anything to do with the Stone or the Knell.
The pigeons were no help, they rarely paid attention to human things. If Arthur had dropped a quantity of birdseed they’d have taken note. But only of the seed, and not of the man dropping it.
He’d almost given up on finding anything at all useful when he spotted a member of his Network sitting against a wall. Ha. Mycroft could have his cameras, he’d prefer people any day. And if a few members of his Network weren’t quite human, that was their business. He would keep London’s secrets, provided it didn’t try to keep any from him.
His Network was an odd group of addicts, the mentally ill, the down on their luck, the criminal, the not-quite human, and the ones who were some combination of some or all of the above, and he certainly didn’t trust them with matters of personal hygiene, but they knew the city up and down (and down, and down). You didn’t survive long on the streets by being an idiot, which gave Sherlock a slightly higher opinion of their average intelligence than he had of most of London’s ‘official’ population.
Sherlock walked over at a deliberately casual pace, eyes roving as though he were actually interested in any of the tawdry posters or commercial properties around him.
“Spare change, sir?”
Sherlock dropped two twenties in the cup in front of him. “Has anything of note occurred here, in, say, the last half hour?”
“Man had some sort of fit, whole crowd of people gathered around while his wife had hysterics, probably taping it on their phones, I dunno. ‘nother man stepped in and saved him, then the ambulance arrived.”
“Anything else?”
Laine shrugged, a motion almost invisible through the multitude of clothing layers she wore. “That’s it. Oh, Nate wants a word.”
“Do you know why?”
Sherlock had, of course, put out the word through the Network that anything odd or out of the ordinary was to be brought to his attention immediately. The initial request had led to a more than a bit of discussion revolving around clarifying “out of the ordinary” for a group of people who regularly witnessed all that London’s ancient underbelly had to offer, but they’d eventually worked out a usable definition consisting mostly of “if you think it odd enough to warrant alerting me, it is indeed likely odd enough to warrant alerting me.”
“Didn’t ask.”
Sherlock dropped another twenty in the cup.
“He’s usually hanging about Christchurch Greyfriars Gardens,” she added.
Sherlock gave a curt nod in acknowledgement before striding away. He had to think. The city was awake now, and it had recognised Arthur. It wasn’t sentient in the way most people thought of such things, but it was aware. And it would want them to find each other. Would likely find ways to keep pushing them towards each other until they did finally click.
Well, if he wasn’t going to give Mycroft the satisfaction, he certainly wasn’t going to give some geography with an overdeveloped sense of importance the satisfaction either. He was going to find Arthur first.
Destiny, he knew from experience, was infinitely more satisfying when you made it yourself.
Cabs, however, benefitted from a bit of help, and so Sherlock was very quickly speeding towards Greyfriars.
He stood for a moment, staring at the ruins and mentally rebuilding the church as it had been over the dull dentist’s office now occupying the space. Sherlock wasn’t generally given to sentiment, nor was he especially fond of churches, but… the thought of seeing Arthur again must have been making him a bit feely.
He felt, rather than saw, someone approaching him from behind.
“Nate.”
“Mister Holmes.”
Sherlock turned around slowly. “Why did you want to see me?”
“I stole this wallet, see…”
“I specifically requested ‘out of the ordinary,’ “ Sherlock interrupted, annoyed, “and that is neither noteworthy nor remotely surprising.”
“Hey, lemme finish, you ruddy toff. Y’see, bit back I was knocked about by some kids, only a man came out of nowhere, like, an’ put paid to them. But then he says he’s a doctor, tries to fix me up as well.”
“And you pinched his wallet.” Sherlock did not consider himself an expert on human morality, but he was reasonably certain this was not the traditional response to potentially lifesaving aid.
“Yeah, well… clearly a man of charity, wasn’t he?” Nate said, unperturbed.
“More than he knew, apparently,” Sherlock agreed dryly. “So what’s this got to do with me?”
“Need you to find him an’ give him his wallet back.”
“A few bob lighter, no doubt.”
“Man’s got to eat.”
“Why the sudden, dare I say, crisis of conscience?” Nate could have sold the IDs and bank card, or just thrown them out in a way that would ensure either their recovery or their permanent loss. All of which did not necessitate the involvement of Sherlock Holmes.
“Yeah, well…” For the first time in the conversation, Nate looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted around them before he pulled his collars back to reveal a rather filthy but otherwise unremarkable neck. “I had this swelling. On m’ neck. An’ it’s gone. An’ I wasn’t drunk, at least not before, an’ I think I’d know my own ruddy neck an’ I don’t know how but he healed it.” He took a breath. “Look, my own nan wouldn’t mistake me for a saint, but this is bigger ‘n me, and she taught me not to mess with that sort…. Fuck, he’s not just a good Samaritan, he’s a guardian angel or some shite and I stole his fuckin’ wallet. So if you could just please get it back to him all quiet like…”
Sherlock stared at him, features carefully blank. He’d do it, of course, he would, this was potentially interesting, but Nate hardly needed to know that just yet.
“Hey, I’m practically doin’ you a favour here, mystery for you…”
Sherlock said nothing.
“Fine, I’ll owe you a favour, just… take it! Here,” he said, shoving a slim brown leather wallet at the detective, before turning and ambling off, grumbling to himself.
Sherlock waited until Nate was out of sight before he began examining the wallet’s contents.
There was nothing particularly odd or interesting in the stolen wallet of Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Living in London on reduced means, likely no longer in the service. Strong moral code, if he was willing to risk himself to save a stranger from a beating. No sign of his London address, but he’d have reported the theft to the police, and it would be easy enough for Sherlock to...
...in the bottom right corner, trapped in the seam between the leather and the clear plastic displaying the man’s military ID, was a short brownish-blond hair.
Author: WinterofourDiscontent (winter_hermit)
Beta by LaReineNoire and themegaloo
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock preslash
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1200 for this part, currently 13k 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.
Chapter One
Chapter Nine
Read Chapter Ten on AO3 or below this
Professor Yana: Oh, every human knows of Utopia. Where have you been?
The Doctor: Bit of a Hermit.
Prof. Yana: A-a hermit ...with, uh, friends?”
The Doctor: Hermits United. We meet up every 10 years, swap stories about caves. It's good fun. For a Hermit.
- Doctor Who 3.11 “Utopia”
***
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He blamed Mycroft.
Of course, it wasn’t actually Mycroft’s fault, but blaming anything Sherlock wasn’t happy with on on Mycroft’s meddlings, or alternately Mycroft’s lack of meddlings, was a time-honoured technique with the benefit of a great deal of tradition behind it.
He’d been spoiled by crime scenes, because even ones where half of Scotland Yard had apparently trampled through weren’t as bad as trying to get a bearing on a reasonably busy street in the middle of the day. Any evidence had likely been obliterated within minutes.
Not that there was much to be evidence of, just someone being too near a wall. There’d clearly been some sort of commotion here recently, but it might or might not have had anything to do with the Stone or the Knell.
The pigeons were no help, they rarely paid attention to human things. If Arthur had dropped a quantity of birdseed they’d have taken note. But only of the seed, and not of the man dropping it.
He’d almost given up on finding anything at all useful when he spotted a member of his Network sitting against a wall. Ha. Mycroft could have his cameras, he’d prefer people any day. And if a few members of his Network weren’t quite human, that was their business. He would keep London’s secrets, provided it didn’t try to keep any from him.
His Network was an odd group of addicts, the mentally ill, the down on their luck, the criminal, the not-quite human, and the ones who were some combination of some or all of the above, and he certainly didn’t trust them with matters of personal hygiene, but they knew the city up and down (and down, and down). You didn’t survive long on the streets by being an idiot, which gave Sherlock a slightly higher opinion of their average intelligence than he had of most of London’s ‘official’ population.
Sherlock walked over at a deliberately casual pace, eyes roving as though he were actually interested in any of the tawdry posters or commercial properties around him.
“Spare change, sir?”
Sherlock dropped two twenties in the cup in front of him. “Has anything of note occurred here, in, say, the last half hour?”
“Man had some sort of fit, whole crowd of people gathered around while his wife had hysterics, probably taping it on their phones, I dunno. ‘nother man stepped in and saved him, then the ambulance arrived.”
“Anything else?”
Laine shrugged, a motion almost invisible through the multitude of clothing layers she wore. “That’s it. Oh, Nate wants a word.”
“Do you know why?”
Sherlock had, of course, put out the word through the Network that anything odd or out of the ordinary was to be brought to his attention immediately. The initial request had led to a more than a bit of discussion revolving around clarifying “out of the ordinary” for a group of people who regularly witnessed all that London’s ancient underbelly had to offer, but they’d eventually worked out a usable definition consisting mostly of “if you think it odd enough to warrant alerting me, it is indeed likely odd enough to warrant alerting me.”
“Didn’t ask.”
Sherlock dropped another twenty in the cup.
“He’s usually hanging about Christchurch Greyfriars Gardens,” she added.
Sherlock gave a curt nod in acknowledgement before striding away. He had to think. The city was awake now, and it had recognised Arthur. It wasn’t sentient in the way most people thought of such things, but it was aware. And it would want them to find each other. Would likely find ways to keep pushing them towards each other until they did finally click.
Well, if he wasn’t going to give Mycroft the satisfaction, he certainly wasn’t going to give some geography with an overdeveloped sense of importance the satisfaction either. He was going to find Arthur first.
Destiny, he knew from experience, was infinitely more satisfying when you made it yourself.
Cabs, however, benefitted from a bit of help, and so Sherlock was very quickly speeding towards Greyfriars.
He stood for a moment, staring at the ruins and mentally rebuilding the church as it had been over the dull dentist’s office now occupying the space. Sherlock wasn’t generally given to sentiment, nor was he especially fond of churches, but… the thought of seeing Arthur again must have been making him a bit feely.
He felt, rather than saw, someone approaching him from behind.
“Nate.”
“Mister Holmes.”
Sherlock turned around slowly. “Why did you want to see me?”
“I stole this wallet, see…”
“I specifically requested ‘out of the ordinary,’ “ Sherlock interrupted, annoyed, “and that is neither noteworthy nor remotely surprising.”
“Hey, lemme finish, you ruddy toff. Y’see, bit back I was knocked about by some kids, only a man came out of nowhere, like, an’ put paid to them. But then he says he’s a doctor, tries to fix me up as well.”
“And you pinched his wallet.” Sherlock did not consider himself an expert on human morality, but he was reasonably certain this was not the traditional response to potentially lifesaving aid.
“Yeah, well… clearly a man of charity, wasn’t he?” Nate said, unperturbed.
“More than he knew, apparently,” Sherlock agreed dryly. “So what’s this got to do with me?”
“Need you to find him an’ give him his wallet back.”
“A few bob lighter, no doubt.”
“Man’s got to eat.”
“Why the sudden, dare I say, crisis of conscience?” Nate could have sold the IDs and bank card, or just thrown them out in a way that would ensure either their recovery or their permanent loss. All of which did not necessitate the involvement of Sherlock Holmes.
“Yeah, well…” For the first time in the conversation, Nate looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted around them before he pulled his collars back to reveal a rather filthy but otherwise unremarkable neck. “I had this swelling. On m’ neck. An’ it’s gone. An’ I wasn’t drunk, at least not before, an’ I think I’d know my own ruddy neck an’ I don’t know how but he healed it.” He took a breath. “Look, my own nan wouldn’t mistake me for a saint, but this is bigger ‘n me, and she taught me not to mess with that sort…. Fuck, he’s not just a good Samaritan, he’s a guardian angel or some shite and I stole his fuckin’ wallet. So if you could just please get it back to him all quiet like…”
Sherlock stared at him, features carefully blank. He’d do it, of course, he would, this was potentially interesting, but Nate hardly needed to know that just yet.
“Hey, I’m practically doin’ you a favour here, mystery for you…”
Sherlock said nothing.
“Fine, I’ll owe you a favour, just… take it! Here,” he said, shoving a slim brown leather wallet at the detective, before turning and ambling off, grumbling to himself.
Sherlock waited until Nate was out of sight before he began examining the wallet’s contents.
There was nothing particularly odd or interesting in the stolen wallet of Captain John H Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Living in London on reduced means, likely no longer in the service. Strong moral code, if he was willing to risk himself to save a stranger from a beating. No sign of his London address, but he’d have reported the theft to the police, and it would be easy enough for Sherlock to...
...in the bottom right corner, trapped in the seam between the leather and the clear plastic displaying the man’s military ID, was a short brownish-blond hair.