Remix of sherlockian4evr: “Nine Lives and Counting”
Original Story:
Author: sherlockian4evr
Title & Link: Haughty, Demanding and Finicky
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/John, Mature
Warnings/Content Notes: None
Remix Story:
Author: carenejeans
Title: Nine Lives and Counting
Pairings & Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Content Notes: None
Beta: L.K.
Britpicker: None
Summary: Nine linked "221b" drabbles exploring Sherlock's feline nature
One: The Evidence
Exhibit 1:
Sherlock was sleeping, sprawled over the sofa in a way that made John's eyes water. Surely a living person's spine shouldn't twist like that? Or his legs splay out at such awkward angles? Amused, John stroked Sherlock's curls, resisting the impulse to scratch behind his ears.
Exhibit 2:
"You're doing it again," John said.
"What?"
"Making that sound."
"I'm not."
"You are. A humming sound. Deep in your chest."
"Nonsense. I haven't made a sound all evening. You're the one making all the racket."
"I am?"
"Yes. Thinking. I can hear you from here. Like little gears grinding."
"Idiot. What are you reading?"
"Nothing. The entire internet is dull tonight."
"Sherlock, you were purring."
Sherlock growled.
Exhibit 3:
John followed Sherlock as he dashed through traffic, swarmed up lampposts and over chain- link fences, and vaulted the narrow -- but vertiginous -- gaps between buildings. John was in pretty good shape, really, and Sherlock had cured him of his limp, but he was having trouble keeping up. There was something, well, feline, about the way Sherlock climbed through windows and dropped into alleys. Winded and gasping, John waved tiredly to Sherlock, who beckoned to him from the roof two hundred feet up. John searched for a fire escape. How in the world had Sherlock scaled the side of that building?
Two: Moods
Lately, John found himself thinking of Sherlock's moods in terms of cats. Most often he was Morris -- haughty, demanding, and finicky -- or a sardonic and obnoxious Garfield. On London's streets he was Puss 'n Boots, swashbuckling and adventurous. Between cases John had to put up with Bucky fuming and Grumpy Cat sulks.
The mood he was in today was rare. John took one look at Sherlock's glinting eyes, ordered enough takeaway for ten, dug out all the lube in the flat, and braced himself. Raw sexual energy radiated from Sherlock and arced into John as they touched -- or, more precisely, as Sherlock slammed John against the wall.
Impatiently, Sherlock ground himself against John, kissing him, scorching John's ears with fierce and filthy endearments. He came quickly, and breathing heavily, still aroused, he clawed at John's clothes, stripping him down to the skin. Dropping to his knees, he playfully nipped at John's balls. John rapped his skull smartly, and Sherlock settled down to lick at John's cock.
Afterwards, he dragged John into the kitchen. "Hungry now," he said, and John fed Sherlock from his fingers, until, sated with treats and tidbits, he thrust John's hand away and pinned him to the floor.
Greebo, John thought. Sherlock's inner tomcat, loose and on the prowl for something he could eat, fight, or bugger.
Three: Bad!
Sherlock was no respecter of personal boundaries. From the start, he'd ruthlessly pinned John to his inner evidence board with deductions (probing, uncomfortable, and often amazing) about John's private life. John had grown used to Sherlock speculating (usually accurately) about his early sexual experiences over breakfast, his worst war memories at dinner, and his fears about death as he undressed for bed.
The first time Sherlock hacked into John's computer was far from the last.
For the most part, John accepted this as a hazard of sharing a life with Sherlock. But his things were his, damn it, and he didn't always want Sherlock going through his sock drawer, much less his phone calls and browser history. He tried everything to make Sherlock stop. He tried reason. He tried threats. He tried blackmail. Hiding things was right out; Sherlock merely took it as a challenge.
Stamford was amused at John's complaints. "Have you tried a rolled-up newspaper?"
"I might have to," John said ruefully.
Mrs. Hudson had similar advice. "When I had my old tom, he was a good one for getting into my lavatory things. Paper everywhere. I soon cured him of that, using -- here, take this. It worked wonders for me."
The next time Sherlock made a move for John's laptop, John was ready with the spray bottle.
Four: Gifts
At first, John didn't know what it was in the box Sherlock proudly showed him.
But it had obviously once been part of a human being.
"It's a spleen," Sherlock said helpfully.
"Yes, very nice. Why did you bring it home?"
"It's been vented," Sherlock said.
John narrowed his eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like a joke."
"Joke?" Sherlock looked puzzled. "Well, not to him." Sherlock gestured vaguely at the vented spleen. "See, the incisions here, and here. Stabbed, obviously, but with a surgical grade instrument."
"Yes, I can see that. But why--"
"The incisions were almost undetectable. Anderson couldn't find them."
"That's strange, certainly, but why did you bring it home?"
"Why?" Sherlock looked shocked. "It's a mystery, John. Or was. Lestrade's still in the dark, but I'll tell him who the murderer was in the morning."
John sighed. It wasn't the first "gift" Sherlock had brought him. There had been a severed hand. There had been the remains of an unfortunate woman's last meal. There had been hearts (Sherlock's idea of romantic?). There had been the horrible knuckles. John still had nightmares about those.
Sherlock was trying to hold back a grin. John rolled his eyes.
"Vented," he said dryly. "Your sense of humor still needs work. For God's sake, take this away and give it a proper burial."
Five: At Least One of Us is Comfortable
John badly wanted a cup of tea. He wanted a book that lay face down on a table just out of reach. His pen had run out of ink in the middle of a sentence ("Sherlock spoke and the killer moved out of the shadows to…") and he needed another. He looked longingly at his laptop across the room. He wanted to check something, and for that matter, to properly type. He wanted to move his leg, which had gone to sleep.
But he was trapped on the sofa. Sherlock was curled up next to him, his head in John's lap. Snoring. Of course, he could just push him off onto the floor.
John carefully shifted his leg. Sherlock stirred irritably, snorting in his sleep.
"Will you stop punching at me? I'm not a bloody pillow." John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft, dark curls. Sherlock butted his hand, making a sound suspiciously like purring.
"You're worse than a cat," John complained. "And a lot heavier, oof, move, will you? I've got a cramp."
Sherlock turned over on his back and reached for John's hand.
"All right, fine. Looks like I'm not getting any work done tonight," John grumbled, and settled under Sherlock as comfortably as he could manage.
Sherlock smiled in his sleep as John rubbed his belly.
Six: Oooh! Shiny!
"Sherlock!"
Alarmed at the crashing and muffled cursing coming from inside the flat, John dropped his takeaway bags and dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He burst through the door expecting intruders. He expected to find Sherlock fighting off an archenemy. He didn't expect to see Sherlock stumbling around the flat with his head stuck in a box. John stood astonished as Sherlock lurched blindly, flung himself backwards and crashed into one of his own experiments, sending glass and some noxious fluid everywhere.
John pinned Sherlock's arms behind him, marched him into the living room and dumped him on the sofa, box and all.
"What the hell are you doing?" John tugged the box flaps open and Sherlock's head popped through. He looked so much like he was wearing a collar of shame that John laughed.
"You've managed to lose it," Sherlock sniffed.
"What did I lose?" John sawed at the front of the box with his pocketknife.
"The thing. In the box. It was in the corner. I couldn't see it."
"So you stuck your head inside, of course."
"Erm. Well. Yes."
John sighed. "Clean up that mess, will you? It's putting me off my dinner."
John retrieved the takeaway, set dinner on the table and went to corral Sherlock, who was avidly examining another box.
Seven: Sniffer Dog
Anderson and Sherlock circled each other, teeth bared and claws out. John stood off to the side, wondering if he'd have to throw water on the pair of them.
Lestrade was on the phone, bending someone's ear and downing what John hoped were pain pills, and Donovan was out in the hallway conferring with a worried constable.
"Where's your evidence?" Anderson snapped, and John winced at the whining note under the bravado. Anderson was going to lose, and he knew it. "All you've got is your-- theory."
"I'm right." Sherlock drew up haughtily. "If you would just let me--"
Anderson's head lowered. "You're not getting your grubby paws all over my data. Do your own workup."
"Oh, for god's sake, Anderson, stop pissing about. Give me the data. We have a killer to catch. That should be more important than marking your territory." Sherlock whirled around. "Grant!"
Lestrade waved him away and turned his back, still talking urgently into the phone.
Sherlock thrust his face close to Anderson. "Give me the data," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Or what?" Anderson puffed up and did his best to look intimidating, but he was a pug standing up to a panther.
Lestrade closed his phone. "He's right. Anderson, give him what he needs."
Anderson growled, but he knew when he was beaten.
Eight: The Hunt is On
Sherlock prowled the streets of London, single-minded, purposeful, deadly. He knew the streets like a panther knows his territory, hunting the busy thoroughfares, tracking his elusive prey through the crowds, following an unseen trail through the clamor and the commotion of the busy city. Alert and sharp eyed, he crisscrossed and zigzagged, now to spring suddenly down a side street, now to pad softly through a garden or lurk watchfully from a doorway. He jumped fences and slipped through gates with a light-footed grace that John envied, following less nimbly behind.
He crouched over an invisible clue -- invisible to John, at least -- then, catlike, seemed to twitch his whiskers, lay back his ears, and with a flick of his tail, leap away to worry at a different clue. Remorselessly running his quarry to ground, he pounced, to solve the crime or corner an unlucky criminal. He hunted ruthlessly but without cruelty, though John doubted those who felt his claws would agree.
He left the details for Lestrade to sort out.
Afterwards, bored, Sherlock would pace the flat. If John tried to divert him, he hissed. If Mrs. Hudson came by for a chat, he snarled. Then, suddenly, staring at a pile of notes, he'd go still. And reach for his coat, as the panther raises his head, scenting blood.
Nine: Cat and Blogger
"You're wrong, you know," Sherlock from behind his laptop. John looked up from his book.
"What?"
"Your blog. One, the murder occurred on Tuesday, not Wednesday."
"Poetic license."
Sherlock harrumphed. "Two, I am not a cat."
John smiled. "Yes you are. You are absolutely a cat."
"More poetic license?"
"Very little," John said.
"Be reasonable. I'm a man. Human. Homo sapiens."
"You're a man with… certain catlike features."
"Name three."
"Only three?" John counted on his fingers. "Haughty. Demanding. Finicky."
"All human traits."
"Fine. You pace like a tiger in a cage, you can climb anything vertical, and you purr."
"I do not."
"You do. And," John warmed to his subject, "you eviscerate your enemies without pity, you hiss at Anderson, you play with your food and you can see in the bloody dark. And you sulk," he said, at Sherlock's expression.
Sherlock dug his fingernails into the sofa cushion, seemed to realize what he was doing and carefully steepled his fingers.
John opened his book.
"And three, you're wrong about…" Sherlock stopped.
John snapped his book shut. "What?"
"I'm ready to take it to the next level. As you put it."
John stared. "You are?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well. Right then," John floundered.
"And you can put that," Sherlock eyes glittered as he bent to kiss John, "in your blog."
--End--
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for both authors!
Author: sherlockian4evr
Title & Link: Haughty, Demanding and Finicky
Pairings & Rating: Sherlock/John, Mature
Warnings/Content Notes: None
Remix Story:
Author: carenejeans
Title: Nine Lives and Counting
Pairings & Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Content Notes: None
Beta: L.K.
Britpicker: None
Summary: Nine linked "221b" drabbles exploring Sherlock's feline nature
One: The Evidence
Exhibit 1:
Sherlock was sleeping, sprawled over the sofa in a way that made John's eyes water. Surely a living person's spine shouldn't twist like that? Or his legs splay out at such awkward angles? Amused, John stroked Sherlock's curls, resisting the impulse to scratch behind his ears.
Exhibit 2:
"You're doing it again," John said.
"What?"
"Making that sound."
"I'm not."
"You are. A humming sound. Deep in your chest."
"Nonsense. I haven't made a sound all evening. You're the one making all the racket."
"I am?"
"Yes. Thinking. I can hear you from here. Like little gears grinding."
"Idiot. What are you reading?"
"Nothing. The entire internet is dull tonight."
"Sherlock, you were purring."
Sherlock growled.
Exhibit 3:
John followed Sherlock as he dashed through traffic, swarmed up lampposts and over chain- link fences, and vaulted the narrow -- but vertiginous -- gaps between buildings. John was in pretty good shape, really, and Sherlock had cured him of his limp, but he was having trouble keeping up. There was something, well, feline, about the way Sherlock climbed through windows and dropped into alleys. Winded and gasping, John waved tiredly to Sherlock, who beckoned to him from the roof two hundred feet up. John searched for a fire escape. How in the world had Sherlock scaled the side of that building?
Two: Moods
Lately, John found himself thinking of Sherlock's moods in terms of cats. Most often he was Morris -- haughty, demanding, and finicky -- or a sardonic and obnoxious Garfield. On London's streets he was Puss 'n Boots, swashbuckling and adventurous. Between cases John had to put up with Bucky fuming and Grumpy Cat sulks.
The mood he was in today was rare. John took one look at Sherlock's glinting eyes, ordered enough takeaway for ten, dug out all the lube in the flat, and braced himself. Raw sexual energy radiated from Sherlock and arced into John as they touched -- or, more precisely, as Sherlock slammed John against the wall.
Impatiently, Sherlock ground himself against John, kissing him, scorching John's ears with fierce and filthy endearments. He came quickly, and breathing heavily, still aroused, he clawed at John's clothes, stripping him down to the skin. Dropping to his knees, he playfully nipped at John's balls. John rapped his skull smartly, and Sherlock settled down to lick at John's cock.
Afterwards, he dragged John into the kitchen. "Hungry now," he said, and John fed Sherlock from his fingers, until, sated with treats and tidbits, he thrust John's hand away and pinned him to the floor.
Greebo, John thought. Sherlock's inner tomcat, loose and on the prowl for something he could eat, fight, or bugger.
Three: Bad!
Sherlock was no respecter of personal boundaries. From the start, he'd ruthlessly pinned John to his inner evidence board with deductions (probing, uncomfortable, and often amazing) about John's private life. John had grown used to Sherlock speculating (usually accurately) about his early sexual experiences over breakfast, his worst war memories at dinner, and his fears about death as he undressed for bed.
The first time Sherlock hacked into John's computer was far from the last.
For the most part, John accepted this as a hazard of sharing a life with Sherlock. But his things were his, damn it, and he didn't always want Sherlock going through his sock drawer, much less his phone calls and browser history. He tried everything to make Sherlock stop. He tried reason. He tried threats. He tried blackmail. Hiding things was right out; Sherlock merely took it as a challenge.
Stamford was amused at John's complaints. "Have you tried a rolled-up newspaper?"
"I might have to," John said ruefully.
Mrs. Hudson had similar advice. "When I had my old tom, he was a good one for getting into my lavatory things. Paper everywhere. I soon cured him of that, using -- here, take this. It worked wonders for me."
The next time Sherlock made a move for John's laptop, John was ready with the spray bottle.
Four: Gifts
At first, John didn't know what it was in the box Sherlock proudly showed him.
But it had obviously once been part of a human being.
"It's a spleen," Sherlock said helpfully.
"Yes, very nice. Why did you bring it home?"
"It's been vented," Sherlock said.
John narrowed his eyes. "That sounds suspiciously like a joke."
"Joke?" Sherlock looked puzzled. "Well, not to him." Sherlock gestured vaguely at the vented spleen. "See, the incisions here, and here. Stabbed, obviously, but with a surgical grade instrument."
"Yes, I can see that. But why--"
"The incisions were almost undetectable. Anderson couldn't find them."
"That's strange, certainly, but why did you bring it home?"
"Why?" Sherlock looked shocked. "It's a mystery, John. Or was. Lestrade's still in the dark, but I'll tell him who the murderer was in the morning."
John sighed. It wasn't the first "gift" Sherlock had brought him. There had been a severed hand. There had been the remains of an unfortunate woman's last meal. There had been hearts (Sherlock's idea of romantic?). There had been the horrible knuckles. John still had nightmares about those.
Sherlock was trying to hold back a grin. John rolled his eyes.
"Vented," he said dryly. "Your sense of humor still needs work. For God's sake, take this away and give it a proper burial."
Five: At Least One of Us is Comfortable
John badly wanted a cup of tea. He wanted a book that lay face down on a table just out of reach. His pen had run out of ink in the middle of a sentence ("Sherlock spoke and the killer moved out of the shadows to…") and he needed another. He looked longingly at his laptop across the room. He wanted to check something, and for that matter, to properly type. He wanted to move his leg, which had gone to sleep.
But he was trapped on the sofa. Sherlock was curled up next to him, his head in John's lap. Snoring. Of course, he could just push him off onto the floor.
John carefully shifted his leg. Sherlock stirred irritably, snorting in his sleep.
"Will you stop punching at me? I'm not a bloody pillow." John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock's soft, dark curls. Sherlock butted his hand, making a sound suspiciously like purring.
"You're worse than a cat," John complained. "And a lot heavier, oof, move, will you? I've got a cramp."
Sherlock turned over on his back and reached for John's hand.
"All right, fine. Looks like I'm not getting any work done tonight," John grumbled, and settled under Sherlock as comfortably as he could manage.
Sherlock smiled in his sleep as John rubbed his belly.
Six: Oooh! Shiny!
"Sherlock!"
Alarmed at the crashing and muffled cursing coming from inside the flat, John dropped his takeaway bags and dashed up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He burst through the door expecting intruders. He expected to find Sherlock fighting off an archenemy. He didn't expect to see Sherlock stumbling around the flat with his head stuck in a box. John stood astonished as Sherlock lurched blindly, flung himself backwards and crashed into one of his own experiments, sending glass and some noxious fluid everywhere.
John pinned Sherlock's arms behind him, marched him into the living room and dumped him on the sofa, box and all.
"What the hell are you doing?" John tugged the box flaps open and Sherlock's head popped through. He looked so much like he was wearing a collar of shame that John laughed.
"You've managed to lose it," Sherlock sniffed.
"What did I lose?" John sawed at the front of the box with his pocketknife.
"The thing. In the box. It was in the corner. I couldn't see it."
"So you stuck your head inside, of course."
"Erm. Well. Yes."
John sighed. "Clean up that mess, will you? It's putting me off my dinner."
John retrieved the takeaway, set dinner on the table and went to corral Sherlock, who was avidly examining another box.
Seven: Sniffer Dog
Anderson and Sherlock circled each other, teeth bared and claws out. John stood off to the side, wondering if he'd have to throw water on the pair of them.
Lestrade was on the phone, bending someone's ear and downing what John hoped were pain pills, and Donovan was out in the hallway conferring with a worried constable.
"Where's your evidence?" Anderson snapped, and John winced at the whining note under the bravado. Anderson was going to lose, and he knew it. "All you've got is your-- theory."
"I'm right." Sherlock drew up haughtily. "If you would just let me--"
Anderson's head lowered. "You're not getting your grubby paws all over my data. Do your own workup."
"Oh, for god's sake, Anderson, stop pissing about. Give me the data. We have a killer to catch. That should be more important than marking your territory." Sherlock whirled around. "Grant!"
Lestrade waved him away and turned his back, still talking urgently into the phone.
Sherlock thrust his face close to Anderson. "Give me the data," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Or what?" Anderson puffed up and did his best to look intimidating, but he was a pug standing up to a panther.
Lestrade closed his phone. "He's right. Anderson, give him what he needs."
Anderson growled, but he knew when he was beaten.
Eight: The Hunt is On
Sherlock prowled the streets of London, single-minded, purposeful, deadly. He knew the streets like a panther knows his territory, hunting the busy thoroughfares, tracking his elusive prey through the crowds, following an unseen trail through the clamor and the commotion of the busy city. Alert and sharp eyed, he crisscrossed and zigzagged, now to spring suddenly down a side street, now to pad softly through a garden or lurk watchfully from a doorway. He jumped fences and slipped through gates with a light-footed grace that John envied, following less nimbly behind.
He crouched over an invisible clue -- invisible to John, at least -- then, catlike, seemed to twitch his whiskers, lay back his ears, and with a flick of his tail, leap away to worry at a different clue. Remorselessly running his quarry to ground, he pounced, to solve the crime or corner an unlucky criminal. He hunted ruthlessly but without cruelty, though John doubted those who felt his claws would agree.
He left the details for Lestrade to sort out.
Afterwards, bored, Sherlock would pace the flat. If John tried to divert him, he hissed. If Mrs. Hudson came by for a chat, he snarled. Then, suddenly, staring at a pile of notes, he'd go still. And reach for his coat, as the panther raises his head, scenting blood.
Nine: Cat and Blogger
"You're wrong, you know," Sherlock from behind his laptop. John looked up from his book.
"What?"
"Your blog. One, the murder occurred on Tuesday, not Wednesday."
"Poetic license."
Sherlock harrumphed. "Two, I am not a cat."
John smiled. "Yes you are. You are absolutely a cat."
"More poetic license?"
"Very little," John said.
"Be reasonable. I'm a man. Human. Homo sapiens."
"You're a man with… certain catlike features."
"Name three."
"Only three?" John counted on his fingers. "Haughty. Demanding. Finicky."
"All human traits."
"Fine. You pace like a tiger in a cage, you can climb anything vertical, and you purr."
"I do not."
"You do. And," John warmed to his subject, "you eviscerate your enemies without pity, you hiss at Anderson, you play with your food and you can see in the bloody dark. And you sulk," he said, at Sherlock's expression.
Sherlock dug his fingernails into the sofa cushion, seemed to realize what he was doing and carefully steepled his fingers.
John opened his book.
"And three, you're wrong about…" Sherlock stopped.
John snapped his book shut. "What?"
"I'm ready to take it to the next level. As you put it."
John stared. "You are?"
"Yes."
"Oh. Well. Right then," John floundered.
"And you can put that," Sherlock eyes glittered as he bent to kiss John, "in your blog."
--End--
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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