Sherlock comment-fic
A couple more comment-fics for BBC Sherlock, Mild to severe spoilers to 1.03, both written as Gen.
Flight to Minsk
Sherlock hunches low in his coat and tries to ignore the everything going on around him, waiting for the sleep tablets to kick in.
Kick, small child kicking seatback, boy, four, mother shrill, father absent.
"Would you like-"
"No," he snaps at the air hostess whose heels have red mud on them as she walks away, last stopover in a place with high iron in the soil, she stepped off the plane and away, hair loosened in bun red mark above collar, ring on finger, some trite assignation-
"Wait," he calls. "Earphones."
In the endless ten minutes until she returns, the people on the aeroplane leaking junk data to the air from their mouths, their skin, their motions nearly drown him. The slight drawing down of the medication beginning to take effect arrives with the headphones. He snatches them from her hands, peels them out of the wrapper, jams the earbuds into his ears, plugs them in and switches on.
Sound floods in until he turns the dial on the seat arm (still a dial, old plane, failure rates for jet turbines over ten years old), slightly, slightly, to between stations. The fuzz of informationless noise washes out the voices-motion-chattering-nattering occupants of the plane, and Sherlock stares at the seatback in front of him, collar pulled up like horse-blinders.
Cotton, royal blue, grey stripes, faded, thread-count...
The pills take him under and he sleeps his way to Minsk.
* * *
Testing, Testing
John opened the fridge again. The head stared back at him. Or rather stared at the third button of his cardigan, since the man's eyes were hardly wide open anymore.
Severed bits of anatomy in the fridge were always a shock at first, but John had been to medical college. He reverted to the old habits of wrapping everything tightly and keeping it on upper shelves. A drip tray above the crisper should do for now. He made a mental note to see if there were severed-head-sized Tupperware containers as he lined the fridge bottom with bacofoil.
Sherlock barely glanced over.
-
He didn't know why Sherlock did that. Got him to look at something when he already knew everything about it. To feel superior, John supposed. He set himself to examining the shoes, not seeing that he was in turn being examined.
-
There was a moment, a cold moment, when Sherlock saw him at the pool, as John spoke Moriarty's first words... That look. He'd recall it later, after everything. It was the look of a teacher at school, having caught a favourite pupil cheating; not disappointed in his pupil, but disappointed in his own inability to see the deception in front of him. He'd thought John might have been Moriarty all along.
A flash of a look, gone even before the explosives were revealed; perhaps when Sherlock realised that, pool or no pool, Moriarty certainly wouldn't be wearing an anorak.
When John had tackled Moriarty, explosives and all, and Sherlock later said it was good, John felt like he'd finally passed a test.
---
(and that's it so far)
There's bound to be more Sherlock fic, but no worries, I haven't abandoned anything. :-)
Flight to Minsk
Sherlock hunches low in his coat and tries to ignore the everything going on around him, waiting for the sleep tablets to kick in.
Kick, small child kicking seatback, boy, four, mother shrill, father absent.
"Would you like-"
"No," he snaps at the air hostess whose heels have red mud on them as she walks away, last stopover in a place with high iron in the soil, she stepped off the plane and away, hair loosened in bun red mark above collar, ring on finger, some trite assignation-
"Wait," he calls. "Earphones."
In the endless ten minutes until she returns, the people on the aeroplane leaking junk data to the air from their mouths, their skin, their motions nearly drown him. The slight drawing down of the medication beginning to take effect arrives with the headphones. He snatches them from her hands, peels them out of the wrapper, jams the earbuds into his ears, plugs them in and switches on.
Sound floods in until he turns the dial on the seat arm (still a dial, old plane, failure rates for jet turbines over ten years old), slightly, slightly, to between stations. The fuzz of informationless noise washes out the voices-motion-chattering-nattering occupants of the plane, and Sherlock stares at the seatback in front of him, collar pulled up like horse-blinders.
Cotton, royal blue, grey stripes, faded, thread-count...
The pills take him under and he sleeps his way to Minsk.
* * *
Testing, Testing
John opened the fridge again. The head stared back at him. Or rather stared at the third button of his cardigan, since the man's eyes were hardly wide open anymore.
Severed bits of anatomy in the fridge were always a shock at first, but John had been to medical college. He reverted to the old habits of wrapping everything tightly and keeping it on upper shelves. A drip tray above the crisper should do for now. He made a mental note to see if there were severed-head-sized Tupperware containers as he lined the fridge bottom with bacofoil.
Sherlock barely glanced over.
-
He didn't know why Sherlock did that. Got him to look at something when he already knew everything about it. To feel superior, John supposed. He set himself to examining the shoes, not seeing that he was in turn being examined.
-
There was a moment, a cold moment, when Sherlock saw him at the pool, as John spoke Moriarty's first words... That look. He'd recall it later, after everything. It was the look of a teacher at school, having caught a favourite pupil cheating; not disappointed in his pupil, but disappointed in his own inability to see the deception in front of him. He'd thought John might have been Moriarty all along.
A flash of a look, gone even before the explosives were revealed; perhaps when Sherlock realised that, pool or no pool, Moriarty certainly wouldn't be wearing an anorak.
When John had tackled Moriarty, explosives and all, and Sherlock later said it was good, John felt like he'd finally passed a test.
---
(and that's it so far)
There's bound to be more Sherlock fic, but no worries, I haven't abandoned anything. :-)