Fic: All Of Your Opinions Are Wrong [BBC Sherlock; PG-13]
I've been wanting to write new Sherlock fic since the season ended, but how does one follow up after writing long character study kinky porn, and then watching three episodes of new complex canon? The answer, apparently, is AU crack.
Title: All Of Your Opinions Are Wrong
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,380
Warnings: Some language, no spoilers
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: In which Sherlock is the most obnoxious hipster in Brooklyn and John doesn't mind.
A/N: Written for this prompt on the kink meme: Hipsterlock.What it says on the tin. Sherlock/John if there's any pairings. idgaf if they're solving a case or just being petulant. Age/setting and all that up to the author. Bonus points if you throw in the violin. So I set them down in my neighborhood, and wrote something ridiculous. I think it's best to imagine them in their twenties if this is to make any sort of sense.
All Of Your Opinions Are Wrong
John stepped off the Morgan L stop, walked past the empty, unconverted warehouses, the new organic supermarket, the new gourmet coffee shop, and the five new impeccably designed hole-in-the-wall bars. Everything that wasn’t a warehouse was new, springing up in the past three years like warning signs of the gentrification to come. Still, it was nice to have good bar options before they found themselves priced out of the neighborhood entirely. He unlocked the dilapidated door of 221, and trudged up the stairs to their spacious, dusty, exposed-brick studio apartment B. This was the true joy of living in Bushwick, he thought to himself. The buildings didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside they were being gutted and refurbished, all gorgeous open space and, most importantly, relatively cheap.
He could hear the oddly familiar sounds of a violin from the landing. Sure enough, when he entered Sherlock was standing by the window, instrument tucked under his chin, wearing one of his ridiculously expensive Marc Jacobs blazers with an open PBR on the table next to him. John paused by the door, listening, and furrowed his brow.
“Is that…is that Lady Gaga?” he asked in surprise once the playing had paused.
Sherlock turned around and flourished the bow a bit in the air. “It’s an experiment. I’m trying to find out if I can make her listenable.”
John dropped his messenger bag onto a chair, and headed to the fridge for a PBR of his own. No body parts today; thank god for that. “And what's the conclusion?”
He straightened up to see Sherlock give a small shrug, then return the instrument to its case. “I’m playing a show tonight,” Sherlock said. “Will you come?”
John sat down and opened the can with a pop and hiss. He took a sip and grinned. There was nothing better than coming home, having a beer, and surfing Tumblr. Maybe he’d boot up the PS3 and finally start playing Arkham City tonight. A nice, quiet evening appealed to him, and he wasn’t sure he felt like going out again. “Where is it?”
“Pete’s Candy Store.” Which wasn’t a candy store at all, of course, but another bar. It used to be a candy store and the sign in front was never removed. John liked it there; the twelve-person-capacity performance space in the back was cozy. “You like it there,” Sherlock continued, reading his thoughts as usual. “And I need someone to pass out the tip jar.”
John resisted rolling his eyes. Of course Sherlock couldn’t just admit that he wanted him there because he liked his company. “Are you playing original stuff?”
“No, it’ll be a tribute to The Books. They broke up the other day. Fucking shame, really.”
John narrowed his eyes and racked his brain for any time he might have listened to a band called The Books. He thought maybe Sherlock had seen them give a multimedia performance in Prospect Park last summer. “Are they-”
“Honestly John,” Sherlock cut him off. “If it’s not Kings of Leon, you don’t have a clue, do you?”
John snorted and took another sip of crap beer. There was no competing with Sherlock in these things, and he’d stopped trying long ago. Sherlock listened to all the right music, had seen all the important films, read and hated all the most talked about novels, and fully believed that his own opinion was gospel. John didn’t care about keeping up with what was trendy-he honestly didn’t care, not didn’t-care-in-a-trendy-way-but he usually enjoyed listening to Sherlock expound on why M83 was superior to Arcade Fire, or why the new Wes Anderson film was going to disappoint. Sherlock was always fascinating to listen to, even when he talked about bands John had never heard of, and something about his confidence kept it from being obnoxious. Sherlock didn’t act that way to be cool, or to impress anyone. It was just the way he was. Opinionated. It was almost endearing.
John finished his beer, agreed to come to the show, and felt a warm glow at Sherlock’s answering smile.
***
“You’re not still angry about her?” Sherlock frowned as they reentered their apartment, the Craigslist IKEA clock reading 1:20 am.
“I just don’t see why you have to ruin everything,” John shouted. His head felt fuzzy from alcohol, and he went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.
Sherlock unwrapped his American Apparel scarf from his long neck and dropped it onto the record player. “But I explained to you, she was obviously lying! She’d slept in at least five different apartments in the past month, and her clothes were far too expensive for ‘a student needing a place to crash.’ She wasn’t even a student; she didn’t know the first thing about Hemingway.”
“So what?” said John, rubbing his temple. “She was gorgeous, and smart, and we were hitting it off. You didn’t have to threaten calling Lestrade and reporting her as…what did you call her?”
“The hipster grifter,” Sherlock supplied, mocking the words with his tone. “I didn’t come up with it. She’s all over the blogs, John. I was just saving you the trouble of inviting her over and finding your wallet missing in the morning. Isn’t that kinder?”
John leaned back against the kitchen counter and sighed. “No Sherlock, that was not kind. You made me feel like an idiot.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John silenced him with a glare. He didn’t need to be reminded that Sherlock did actually think he was an idiot most days, and he wondered, not for the first time, why he put up with him.
“Brooklyn is full of fashionable women with master’s degrees and witty banter and bangs,” Sherlock said instead. “I’m sure you’ll find another one.”
“What’s the point? It always ends the same way.” John finished the water, and crossed the room to cup Sherlock’s chin in his hand and inspect the angry nail scratches against his left cheek. He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “It ends with you scaring them off. She really gave you a good swipe, there. I should probably clean that for you.”
He turned towards the bathroom, but Sherlock grabbed the wrist that had been touching his face. His fingers were warm, and when John saw the intensity of his eyes he wondered if he were quite sober enough for what was about to come next.
“I don’t scare you off,” Sherlock said. His voice was low as a growl. The tone of their conversation had suddenly changed.
John frowned. “Why would you?”
Sherlock kept his grip on John’s wrist, and moved in fractionally closer. John was suddenly aware of how close their bodies were.
“I drag you through the seediest parts of Brooklyn, I tell you that all of your opinions are wrong, I trash our apartment, I play music that you hate, I chase away your girlfriends, I’ve put your life in danger more than once, and I destroyed your bike.”
All very true, and the list should have been disturbing, but instead John’s adrenaline spiked at the memories of everything they’d been through together. Adrenaline, and something else, something he didn’t want to think about. He steadied his breathing and said, quite honestly, “Yeah, and I love you anyway.”
He was both surprised and not surprised when Sherlock’s face came down to lock him into a kiss, hot and wet and urgent. For a full minute, John’s brain disengaged, lost in sensation and want. He’d thought about this and yet not thought about this for months, and now here it was, happening, not curiosity but a real, physical reality. Sherlock’s full lips, his abusing tongue. He was kissing his roommate. He was kissing Sherlock Holmes.
John pulled back and panted, thinking, trying to think. “What are we doing?” he asked. “I’m straight, remember?”
Sherlock paused, insecurity flashing across his features for the briefest moment, and then he smirked and wrapped an arm around John’s waist, pressed a thigh against the bulge at John’s groin. It elicited a gasp, and John bit his lip.
“Please,” said Sherlock. “Nobody’s ‘straight’ these days.”
With that, he resumed the kissing, and John gave up on protesting. Because really, Sherlock was probably right. His opinions were always right.
Title: All Of Your Opinions Are Wrong
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,380
Warnings: Some language, no spoilers
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: In which Sherlock is the most obnoxious hipster in Brooklyn and John doesn't mind.
A/N: Written for this prompt on the kink meme: Hipsterlock.What it says on the tin. Sherlock/John if there's any pairings. idgaf if they're solving a case or just being petulant. Age/setting and all that up to the author. Bonus points if you throw in the violin. So I set them down in my neighborhood, and wrote something ridiculous. I think it's best to imagine them in their twenties if this is to make any sort of sense.
All Of Your Opinions Are Wrong
John stepped off the Morgan L stop, walked past the empty, unconverted warehouses, the new organic supermarket, the new gourmet coffee shop, and the five new impeccably designed hole-in-the-wall bars. Everything that wasn’t a warehouse was new, springing up in the past three years like warning signs of the gentrification to come. Still, it was nice to have good bar options before they found themselves priced out of the neighborhood entirely. He unlocked the dilapidated door of 221, and trudged up the stairs to their spacious, dusty, exposed-brick studio apartment B. This was the true joy of living in Bushwick, he thought to himself. The buildings didn’t look like much from the outside, but inside they were being gutted and refurbished, all gorgeous open space and, most importantly, relatively cheap.
He could hear the oddly familiar sounds of a violin from the landing. Sure enough, when he entered Sherlock was standing by the window, instrument tucked under his chin, wearing one of his ridiculously expensive Marc Jacobs blazers with an open PBR on the table next to him. John paused by the door, listening, and furrowed his brow.
“Is that…is that Lady Gaga?” he asked in surprise once the playing had paused.
Sherlock turned around and flourished the bow a bit in the air. “It’s an experiment. I’m trying to find out if I can make her listenable.”
John dropped his messenger bag onto a chair, and headed to the fridge for a PBR of his own. No body parts today; thank god for that. “And what's the conclusion?”
He straightened up to see Sherlock give a small shrug, then return the instrument to its case. “I’m playing a show tonight,” Sherlock said. “Will you come?”
John sat down and opened the can with a pop and hiss. He took a sip and grinned. There was nothing better than coming home, having a beer, and surfing Tumblr. Maybe he’d boot up the PS3 and finally start playing Arkham City tonight. A nice, quiet evening appealed to him, and he wasn’t sure he felt like going out again. “Where is it?”
“Pete’s Candy Store.” Which wasn’t a candy store at all, of course, but another bar. It used to be a candy store and the sign in front was never removed. John liked it there; the twelve-person-capacity performance space in the back was cozy. “You like it there,” Sherlock continued, reading his thoughts as usual. “And I need someone to pass out the tip jar.”
John resisted rolling his eyes. Of course Sherlock couldn’t just admit that he wanted him there because he liked his company. “Are you playing original stuff?”
“No, it’ll be a tribute to The Books. They broke up the other day. Fucking shame, really.”
John narrowed his eyes and racked his brain for any time he might have listened to a band called The Books. He thought maybe Sherlock had seen them give a multimedia performance in Prospect Park last summer. “Are they-”
“Honestly John,” Sherlock cut him off. “If it’s not Kings of Leon, you don’t have a clue, do you?”
John snorted and took another sip of crap beer. There was no competing with Sherlock in these things, and he’d stopped trying long ago. Sherlock listened to all the right music, had seen all the important films, read and hated all the most talked about novels, and fully believed that his own opinion was gospel. John didn’t care about keeping up with what was trendy-he honestly didn’t care, not didn’t-care-in-a-trendy-way-but he usually enjoyed listening to Sherlock expound on why M83 was superior to Arcade Fire, or why the new Wes Anderson film was going to disappoint. Sherlock was always fascinating to listen to, even when he talked about bands John had never heard of, and something about his confidence kept it from being obnoxious. Sherlock didn’t act that way to be cool, or to impress anyone. It was just the way he was. Opinionated. It was almost endearing.
John finished his beer, agreed to come to the show, and felt a warm glow at Sherlock’s answering smile.
***
“You’re not still angry about her?” Sherlock frowned as they reentered their apartment, the Craigslist IKEA clock reading 1:20 am.
“I just don’t see why you have to ruin everything,” John shouted. His head felt fuzzy from alcohol, and he went to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water.
Sherlock unwrapped his American Apparel scarf from his long neck and dropped it onto the record player. “But I explained to you, she was obviously lying! She’d slept in at least five different apartments in the past month, and her clothes were far too expensive for ‘a student needing a place to crash.’ She wasn’t even a student; she didn’t know the first thing about Hemingway.”
“So what?” said John, rubbing his temple. “She was gorgeous, and smart, and we were hitting it off. You didn’t have to threaten calling Lestrade and reporting her as…what did you call her?”
“The hipster grifter,” Sherlock supplied, mocking the words with his tone. “I didn’t come up with it. She’s all over the blogs, John. I was just saving you the trouble of inviting her over and finding your wallet missing in the morning. Isn’t that kinder?”
John leaned back against the kitchen counter and sighed. “No Sherlock, that was not kind. You made me feel like an idiot.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and John silenced him with a glare. He didn’t need to be reminded that Sherlock did actually think he was an idiot most days, and he wondered, not for the first time, why he put up with him.
“Brooklyn is full of fashionable women with master’s degrees and witty banter and bangs,” Sherlock said instead. “I’m sure you’ll find another one.”
“What’s the point? It always ends the same way.” John finished the water, and crossed the room to cup Sherlock’s chin in his hand and inspect the angry nail scratches against his left cheek. He couldn’t help it; he laughed. “It ends with you scaring them off. She really gave you a good swipe, there. I should probably clean that for you.”
He turned towards the bathroom, but Sherlock grabbed the wrist that had been touching his face. His fingers were warm, and when John saw the intensity of his eyes he wondered if he were quite sober enough for what was about to come next.
“I don’t scare you off,” Sherlock said. His voice was low as a growl. The tone of their conversation had suddenly changed.
John frowned. “Why would you?”
Sherlock kept his grip on John’s wrist, and moved in fractionally closer. John was suddenly aware of how close their bodies were.
“I drag you through the seediest parts of Brooklyn, I tell you that all of your opinions are wrong, I trash our apartment, I play music that you hate, I chase away your girlfriends, I’ve put your life in danger more than once, and I destroyed your bike.”
All very true, and the list should have been disturbing, but instead John’s adrenaline spiked at the memories of everything they’d been through together. Adrenaline, and something else, something he didn’t want to think about. He steadied his breathing and said, quite honestly, “Yeah, and I love you anyway.”
He was both surprised and not surprised when Sherlock’s face came down to lock him into a kiss, hot and wet and urgent. For a full minute, John’s brain disengaged, lost in sensation and want. He’d thought about this and yet not thought about this for months, and now here it was, happening, not curiosity but a real, physical reality. Sherlock’s full lips, his abusing tongue. He was kissing his roommate. He was kissing Sherlock Holmes.
John pulled back and panted, thinking, trying to think. “What are we doing?” he asked. “I’m straight, remember?”
Sherlock paused, insecurity flashing across his features for the briefest moment, and then he smirked and wrapped an arm around John’s waist, pressed a thigh against the bulge at John’s groin. It elicited a gasp, and John bit his lip.
“Please,” said Sherlock. “Nobody’s ‘straight’ these days.”
With that, he resumed the kissing, and John gave up on protesting. Because really, Sherlock was probably right. His opinions were always right.