Fic: All That Glitters is Not Serial Murders
Title: All That Glitters is Not Serial Murders
Author: writingispurdy
Rating: PG
Warning(s): none
Word count: 1,342
Summary: Sherlock/The Hobbit crossover (sorta?) written for robbicide on tumblr for his birthday!
“Listen,” Lestrade says, running a weary hand long down his face and trying to gather his strength. “He’s locked himself up there, and he’s done something to the lock on the front door. We called a locksmith but he’s taken hours, and we’re willing to knock the door in as a last result-”
John’s mouth flounders for appropriate words, finally snapping in with: “You are not knocking in my bloody front door!”
“Well, what d’you suggest?” Lestrade bites back. The lights of the police cars have long been shut off, and worried Mrs. Hudson touches her lips nervously as she watches the two of them.
“Let him rot,” John frowns, gesturing with the milk in one hand, “what do you care?”
“I wouldn’t,” Lestrade points out, quickly backing away from any pretense of fatherly or even friendly care. “Hell, I’d let him sit up there all month if it’d keep him out of my filing cabinet. I’d give you lend of the barricade-”
“All right, Inspector,” John mutters. “All right, yeah, I get it. But what’s so important you need to get in right this second?”
“He’s broken into the Yard and got his hands on a lot of important evidence. I know we can pin this guy McBride for the extortion and the murder, if we had the evidence. But he swooped in and now he’s just sitting on it.” Lestrade grumbles long and hard, rubbing his face with both hands. “He’s like a… like a sodding huge kid! Thinks it’s some sort of game!”
“Look, look,” John says, holding up both hands full of shopping to calm the DI down. “Give me a ladder.”
“What?”
“A ladder. Get me one. I can get into the sitting room, he never locks the window. Hold the milk.”
“Hey,” Lestrade calls when John is half up the ladder. “I know you two like your arguments. I’d appreciate if you got the evidence out before you decide to start the city’s longest row, if you don’t mind.”
“Get it out quietly, go back and argue with Sherlock,” John notes aloud. “Got it.”
Everything is completely dark in the flat when John forces open the window and crawls inside. The curtains have been drawn low so even the street lamps don’t illuminate any further than Sherlock’s desk. John frowns and tries the lamp there, but it doesn’t turn on when commanded. With a dark sigh, John starts feeling his way toward Sherlock’s room, toeing out the layout of the mess he remembers from only an hour ago (how had Sherlock got to the Yard, stolen whatever he’d needed, got back to the flat and had time to unplug all of the lights?). He nearly knocks over a stack of newspapers, just managing to keep them from spilling all over the floor, but the noise is enough.
John only has enough time to bolt behind the door to the stairwell before a beam of light off a torch emerges from the crack of Sherlock’s open door (even darker in there, how did he manage it?).
“I know you’re there,” Sherlock drawls. A pause. “Not Lestrade, no, you smell like you’ve been in a Tesco’s within the last… half an hour. Bit of aftershave, but you don’t stink enough to be Anderson, or Atherton. Of course, they’d send in someone reliable to retrieve it, someone who knew their way around the flat. John?”
“Come on, Sherlock,” John says only once he’s been ousted.
“So you’re a common thief for them now, are you?” Sherlock’s voice bounds around the flat.
“Like you can talk,” John laughs, not moving but watching the sweep of Sherlock’s torch as he clandestinely searches the flat without moving from his bedroom. “That’s not yours, you know. You can’t just fly in and take whatever you want by force.”
“I hardly forced anything,” Sherlock scoffs. “Aside from the third drawer of the filing cabinet where Lestrade keeps the keys, but he can have that replaced.”
“It’s his by right,” John continues, “you know, since he actually found it this time. Without your help.”
“He didn’t even consult me,” Sherlock grumbles.
“So what’s all this, then?” John asks, starting to, very quietly, move out from behind the door. “Power play? Make him consult you or you keep all his evidence as your own little treasure to sit on? He’s not letting you out that door ‘til you hand it over, you know.”
“He’s got it all wrong, anyhow,” Sherlock mutters, and there’s still no movement save from his light trying to catch John unawares.
“Oh, right, Sherlock the Magnificent.” John rolls his eyes from his hiding place. Then-there!-Sherlock’s torch sweeps over a pile of evidence bags on the kitchen table! If John could just sneak in and get his mitts on them, he could be out of here, leaving Sherlock to brood as he likes.
“Your flattery gets you nowhere,” though the tone in Sherlock’s bodiless voice clearly has something else to say about just how he feels about John’s flattery.
“Well, I s’pose you’re right after all,” John says, licking his lips in concentration as he follows Sherlock’s torch light and gauges the distance accordingly. “After all, you have got the biggest intellect in London. Get into the Yard no problem, devastate the place-Sherlock the Destroyer.”
The torch comes to rest on some really rather indecent experiment growing out of the sink, and John begins his quiet move from behind the door. “You’re not clever enough to distract me with compliments, you know,” Sherlock quips.
“Oh yeah?” John asks, tiptoeing toward the kitchen (Sherlock’s torch light says something different-it’s still stagnant on the kitchen sink). “Y’know, they called me a couple of names back in Afghanistan. None so nice as Sherlock the Chiefest of All Intellects…” He paws slightly at the table, finally finding what he needs to get back to the inspector outside their door with a battering ram. “Called me the Luckbringer when I fixed them up, friend of Brits and Yanks, and every now and then I’m a detective-saver and a clue-finder-”
And, as John’s fingers close on the evidence bags, suddenly Sherlock’s light leaps to him, catching him in the midst of his burglary.
“Thief!” Sherlock shouts, suddenly leaping from the doorway. The torch thumps against one of the low cabinets where Sherlock drops it, and John feels all of Sherlock’s weight hit him in his middle, knocking him right to the kitchen tile.
And there they stay for almost too long.
“Did you think that you were invisible?” Sherlock asks, pinning John quite capably to the ground.
“Worth a shot,” John laughs from under Sherlock’s weight (not a bad weight). “You know, I didn’t just sneak in for the evidence,” John says, smirking dangerously up at Sherlock.
“Oh, right?” Sherlock eggs him on, beginning to grin in the half light from his fallen torch.
That’s when John grabs the man by his curly head, mashing their lips together tightly. And it’s only when he’s taken control of the situation, rolled Sherlock onto his back and finds long, cold fingers working under his jumper that John grins victoriously.
“Revenge,” John remarks, and Sherlock doesn’t have the time to recover before John is off of him, evidence in hand and half out the window. “Regards from DI Lestrade.”
John is hardly down the ladder before Sherlock’s bright red face appears at the window, and he begins spouting off the most obscene curses anyone on the street had ever heard, roaring and going on as if he actually is spitting fire. He finishes up with a warning of just what will happen if John comes back before he’s done being properly cross with him. Slams the window shut, nearly cracks the glass, and goes back into hiding in the cave Baker Street has become.
Lestrade gladly takes back the evidence (an almost covetous look in his eyes) and John pulls out his mobile.
“Sarah, hey,” John says with sad enthusiasm. “Could I use your sofa?”
Author: writingispurdy
Rating: PG
Warning(s): none
Word count: 1,342
Summary: Sherlock/The Hobbit crossover (sorta?) written for robbicide on tumblr for his birthday!
“Listen,” Lestrade says, running a weary hand long down his face and trying to gather his strength. “He’s locked himself up there, and he’s done something to the lock on the front door. We called a locksmith but he’s taken hours, and we’re willing to knock the door in as a last result-”
John’s mouth flounders for appropriate words, finally snapping in with: “You are not knocking in my bloody front door!”
“Well, what d’you suggest?” Lestrade bites back. The lights of the police cars have long been shut off, and worried Mrs. Hudson touches her lips nervously as she watches the two of them.
“Let him rot,” John frowns, gesturing with the milk in one hand, “what do you care?”
“I wouldn’t,” Lestrade points out, quickly backing away from any pretense of fatherly or even friendly care. “Hell, I’d let him sit up there all month if it’d keep him out of my filing cabinet. I’d give you lend of the barricade-”
“All right, Inspector,” John mutters. “All right, yeah, I get it. But what’s so important you need to get in right this second?”
“He’s broken into the Yard and got his hands on a lot of important evidence. I know we can pin this guy McBride for the extortion and the murder, if we had the evidence. But he swooped in and now he’s just sitting on it.” Lestrade grumbles long and hard, rubbing his face with both hands. “He’s like a… like a sodding huge kid! Thinks it’s some sort of game!”
“Look, look,” John says, holding up both hands full of shopping to calm the DI down. “Give me a ladder.”
“What?”
“A ladder. Get me one. I can get into the sitting room, he never locks the window. Hold the milk.”
“Hey,” Lestrade calls when John is half up the ladder. “I know you two like your arguments. I’d appreciate if you got the evidence out before you decide to start the city’s longest row, if you don’t mind.”
“Get it out quietly, go back and argue with Sherlock,” John notes aloud. “Got it.”
Everything is completely dark in the flat when John forces open the window and crawls inside. The curtains have been drawn low so even the street lamps don’t illuminate any further than Sherlock’s desk. John frowns and tries the lamp there, but it doesn’t turn on when commanded. With a dark sigh, John starts feeling his way toward Sherlock’s room, toeing out the layout of the mess he remembers from only an hour ago (how had Sherlock got to the Yard, stolen whatever he’d needed, got back to the flat and had time to unplug all of the lights?). He nearly knocks over a stack of newspapers, just managing to keep them from spilling all over the floor, but the noise is enough.
John only has enough time to bolt behind the door to the stairwell before a beam of light off a torch emerges from the crack of Sherlock’s open door (even darker in there, how did he manage it?).
“I know you’re there,” Sherlock drawls. A pause. “Not Lestrade, no, you smell like you’ve been in a Tesco’s within the last… half an hour. Bit of aftershave, but you don’t stink enough to be Anderson, or Atherton. Of course, they’d send in someone reliable to retrieve it, someone who knew their way around the flat. John?”
“Come on, Sherlock,” John says only once he’s been ousted.
“So you’re a common thief for them now, are you?” Sherlock’s voice bounds around the flat.
“Like you can talk,” John laughs, not moving but watching the sweep of Sherlock’s torch as he clandestinely searches the flat without moving from his bedroom. “That’s not yours, you know. You can’t just fly in and take whatever you want by force.”
“I hardly forced anything,” Sherlock scoffs. “Aside from the third drawer of the filing cabinet where Lestrade keeps the keys, but he can have that replaced.”
“It’s his by right,” John continues, “you know, since he actually found it this time. Without your help.”
“He didn’t even consult me,” Sherlock grumbles.
“So what’s all this, then?” John asks, starting to, very quietly, move out from behind the door. “Power play? Make him consult you or you keep all his evidence as your own little treasure to sit on? He’s not letting you out that door ‘til you hand it over, you know.”
“He’s got it all wrong, anyhow,” Sherlock mutters, and there’s still no movement save from his light trying to catch John unawares.
“Oh, right, Sherlock the Magnificent.” John rolls his eyes from his hiding place. Then-there!-Sherlock’s torch sweeps over a pile of evidence bags on the kitchen table! If John could just sneak in and get his mitts on them, he could be out of here, leaving Sherlock to brood as he likes.
“Your flattery gets you nowhere,” though the tone in Sherlock’s bodiless voice clearly has something else to say about just how he feels about John’s flattery.
“Well, I s’pose you’re right after all,” John says, licking his lips in concentration as he follows Sherlock’s torch light and gauges the distance accordingly. “After all, you have got the biggest intellect in London. Get into the Yard no problem, devastate the place-Sherlock the Destroyer.”
The torch comes to rest on some really rather indecent experiment growing out of the sink, and John begins his quiet move from behind the door. “You’re not clever enough to distract me with compliments, you know,” Sherlock quips.
“Oh yeah?” John asks, tiptoeing toward the kitchen (Sherlock’s torch light says something different-it’s still stagnant on the kitchen sink). “Y’know, they called me a couple of names back in Afghanistan. None so nice as Sherlock the Chiefest of All Intellects…” He paws slightly at the table, finally finding what he needs to get back to the inspector outside their door with a battering ram. “Called me the Luckbringer when I fixed them up, friend of Brits and Yanks, and every now and then I’m a detective-saver and a clue-finder-”
And, as John’s fingers close on the evidence bags, suddenly Sherlock’s light leaps to him, catching him in the midst of his burglary.
“Thief!” Sherlock shouts, suddenly leaping from the doorway. The torch thumps against one of the low cabinets where Sherlock drops it, and John feels all of Sherlock’s weight hit him in his middle, knocking him right to the kitchen tile.
And there they stay for almost too long.
“Did you think that you were invisible?” Sherlock asks, pinning John quite capably to the ground.
“Worth a shot,” John laughs from under Sherlock’s weight (not a bad weight). “You know, I didn’t just sneak in for the evidence,” John says, smirking dangerously up at Sherlock.
“Oh, right?” Sherlock eggs him on, beginning to grin in the half light from his fallen torch.
That’s when John grabs the man by his curly head, mashing their lips together tightly. And it’s only when he’s taken control of the situation, rolled Sherlock onto his back and finds long, cold fingers working under his jumper that John grins victoriously.
“Revenge,” John remarks, and Sherlock doesn’t have the time to recover before John is off of him, evidence in hand and half out the window. “Regards from DI Lestrade.”
John is hardly down the ladder before Sherlock’s bright red face appears at the window, and he begins spouting off the most obscene curses anyone on the street had ever heard, roaring and going on as if he actually is spitting fire. He finishes up with a warning of just what will happen if John comes back before he’s done being properly cross with him. Slams the window shut, nearly cracks the glass, and goes back into hiding in the cave Baker Street has become.
Lestrade gladly takes back the evidence (an almost covetous look in his eyes) and John pulls out his mobile.
“Sarah, hey,” John says with sad enthusiasm. “Could I use your sofa?”