➲ NANOWRIMO: NOVEMBER 19
I am behind on replying to comments. This seems to be the standard state of my existence. Also, I think I had some kind of legitimate news to update with, but! I can't remember.
My brain cells are dying as I think of them. This is pretty sad.
➲ NANOWRIMO: NOVEMBER 19
For laria_gwyn, BBC Sherlock, Sherlock/John OR The Social Network, Cameron/Tyler/Erica, the only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man cannot do.
She gave me a choice of two different fandoms to write for today, so what did I do?
CROSSOVER ALL THE THINGS \o/
As always: please to be reading in the light format.
the limits of caution
BBC Sherlock/The Social Network, Cameron/Erica/Tyler, implied(/blink and you'll miss it) Sherlock/John, G, 1700 words
[read @ AO3]
- |
It really all started out average enough, honest, which is probably how half of the statements he's given to Scotland Yard start out, but never mind.
Average day, average point in time, and John has almost settled into his chair at the dining table with the full intention of eating his scone in peace (off a paper plate, granted, because all the real ones got used in a spirited Frisbee session with a twenty-two stone weightlifter with a bad habit of skinning pretty bankers, and John keeps forgetting to pick up a new set of crockery whenever he's out) when Sherlock -- who's got his head stuck so far into the fridge that all John can see of him from this angle is his rear end -- suddenly straightens up so far he bangs his head, hard, against the shelf permanently reserved for dead body parts and says, clearly, "No! Not African at all -- Beijing. It was the Spanish gold medalist from Beijing, of course, nobody expects the Spanish!"
"Inquisition," John interjects.
Sherlock's face appears around the fridge door, eyebrows drawn in.
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," John elaborates after a beat. "... Monty Python? No? Never mind," he says quickly, even as his seventeen-year-old self weeps at the blatant disregard for important pop culture referenes, and Sherlock leaps to his feet.
"I'm going to go see the Olympic athletes about their trousers," he announces, and sweeps out of the kitchen at break-neck speed.
"Okay," says John to the empty kitchen. And, suddenly, as the statement itself catches up to him, "Wait. Who do you know is a -- since when have you worked cases with Olympic athletes?"
There's no reply, just the muted slamming of the door from downstairs and Mrs. Hudson's protesting reminder about those old creaky hinges shouldn't have to take that kind of abuse, Sherlock, dear.
His phone buzzes before he's finished with the scone.
Where are you? Weren't you right behind me? Can't pay the cabbie without you.
-SH
John sighs, looks wistfully at the rest of the scone on his plate. It's going to be as leathery as a taco shell when he gets back. He pushes his chair out from the table and gets to his feet.
- | - |
The Olympic athletes turn out to be a pair of Americans living in a flat just off the posh side of Regent's Park. They plainly weren't expecting Sherlock to just drop by unceremoniously, since neither of them are wearing much beyond pajama bottoms, tied at their hips with a precarious kind of looseness that suggest they'll go sliding off any moment.
Even without the amount of threatening amount of nipple currently on display, John isn't sure how much he trusts them: their teeth are too white. They look like they stepped right out of a clothing commercial.
Also, they're twin brothers, living together. Obviously, neither John nor Sherlock have the greatest track record with sibling relationships and therefore don't really have room to judge, but John doesn't know what it says about them, to still live with the other at their age.
"This is a surprise," remarks one, and shifts his face into a suitable surprised expression to match. "I didn't know you knew where we lived."
"Would you like something to drink?" asks the other.
"No thank you," says John, polite.
"Of course I did," says Sherlock, stretching his neck ever-so-slightly, because standing side-by-side, the twins make even Sherlock look shrimpy. John doesn't even pretend to have any dignity in this: he's 5'9", he's basically eye-level with the nipples, it's kind of distracting. "You're here to play happy little diplomats with the construction committee for the 2012 summer Olympics. I'm assuming you didn't qualify to race?" he adds, with just that knife's edge of cutting cruelty.
"It's a competitive field, Mr. Holmes," says Twin #1, his tone completely mild. "Always cycling through for the youngest and the fastest."
Okay, so, the relationship is kind of chilly, but John doesn't get the feeling anyone's going to call for pistols at dawn here: it's just the automatic defensiveness that people get when they've met Sherlock before and know generally what to expect. Nothing new there. Before the second twin can passive-aggressively offer something else to eat or drink, Sherlock launches into his spiel about the murder that apparently involves a Spanish gold medalist from the Beijing 2008 Olympics. John doesn't really follow, because it involves Games-issued spandex and that's not really something John knows a lot about.
He sees a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye and twists his neck; catches a glimpse of a woman, disappearing around the edge of an enormous, decorative-looking armoire into the kitchen.
Leaving their hosts occupied with Sherlock, John goes to investigate.
The kitchen is paisley-yellow, with worn curtains thrown open to let the sunlight pour in and soak into the small array of potted plants that stretch across the windowsill. The woman leans back up against the sink, steam coming off the mug tucked between her palms, one leg crossed over the other in front of her. She has brown hair that falls all the way down her back, carelessly pinned out of her eyes. The grey hoodie she's wearing drapes over the ends of her hands, leaving only the very tips of her fingers poking out, and it drops down mid-thigh; he can't really read the insignia, but it looks like a sports team. The rest of her legs are bare, all the way down to her toes, which are painted red-and-black like ladybugs.
"Hello," she offers. She's also American. "Have Cam or Ty offered you anything to drink yet?"
"They have, yes, thank you," John nods, and extends his hand. "I'm Dr. John Watson."
Shifting her grip on her mug, she shakes his hand. "Doctor, good to meet you. My name's Erica. You met Cameron and Tyler, I presume." Catching the look on his face, her grin widens. "Tyler's whichever one annoyed you more, and Cameron will be the first person to kill you with politeness."
"Ah," says John, because that's actually fairly accurate.
She studies him. "But it's been a while since we've heard from Sherlock. How's he been?"
"Oh, the same, I'm guessing," he frowns. "He hasn't really told me how he knows you ... um, you three, I guess."
"Oh, that!" Erica glances off into some middle distance before looking back to him. "Well, I don't know how much you follow the Olympic Games, but Cam and Ty rowed the 100-meter boat races for the US in Beijing in 2008. They placed sixth," she adds, when John opens his mouth to ask exactly that, and smiles a little ruefully when he flinches. You can't even really say anything about sixth. "But it doesn't matter -- at the time, they were enough of a threat that the coach of a rival team hired Mr. Holmes to dig up dirt on them."
"That ..." Sounds exactly like something Sherlock would do for fun, but. "Isn't usually what he does. Professionally, I mean. He likes solving murders."
"Maybe that's what they were hoping to uncover," she flashes him a cat's grin. "Because you see, at the time, the twins were going through a very high-profile lawsuit over --" the grin falters enough that John notices the beat of hesitation. "-- over something completely unrelated, and they literally could do no wrong in the public's eye. They were all-American Olympic stars. It was going to be very hard to tarnish them, which is why the coach wanted Sherlock to do it, I think."
"And he ..."
"Didn't do it." She straightens up, shaking her hair out of the way and tipping the remaining dregs of her drink down the drain. The sweatshirt she's wearing is a Patriots one, he sees. "Even though he could have. There's no quicker way to destroy someone's foundation than to go after someone they love. We owe a lot to Sherlock Holmes, Doctor, so. If there's anything Cam or Ty can do for him, we'll do it."
- | - | - |
"The Winklevoss case from 2008 was a waste of my time," says Sherlock flippantly, when John brings it up later, after they go catch themselves a killer with a gold medal. "But it offered me a substantial amount of money and a chance to dip my finger into international sports politics, which I knew would annoy my brother, so I took it."
"Of course you did."
"The woman you met -- she's Erica Albright, from Rhode Island," Sherlock turns his head, eyes gleaming like a magpie's, the way they do when he's going after a secret. "Except their family changed their name from Albrecht when they immigrated to the United States in 1947. The Albrechts manufactured bombs in Mannhiem and didn't look too closely at the paperwork of their costumers, especially the ones that bought in bulk."
John feels his eyebrows tick up, and thinks of Erica's sweet smile. "So they're war criminals?"
"Yes," Sherlock nods. "They shut down their factories shortly after the armistice and fled before the war tribunals could get a fix on them."
"... and you were going to tell all this to the rival coach?"
Sherlock flicks his hand, like it's not important. "The Winklevosses came to me and asked me not to, so it became a question of what a man can or cannot do. It really wasn't important to me one way or another, John, the money didn't matter and it succeeded in riling up Mycroft, which was my original game. The only thing," he adds thoughtfully. "That I never figured out was which twin she was sleeping with."
"Oh. Both," John answers, and shrugs. "She likes guys who row crew."
"That ... actually, that ... how could you possibly know it was both?"
He probably shouldn't be as pleased as he is at the sheer incredulity in Sherlock's voice, but he is. "I asked," he says, droll. "Nicely. Why are you telling me all this, though -- about Erica and her family."
Sherlock turns around abruptly, the momentum of the movement catching them up against each other for a brief moment, before John steps back to compensate, putting the space of a heartbeat in between them.
"Because you're John Watson," Sherlock says, like it's an answer.
And maybe it is.
-
fin
My brain cells are dying as I think of them. This is pretty sad.
➲ NANOWRIMO: NOVEMBER 19
For laria_gwyn, BBC Sherlock, Sherlock/John OR The Social Network, Cameron/Tyler/Erica, the only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man cannot do.
She gave me a choice of two different fandoms to write for today, so what did I do?
CROSSOVER ALL THE THINGS \o/
As always: please to be reading in the light format.
the limits of caution
BBC Sherlock/The Social Network, Cameron/Erica/Tyler, implied(/blink and you'll miss it) Sherlock/John, G, 1700 words
[read @ AO3]
- |
It really all started out average enough, honest, which is probably how half of the statements he's given to Scotland Yard start out, but never mind.
Average day, average point in time, and John has almost settled into his chair at the dining table with the full intention of eating his scone in peace (off a paper plate, granted, because all the real ones got used in a spirited Frisbee session with a twenty-two stone weightlifter with a bad habit of skinning pretty bankers, and John keeps forgetting to pick up a new set of crockery whenever he's out) when Sherlock -- who's got his head stuck so far into the fridge that all John can see of him from this angle is his rear end -- suddenly straightens up so far he bangs his head, hard, against the shelf permanently reserved for dead body parts and says, clearly, "No! Not African at all -- Beijing. It was the Spanish gold medalist from Beijing, of course, nobody expects the Spanish!"
"Inquisition," John interjects.
Sherlock's face appears around the fridge door, eyebrows drawn in.
"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," John elaborates after a beat. "... Monty Python? No? Never mind," he says quickly, even as his seventeen-year-old self weeps at the blatant disregard for important pop culture referenes, and Sherlock leaps to his feet.
"I'm going to go see the Olympic athletes about their trousers," he announces, and sweeps out of the kitchen at break-neck speed.
"Okay," says John to the empty kitchen. And, suddenly, as the statement itself catches up to him, "Wait. Who do you know is a -- since when have you worked cases with Olympic athletes?"
There's no reply, just the muted slamming of the door from downstairs and Mrs. Hudson's protesting reminder about those old creaky hinges shouldn't have to take that kind of abuse, Sherlock, dear.
His phone buzzes before he's finished with the scone.
Where are you? Weren't you right behind me? Can't pay the cabbie without you.
-SH
John sighs, looks wistfully at the rest of the scone on his plate. It's going to be as leathery as a taco shell when he gets back. He pushes his chair out from the table and gets to his feet.
- | - |
The Olympic athletes turn out to be a pair of Americans living in a flat just off the posh side of Regent's Park. They plainly weren't expecting Sherlock to just drop by unceremoniously, since neither of them are wearing much beyond pajama bottoms, tied at their hips with a precarious kind of looseness that suggest they'll go sliding off any moment.
Even without the amount of threatening amount of nipple currently on display, John isn't sure how much he trusts them: their teeth are too white. They look like they stepped right out of a clothing commercial.
Also, they're twin brothers, living together. Obviously, neither John nor Sherlock have the greatest track record with sibling relationships and therefore don't really have room to judge, but John doesn't know what it says about them, to still live with the other at their age.
"This is a surprise," remarks one, and shifts his face into a suitable surprised expression to match. "I didn't know you knew where we lived."
"Would you like something to drink?" asks the other.
"No thank you," says John, polite.
"Of course I did," says Sherlock, stretching his neck ever-so-slightly, because standing side-by-side, the twins make even Sherlock look shrimpy. John doesn't even pretend to have any dignity in this: he's 5'9", he's basically eye-level with the nipples, it's kind of distracting. "You're here to play happy little diplomats with the construction committee for the 2012 summer Olympics. I'm assuming you didn't qualify to race?" he adds, with just that knife's edge of cutting cruelty.
"It's a competitive field, Mr. Holmes," says Twin #1, his tone completely mild. "Always cycling through for the youngest and the fastest."
Okay, so, the relationship is kind of chilly, but John doesn't get the feeling anyone's going to call for pistols at dawn here: it's just the automatic defensiveness that people get when they've met Sherlock before and know generally what to expect. Nothing new there. Before the second twin can passive-aggressively offer something else to eat or drink, Sherlock launches into his spiel about the murder that apparently involves a Spanish gold medalist from the Beijing 2008 Olympics. John doesn't really follow, because it involves Games-issued spandex and that's not really something John knows a lot about.
He sees a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye and twists his neck; catches a glimpse of a woman, disappearing around the edge of an enormous, decorative-looking armoire into the kitchen.
Leaving their hosts occupied with Sherlock, John goes to investigate.
The kitchen is paisley-yellow, with worn curtains thrown open to let the sunlight pour in and soak into the small array of potted plants that stretch across the windowsill. The woman leans back up against the sink, steam coming off the mug tucked between her palms, one leg crossed over the other in front of her. She has brown hair that falls all the way down her back, carelessly pinned out of her eyes. The grey hoodie she's wearing drapes over the ends of her hands, leaving only the very tips of her fingers poking out, and it drops down mid-thigh; he can't really read the insignia, but it looks like a sports team. The rest of her legs are bare, all the way down to her toes, which are painted red-and-black like ladybugs.
"Hello," she offers. She's also American. "Have Cam or Ty offered you anything to drink yet?"
"They have, yes, thank you," John nods, and extends his hand. "I'm Dr. John Watson."
Shifting her grip on her mug, she shakes his hand. "Doctor, good to meet you. My name's Erica. You met Cameron and Tyler, I presume." Catching the look on his face, her grin widens. "Tyler's whichever one annoyed you more, and Cameron will be the first person to kill you with politeness."
"Ah," says John, because that's actually fairly accurate.
She studies him. "But it's been a while since we've heard from Sherlock. How's he been?"
"Oh, the same, I'm guessing," he frowns. "He hasn't really told me how he knows you ... um, you three, I guess."
"Oh, that!" Erica glances off into some middle distance before looking back to him. "Well, I don't know how much you follow the Olympic Games, but Cam and Ty rowed the 100-meter boat races for the US in Beijing in 2008. They placed sixth," she adds, when John opens his mouth to ask exactly that, and smiles a little ruefully when he flinches. You can't even really say anything about sixth. "But it doesn't matter -- at the time, they were enough of a threat that the coach of a rival team hired Mr. Holmes to dig up dirt on them."
"That ..." Sounds exactly like something Sherlock would do for fun, but. "Isn't usually what he does. Professionally, I mean. He likes solving murders."
"Maybe that's what they were hoping to uncover," she flashes him a cat's grin. "Because you see, at the time, the twins were going through a very high-profile lawsuit over --" the grin falters enough that John notices the beat of hesitation. "-- over something completely unrelated, and they literally could do no wrong in the public's eye. They were all-American Olympic stars. It was going to be very hard to tarnish them, which is why the coach wanted Sherlock to do it, I think."
"And he ..."
"Didn't do it." She straightens up, shaking her hair out of the way and tipping the remaining dregs of her drink down the drain. The sweatshirt she's wearing is a Patriots one, he sees. "Even though he could have. There's no quicker way to destroy someone's foundation than to go after someone they love. We owe a lot to Sherlock Holmes, Doctor, so. If there's anything Cam or Ty can do for him, we'll do it."
- | - | - |
"The Winklevoss case from 2008 was a waste of my time," says Sherlock flippantly, when John brings it up later, after they go catch themselves a killer with a gold medal. "But it offered me a substantial amount of money and a chance to dip my finger into international sports politics, which I knew would annoy my brother, so I took it."
"Of course you did."
"The woman you met -- she's Erica Albright, from Rhode Island," Sherlock turns his head, eyes gleaming like a magpie's, the way they do when he's going after a secret. "Except their family changed their name from Albrecht when they immigrated to the United States in 1947. The Albrechts manufactured bombs in Mannhiem and didn't look too closely at the paperwork of their costumers, especially the ones that bought in bulk."
John feels his eyebrows tick up, and thinks of Erica's sweet smile. "So they're war criminals?"
"Yes," Sherlock nods. "They shut down their factories shortly after the armistice and fled before the war tribunals could get a fix on them."
"... and you were going to tell all this to the rival coach?"
Sherlock flicks his hand, like it's not important. "The Winklevosses came to me and asked me not to, so it became a question of what a man can or cannot do. It really wasn't important to me one way or another, John, the money didn't matter and it succeeded in riling up Mycroft, which was my original game. The only thing," he adds thoughtfully. "That I never figured out was which twin she was sleeping with."
"Oh. Both," John answers, and shrugs. "She likes guys who row crew."
"That ... actually, that ... how could you possibly know it was both?"
He probably shouldn't be as pleased as he is at the sheer incredulity in Sherlock's voice, but he is. "I asked," he says, droll. "Nicely. Why are you telling me all this, though -- about Erica and her family."
Sherlock turns around abruptly, the momentum of the movement catching them up against each other for a brief moment, before John steps back to compensate, putting the space of a heartbeat in between them.
"Because you're John Watson," Sherlock says, like it's an answer.
And maybe it is.
-
fin