Sherlock BBC fic: Obviously
Title: Obviously
Author: Beneficia
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock, mentions of Mycroft, John, and mummy Holmes
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 771
Spoilers: none
Warnings: crack!fic. Umm… vague mentions of drugs. Insulting people. Mild language.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
It was all Mycroft’s fault of course. The man just couldn’t keep his abnormally large nose out of areas that any mildly intelligent human being should know not to meddle in.
Of course, since there was no such thing as a mildly intelligent human being, here he was.
Sherlock could still remember the looks on the faces of the white-coat-wearing people Mycroft had left him with (when Mycroft was the one who was supposed to look after him for mummy, just for the afternoon, but no, the man was ‘too busy', and so had dumped Sherlock with an intern in the applied sciences department), the day those idiotic researchers had their little ‘accident’.
The dropped jaws, wide eyes, horror and terror filled expressions interlaced with awe and glee.
Sherlock had looked at down at his new and naked form and said, “Human.”
He had glared at the scientists standing around his opaque prison, “You. Made. Me. HUMAN?!”
“It can talk,” one particularly short and chubby doctor with prematurely balding hair and pre-diabetic symptoms had said.
“Of course I can talk you neurotic obtuse imbecile. You made me human.”
Two people had fainted, three others had sat down rather abruptly, and Mycroft had been called.
To be fair, if it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s not-inconsiderable pull, Sherlock would have spent the rest of his unnaturally long life in a cage being poked and prodded by morons who couldn’t even figure out what they’d done.
Or, more accurately, if it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s fear of mummy, Sherlock would never have seen the light of day again.
She had been so upset when she’d finally been allowed to see Sherlock again, and angry at Mycroft, and Sherlock had had nearly two years experience knowing just how to play with the woman’s heartstrings. He could even make himself cry with actual tears on demand now.
He’d been let out into the wide world less than a week later.
“He’s a grown… well… man now,” mummy had said, “he needs to learn how to take care of himself.”
Admittedly there were a few bumps along the road of adjusting. Having to buy his own food, having to have money to buy food, having to get money to have money to buy his own food, being arrested for not getting money ‘the right way’…
And the narcotics of course.
It was completely unfair. His old drug wouldn’t work on his new human biology now, and apparently he wasn’t allowed any of the good stuff that would work on him, and if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life among bumbling hairless monkeys, then by all that was sacred and decent he should at least be able to spend it as high as a kite.
But even that small comfort had been denied him.
Eventually though, Sherlock did adjust.
He adjusted, he learned (even went so far as to get a degree to prove it, not that Mycroft couldn’t have forged one for him, but the bastard had smirkingly told Sherlock he’d never be able to sit still long enough to pull it off, and damned if Sherlock wasn’t going to prove him wrong), he even made a few friendly acquaintances.
And of course, he found something worth doing that could ameliorate the boredom of his life.
Then he found John and finally, FINALLY, a human that worshiped Sherlock, if not the way he deserved, then at least enough to give Sherlock some satisfaction. And John fed him. And cleaned up after him. And played with him. And basically did most everything a human was supposed to do for Sherlock, and Sherlock finally was satisfied with the life Mycroft’s lackeys had forced on him.
In fact, if Sherlock could just find some way to convince John to scratch his neck once in a while (without John freaking out and questioning Sherlock’s sexuality (as if Sherlock ever would, with any human, ever, ugh) and obviously without letting the super top secret cat out of the bag concerning Sherlock’s origins (and didn’t Mycroft just love using that tedious pun whenever reminding Sherlock to keep a low profile)), then Sherlock’s life would quite almost be perfect.
But still, every once in a while, when the criminals went on vacation and the world slid into hateful tranquility, or when Sherlock got those looks people would give him whenever he’d forget and do or say something not quite human, Sherlock would remember his younger years and a simpler time when he could be utterly content from a day in which nothing more productive than ruining mummy’s knitting was accomplished.
Sometimes, Sherlock really really REALLY missed being a cat.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
AN: So I saw this picture, and then I made this spamturday post, and then I just had to write this for myself. But seriously, IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE. WHY HAS NO ONE THOUGHT OF THIS BEFORE?!
Author: Beneficia
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Characters: Sherlock, mentions of Mycroft, John, and mummy Holmes
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 771
Spoilers: none
Warnings: crack!fic. Umm… vague mentions of drugs. Insulting people. Mild language.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
It was all Mycroft’s fault of course. The man just couldn’t keep his abnormally large nose out of areas that any mildly intelligent human being should know not to meddle in.
Of course, since there was no such thing as a mildly intelligent human being, here he was.
Sherlock could still remember the looks on the faces of the white-coat-wearing people Mycroft had left him with (when Mycroft was the one who was supposed to look after him for mummy, just for the afternoon, but no, the man was ‘too busy', and so had dumped Sherlock with an intern in the applied sciences department), the day those idiotic researchers had their little ‘accident’.
The dropped jaws, wide eyes, horror and terror filled expressions interlaced with awe and glee.
Sherlock had looked at down at his new and naked form and said, “Human.”
He had glared at the scientists standing around his opaque prison, “You. Made. Me. HUMAN?!”
“It can talk,” one particularly short and chubby doctor with prematurely balding hair and pre-diabetic symptoms had said.
“Of course I can talk you neurotic obtuse imbecile. You made me human.”
Two people had fainted, three others had sat down rather abruptly, and Mycroft had been called.
To be fair, if it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s not-inconsiderable pull, Sherlock would have spent the rest of his unnaturally long life in a cage being poked and prodded by morons who couldn’t even figure out what they’d done.
Or, more accurately, if it hadn’t been for Mycroft’s fear of mummy, Sherlock would never have seen the light of day again.
She had been so upset when she’d finally been allowed to see Sherlock again, and angry at Mycroft, and Sherlock had had nearly two years experience knowing just how to play with the woman’s heartstrings. He could even make himself cry with actual tears on demand now.
He’d been let out into the wide world less than a week later.
“He’s a grown… well… man now,” mummy had said, “he needs to learn how to take care of himself.”
Admittedly there were a few bumps along the road of adjusting. Having to buy his own food, having to have money to buy food, having to get money to have money to buy his own food, being arrested for not getting money ‘the right way’…
And the narcotics of course.
It was completely unfair. His old drug wouldn’t work on his new human biology now, and apparently he wasn’t allowed any of the good stuff that would work on him, and if he was doomed to spend the rest of his life among bumbling hairless monkeys, then by all that was sacred and decent he should at least be able to spend it as high as a kite.
But even that small comfort had been denied him.
Eventually though, Sherlock did adjust.
He adjusted, he learned (even went so far as to get a degree to prove it, not that Mycroft couldn’t have forged one for him, but the bastard had smirkingly told Sherlock he’d never be able to sit still long enough to pull it off, and damned if Sherlock wasn’t going to prove him wrong), he even made a few friendly acquaintances.
And of course, he found something worth doing that could ameliorate the boredom of his life.
Then he found John and finally, FINALLY, a human that worshiped Sherlock, if not the way he deserved, then at least enough to give Sherlock some satisfaction. And John fed him. And cleaned up after him. And played with him. And basically did most everything a human was supposed to do for Sherlock, and Sherlock finally was satisfied with the life Mycroft’s lackeys had forced on him.
In fact, if Sherlock could just find some way to convince John to scratch his neck once in a while (without John freaking out and questioning Sherlock’s sexuality (as if Sherlock ever would, with any human, ever, ugh) and obviously without letting the super top secret cat out of the bag concerning Sherlock’s origins (and didn’t Mycroft just love using that tedious pun whenever reminding Sherlock to keep a low profile)), then Sherlock’s life would quite almost be perfect.
But still, every once in a while, when the criminals went on vacation and the world slid into hateful tranquility, or when Sherlock got those looks people would give him whenever he’d forget and do or say something not quite human, Sherlock would remember his younger years and a simpler time when he could be utterly content from a day in which nothing more productive than ruining mummy’s knitting was accomplished.
Sometimes, Sherlock really really REALLY missed being a cat.
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
AN: So I saw this picture, and then I made this spamturday post, and then I just had to write this for myself. But seriously, IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE. WHY HAS NO ONE THOUGHT OF THIS BEFORE?!