BBC Sherlock Crack Fic! What Friends Do, Part 1
This is all hawkmoth's fault. If she hadn't posted a BBC Sherlock fic in her journal, I wouldn't have read it. If I hadn't have read it, I never would have watched the amazing 3-episode mini-series Sherlock and my life would have been the poorer.
But now I'm an addict. And because a 3-part mini-series is way too short, I was forced to write some fic just to give my addiction something to do with its hands until the Fall season. If you haven't yet watched this delightful show, I encourage you to do so. If you have, by all means feel free to indulge in the crack fic-i-ness below. I'd love to chat about my newest obsession! Cheers.
Title: What Friends Do, Part 1 of 7
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers galore! Honestly, if you haven't watched the series through episode 3, stop reading right now and go watch the BBC Sherlock series. It's way fun!
Summary: Everyone else is writing their version of "The Final Problem", so I thought I would, too. These events take place immediately after the so-called end of episode 3, "The Great Game," of the BBC modern-day Sherlock series.
What
Friends Do
John came around to a persistent
ringing in his ears and a feeling of weight. The air was thick with dust and a
sharp chemical smell that signaled the aftermath of an explosion. He could
scarcely catch a breath without choking-but the weight on his chest made it
difficult even to take a breath to be worthy of the name.
John opened his eyes and felt a
surge of panic. He'd gone blind. He could see nothing, nothing. Then his common
sense kicked in, and informed him that it was midnight and the explosion had
certainly knocked out all the electric lights-as well as brought the building
down on top of him, as John could well feel. He was probably this moment buried
six feet deep in rubble. He had only to hope that the explosion Sherlock had
triggered in a desperate attempt to catch the criminal mastermind Moriarty in
its blast was of sufficient power that it would have drawn the notice of
someone in the neighborhood, and that that someone had enough presence of mind to
contact the police.
Sherlock. John feebly stirred his limbs.
Sherlock must be close by. Alive or dead, John didn't know. But he had to find
out.
He remembered that last grim
exchange, as he crouched beside one of the changing cabins and Sherlock stood
at the edge of the Olympic-sized pool. Multiple beams of light, evidence of
laser sights from the unseen rifles, played over Sherlock's head and chest.
Thirty feet away stood the taunting Moriarty, come to see the executions
through. Between the two lay the jacket Sherlock had just stripped off John,
strapped with enough explosives to level a house.
Sherlock had looked at John, just a
look, but John had read him perfectly. "Shall I?" he was asking. Shall
I blow us all to kingdom come, and with any luck take Moriarty with us? We
haven't a chance; the snipers will get us anyway.
And John had nodded, understanding.
Regretful, but approving. After all, hadn't he made the same choice only minutes
before, when he had thrown himself on Moriarty's back and shouted for Sherlock
to run? Here they were again-here they were still. John had nodded, and
Sherlock had faced his foe-and pulled the trigger.
The explosion had temporarily shaken
John's wits, but his sense and his limbs were starting to come back to him.
Along with it came amazement-profound amazement that he was still alive. Worry
that Sherlock might not be. Sherlock had been standing closer to the bomb. On
the edge of the pool, he had been completely unprotected, whereas John must
have acquired some partial protection from the wall. The blast had apparently
driven him backward; the drapes of the changing cabin had come down over him.
He could feel it now, cloth against his neck and over his body, cushioning him somewhat
from the beams that had come crashing down when the ceiling gave way.
John struggled to pull an arm free
from the grit and the weight and the encumbering cloth. With a shock he
realized the cloth was warm. It wasn't merely cloth; it was... a thin jacket. A
jacket over a shirt sleeve, to be precise, with the owner still in it. He
followed the arm up to the shoulder and chest, a chest that was just barely
breathing against the weight of the beams holding it down. With a thrill, John realized
what the shock of the explosion had erased: that Sherlock must have thrown
himself over John at the last instant, sacrificing himself to give John what meager
shelter he might, interposing his slim body between John's and the weight of
debris that now pressed down brutally upon them both.
John attempted a word.
"Sherlock." It came out as a pathetic bleat, and set him to coughing
again. His eyes watered furiously, irritated by the unseen particles clouding
the air. His voice and his coughing sounded miles away, as if his ears were
stuffed with cotton. The only thing that was clear was the loud, persistent
ringing inside his head.
But now John's doctor instincts had
awakened. At the very least, Sherlock must have taken the full force of the
explosion and the brunt of the debris falling when the ceiling had collapsed.
There's no telling how badly he was hurt. John tried to reach around his
shoulder, but the heavy beams made it impossible. John could feel that his
flatmate's shirt was wet-a peculiar, tacky moisture that could only be blood. Secondary
injuries from the blast, most likely. There was a wheezing in Sherlock's
breath. Broken ribs, at least; probably a punctured lung. And both of them had likely
suffered flash burns; the left side of John's face felt raw.
Sherlock lay right across him, his
head just above John's right shoulder, turned away. Now that John was more
aware, he could feel Sherlock's unruly curls tickling his cheek. But the arm on
that side was trapped, held tight against the floor by the weight of Sherlock's
body and the piles of debris above.
Determinedly, John worked his left hand
back down Sherlock's thin but sinewy arm. The hand was limp, but John carefully
turned it over and located the pulse points on the wrist by touch. There he
felt the beat of Sherlock's heart. Too rapid; that would be the pain and shock.
But the beat was steady and strong. Sherlock would live, if John could only get
them out of here. He closed his eyes with relief.
"Hang in there, old
fellow," he murmured, scarcely even a whisper. "They'll soon come and
dig us out."
But nothing happened save for a
gradual settling of dust. The darkness continued unabated, with no encouraging
noises of assistance to offset the ringing in his ears.
Continued in Part 2
But now I'm an addict. And because a 3-part mini-series is way too short, I was forced to write some fic just to give my addiction something to do with its hands until the Fall season. If you haven't yet watched this delightful show, I encourage you to do so. If you have, by all means feel free to indulge in the crack fic-i-ness below. I'd love to chat about my newest obsession! Cheers.
Title: What Friends Do, Part 1 of 7
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade
Rating: PG
Warnings: Spoilers galore! Honestly, if you haven't watched the series through episode 3, stop reading right now and go watch the BBC Sherlock series. It's way fun!
Summary: Everyone else is writing their version of "The Final Problem", so I thought I would, too. These events take place immediately after the so-called end of episode 3, "The Great Game," of the BBC modern-day Sherlock series.
What
Friends Do
John came around to a persistent
ringing in his ears and a feeling of weight. The air was thick with dust and a
sharp chemical smell that signaled the aftermath of an explosion. He could
scarcely catch a breath without choking-but the weight on his chest made it
difficult even to take a breath to be worthy of the name.
John opened his eyes and felt a
surge of panic. He'd gone blind. He could see nothing, nothing. Then his common
sense kicked in, and informed him that it was midnight and the explosion had
certainly knocked out all the electric lights-as well as brought the building
down on top of him, as John could well feel. He was probably this moment buried
six feet deep in rubble. He had only to hope that the explosion Sherlock had
triggered in a desperate attempt to catch the criminal mastermind Moriarty in
its blast was of sufficient power that it would have drawn the notice of
someone in the neighborhood, and that that someone had enough presence of mind to
contact the police.
Sherlock. John feebly stirred his limbs.
Sherlock must be close by. Alive or dead, John didn't know. But he had to find
out.
He remembered that last grim
exchange, as he crouched beside one of the changing cabins and Sherlock stood
at the edge of the Olympic-sized pool. Multiple beams of light, evidence of
laser sights from the unseen rifles, played over Sherlock's head and chest.
Thirty feet away stood the taunting Moriarty, come to see the executions
through. Between the two lay the jacket Sherlock had just stripped off John,
strapped with enough explosives to level a house.
Sherlock had looked at John, just a
look, but John had read him perfectly. "Shall I?" he was asking. Shall
I blow us all to kingdom come, and with any luck take Moriarty with us? We
haven't a chance; the snipers will get us anyway.
And John had nodded, understanding.
Regretful, but approving. After all, hadn't he made the same choice only minutes
before, when he had thrown himself on Moriarty's back and shouted for Sherlock
to run? Here they were again-here they were still. John had nodded, and
Sherlock had faced his foe-and pulled the trigger.
The explosion had temporarily shaken
John's wits, but his sense and his limbs were starting to come back to him.
Along with it came amazement-profound amazement that he was still alive. Worry
that Sherlock might not be. Sherlock had been standing closer to the bomb. On
the edge of the pool, he had been completely unprotected, whereas John must
have acquired some partial protection from the wall. The blast had apparently
driven him backward; the drapes of the changing cabin had come down over him.
He could feel it now, cloth against his neck and over his body, cushioning him somewhat
from the beams that had come crashing down when the ceiling gave way.
John struggled to pull an arm free
from the grit and the weight and the encumbering cloth. With a shock he
realized the cloth was warm. It wasn't merely cloth; it was... a thin jacket. A
jacket over a shirt sleeve, to be precise, with the owner still in it. He
followed the arm up to the shoulder and chest, a chest that was just barely
breathing against the weight of the beams holding it down. With a thrill, John realized
what the shock of the explosion had erased: that Sherlock must have thrown
himself over John at the last instant, sacrificing himself to give John what meager
shelter he might, interposing his slim body between John's and the weight of
debris that now pressed down brutally upon them both.
John attempted a word.
"Sherlock." It came out as a pathetic bleat, and set him to coughing
again. His eyes watered furiously, irritated by the unseen particles clouding
the air. His voice and his coughing sounded miles away, as if his ears were
stuffed with cotton. The only thing that was clear was the loud, persistent
ringing inside his head.
But now John's doctor instincts had
awakened. At the very least, Sherlock must have taken the full force of the
explosion and the brunt of the debris falling when the ceiling had collapsed.
There's no telling how badly he was hurt. John tried to reach around his
shoulder, but the heavy beams made it impossible. John could feel that his
flatmate's shirt was wet-a peculiar, tacky moisture that could only be blood. Secondary
injuries from the blast, most likely. There was a wheezing in Sherlock's
breath. Broken ribs, at least; probably a punctured lung. And both of them had likely
suffered flash burns; the left side of John's face felt raw.
Sherlock lay right across him, his
head just above John's right shoulder, turned away. Now that John was more
aware, he could feel Sherlock's unruly curls tickling his cheek. But the arm on
that side was trapped, held tight against the floor by the weight of Sherlock's
body and the piles of debris above.
Determinedly, John worked his left hand
back down Sherlock's thin but sinewy arm. The hand was limp, but John carefully
turned it over and located the pulse points on the wrist by touch. There he
felt the beat of Sherlock's heart. Too rapid; that would be the pain and shock.
But the beat was steady and strong. Sherlock would live, if John could only get
them out of here. He closed his eyes with relief.
"Hang in there, old
fellow," he murmured, scarcely even a whisper. "They'll soon come and
dig us out."
But nothing happened save for a
gradual settling of dust. The darkness continued unabated, with no encouraging
noises of assistance to offset the ringing in his ears.
Continued in Part 2