MetaFic: Going Down with this Ship, Part Two
Title: Going Down with this Ship - Part 2
Pairing: John/Sherlock ('Bonus' slash - Sherlock and an unknown(?) police officer)
Rating: Is it NC-17 still if they're just reading about it?
Warnings: Seriously - do not read the fic by foxycop678. Oh go on then... you know you want to.
Wordcount: ~1,500
Thank you so much again to et_cetera55, my trusty beta! How she finds time for this when Mycroft is stalking her through the comm, I'll never know. Any remaining mistakes are my own, and probably the result of ill-advised, last-minute edits.
[Part One]
Going Down with this Ship - Part 2/4
Meanwhile, at the surgery...
It is 10:30 and, despite checking his email between appointments, John Watson finds himself ahead of his list. The last three patients have almost bored John to tears: a woman with a cold ("Go home, get plenty of rest, liquids and vitamin C"), a man with a cold ("Go home, get plenty of rest, liquids and vitamin C") and another woman with a cold ("Go home, get plenty of rest...")
"Doesn't anyone read the patient information leaflets about not coming to the doctor with a cold?" he mutters to himself. It hadn't been like this in Afghanistan. He opens his email again, and sees another one from Sherlock.
To: j.h.watson@maryleboneclinic.nhs.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Date: April 2nd 2010, 10:23 BST
Subject: Re:This is all the fault of your damn blog!
Are you being deliberately obtuse? There is a 'fic' on that site in which a thinly disguised version of Lestrade somehow induces me to wear a dog collar and uses it to drag me to my knees...
He starts to read and his eye lights immediately on the word "erection," closely followed by "oral sex," and "handcuffs."
"Christ!"
He fires off an angry reply to Sherlock without even reading the rest then closes Outlook by hitting the button in the top right of the screen.
"Stupid, stupid..." he groans as he realises his panic has solved nothing. He knows that this email will be the first thing on screen when he relaunches the program. He checks his watch. Three minutes before the next patient is due. Deep breaths. Open, delete, relax.
He starts Outlook and this time he has chance to read the entire email while his senile computer tries to remember how it’s meant to respond when the user hits the delete key. He has just noticed a phrase that causes him considerable unease when the email finally disappears.
"Shit! No! Control-Z, Control-Z - what the..?"
As the mortifying email appears on his screen for a third time he sees the words he hoped he'd only imagined.
"...how many times must I tell them I'm not a private detective."
"Sherlock? You..?" A strangled cry. "There are no words."
He has just fired off a second reply, pointing out to Sherlock just how stupid he has been when another part of the email catches his eye. A reference to Sherlock's boyfriend? John's skin suddenly feels three sizes too small, and some joker has replaced his blood with liquid nitrogen. Sherlock has a boyfriend?
"Oh, this is not fine. This is really not fine at all," thinks John. He is shocked by how betrayed he feels. Then he peers at the description:
"...His boyfriend is a full head shorter than Sherlock Holmes, but powerfully built... He runs a frantic hand through his short blond hair..."
"That's supposed to be..?" He shakes his head to clear it. "Oh my God."
He checks his watch. Time for one more email to Sherlock. Strangely enough he feels a bit calmer knowing that the boyfriend is meant to be him.
The rest of his morning's list is painfully slow to end. A few more emails back and forth with Sherlock help to distract him from the fact that there are no interesting complaints ("Oh God, I think he's rubbing off on me.") When surgery is finally over John can't wait to get out of the door. He is just shutting down his email when it prompts him:
"You have emails in the trash. Permanently delete them?"
He is about to click "Yes" when he decides to open it one more time. There it is again, in all its retina-searing glory. Sherlock being forced to his knees. Diestrasse (he will not think of him as Lestrade - he would rather relive the moment he was shot than think of him as Lestrade) pulling Sherlock's head down into his lap. John realises his hands are clenched and his mouth is dry. There is a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that he doesn't care to identify too closely. He decides to call it anger.
Yes, anger. Pure, incandescent anger, that's what it must be, he decides. He will find out exactly what this foxycop678 wrote and he will allow himself to become a thermal lance of anger. But not from an NHS computer. A thermal lance that isn't a complete bloody moron then.
He shuts down, deleting his email in the process, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He finds "A Study In Pink" easily, and sees foxycop678's story near the top of the page [ 5].
He reads the first part, seeing again the ridiculous, stilted dialogue between Sherlock and not-Lestrade ("please, please, never in a million years Lestrade.") He can't understand why Sherlock would think this was written by someone who knows him - the meek submission is so unlike him. John reads on.
"...As he feels the man's arousal, hot and intrusive against his tongue, he starts to breathe quickly and shallowly. Quiet, muffled moans escape Sherlock's throat and his lips slide lower and lower with each bob of his head...”
He flushes at the description of Sherlock eagerly sucking another mans ("a man's" he hurriedly corrects himself) cock.
He reads on, eyes scanning rapidly, a kaleidoscope of images conjured up in his head.
"...Always after these sessions, as soon as Sherlock finds himself alone, he will exorcise the pain and frustration by brutally and furiously..."
John winces and skips ahead.
"…'Again - do that again' he commands, his fingers clutching tightly at Sherlock's hair. Sherlock tries to ignore the sharp pain that brings more tears to his eyes, and redoubles his efforts…"
His eyes narrow.
“…He tries to pull back but his hair and the leash are being held tight. He is helpless when the man comes...”
His breath quickens.
“…Sherlock laughs bitterly. 'He always hurts me John. That's part of the deal.'…"
John slams his hand, open palmed, hard and flat on the desk, stifles a volley of swearing and gets to his feet. He paces disjointedly, murmuring imprecations against anyone who would put Sherlock through this, even in their imagination. His thoughts begin to coalesce. He will find the author. He will use Sherlock's methods to track them down. He will find them and make them delete it. He will make them choke on their words, make them sorry.
He tries to steady his breathing as the surge tide of emotion threatens to carry him away. Eventually his strides lengthen and his paces become less frantic.
Then, yes, he would go home. He would tell Sherlock that he had dealt with foxycop678, and that he was safe from any more of these stories. And Sherlock would be grateful and impressed and he would say "…but you see John, I knew they must have known me all along, because I do crave the excitement and the danger and the pain. But not from a thinly disguised Lestrade. No - I want it at the hands of someone I trust. Someone who understands pain and fear and the limits of the human body..."
John has slowed to a halt behind the door to his office. His hand is reaching out of its own accord lock the bolt. He wants not to be disturbed so very, very much. He draws in a deep and shaking breath.
Text message: 02/04/2010 12:18
Come home - I'm bored.
SH
John has the mortifying sensation of having walked in on himself doing something shameful as he realises he's started to think in slashfic.
"That's it," he thinks, with an imaginary shrug, "I might as well get myself a bloody username and start writing. I bet ‘hornydr’ is already gone. What about ‘shamefacedflatmate?’ Probably has too many characters."
He splashes his face with water at the basin, checks his reflection for traces of residual guilt and turns to leave his consulting room. He has a fifteen minute walk home. Long enough to consider how to broach the subject with Sherlock.
Coming soon in Part Three of GDwtS... Will there be better guest-slash than this? (Yes!) Will there finally be meta-slash? (Sorta!) Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of Down with this Ship - coming Friday to selected comms near you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
End notes:
[5] foxycop is a fiction. foxycop's godawful story is not... Consider it an excellent opportunity to offload all the really bitchy "Con Crit" you've ever wanted to throw at anyone. Cause yeah, foxycop deserves it! [ back]
On to Part Three
We interrupt this broadcast for an commercial break... Sorry to be pimpin' but it's a good cause. I have a couple of Sherlock-flavoured auctions at the help_pakistan comm:
A set of London ephemera (postcards, badge, maps etc). Can be tailored to be as Sherlocky as you like. For you guys I'll even go to the Bart's Hospital Museum (next to the path lab!) to see what I can get. Probably a postcard or two. Unlikely to be a consulting detective's lost riding crop.
A copy of Sherlock's big fold out map, annotated to within an inch of its MFing life by an anally retentive map-fetishist and Sherlock obsessive (hi!). Filled with BBC!Sherlock locations and factoids. Bonus BBC!Sherlock London location photos as per your request if the winning bid reaches or exceeds $30.
For you guys - I'll ship anywhere (and 'ship anyone...)
Bidding closes soon (Saturday, 11.59 EST).
Pairing: John/Sherlock ('Bonus' slash - Sherlock and an unknown(?) police officer)
Rating: Is it NC-17 still if they're just reading about it?
Warnings: Seriously - do not read the fic by foxycop678. Oh go on then... you know you want to.
Wordcount: ~1,500
Thank you so much again to et_cetera55, my trusty beta! How she finds time for this when Mycroft is stalking her through the comm, I'll never know. Any remaining mistakes are my own, and probably the result of ill-advised, last-minute edits.
[Part One]
Going Down with this Ship - Part 2/4
Meanwhile, at the surgery...
It is 10:30 and, despite checking his email between appointments, John Watson finds himself ahead of his list. The last three patients have almost bored John to tears: a woman with a cold ("Go home, get plenty of rest, liquids and vitamin C"), a man with a cold ("Go home, get plenty of rest, liquids and vitamin C") and another woman with a cold ("Go home, get plenty of rest...")
"Doesn't anyone read the patient information leaflets about not coming to the doctor with a cold?" he mutters to himself. It hadn't been like this in Afghanistan. He opens his email again, and sees another one from Sherlock.
To: j.h.watson@maryleboneclinic.nhs.uk
From: SH@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
Date: April 2nd 2010, 10:23 BST
Subject: Re:This is all the fault of your damn blog!
Are you being deliberately obtuse? There is a 'fic' on that site in which a thinly disguised version of Lestrade somehow induces me to wear a dog collar and uses it to drag me to my knees...
He starts to read and his eye lights immediately on the word "erection," closely followed by "oral sex," and "handcuffs."
"Christ!"
He fires off an angry reply to Sherlock without even reading the rest then closes Outlook by hitting the button in the top right of the screen.
"Stupid, stupid..." he groans as he realises his panic has solved nothing. He knows that this email will be the first thing on screen when he relaunches the program. He checks his watch. Three minutes before the next patient is due. Deep breaths. Open, delete, relax.
He starts Outlook and this time he has chance to read the entire email while his senile computer tries to remember how it’s meant to respond when the user hits the delete key. He has just noticed a phrase that causes him considerable unease when the email finally disappears.
"Shit! No! Control-Z, Control-Z - what the..?"
As the mortifying email appears on his screen for a third time he sees the words he hoped he'd only imagined.
"...how many times must I tell them I'm not a private detective."
"Sherlock? You..?" A strangled cry. "There are no words."
He has just fired off a second reply, pointing out to Sherlock just how stupid he has been when another part of the email catches his eye. A reference to Sherlock's boyfriend? John's skin suddenly feels three sizes too small, and some joker has replaced his blood with liquid nitrogen. Sherlock has a boyfriend?
"Oh, this is not fine. This is really not fine at all," thinks John. He is shocked by how betrayed he feels. Then he peers at the description:
"...His boyfriend is a full head shorter than Sherlock Holmes, but powerfully built... He runs a frantic hand through his short blond hair..."
"That's supposed to be..?" He shakes his head to clear it. "Oh my God."
He checks his watch. Time for one more email to Sherlock. Strangely enough he feels a bit calmer knowing that the boyfriend is meant to be him.
The rest of his morning's list is painfully slow to end. A few more emails back and forth with Sherlock help to distract him from the fact that there are no interesting complaints ("Oh God, I think he's rubbing off on me.") When surgery is finally over John can't wait to get out of the door. He is just shutting down his email when it prompts him:
"You have emails in the trash. Permanently delete them?"
He is about to click "Yes" when he decides to open it one more time. There it is again, in all its retina-searing glory. Sherlock being forced to his knees. Diestrasse (he will not think of him as Lestrade - he would rather relive the moment he was shot than think of him as Lestrade) pulling Sherlock's head down into his lap. John realises his hands are clenched and his mouth is dry. There is a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach that he doesn't care to identify too closely. He decides to call it anger.
Yes, anger. Pure, incandescent anger, that's what it must be, he decides. He will find out exactly what this foxycop678 wrote and he will allow himself to become a thermal lance of anger. But not from an NHS computer. A thermal lance that isn't a complete bloody moron then.
He shuts down, deleting his email in the process, and pulls his phone from his pocket. He finds "A Study In Pink" easily, and sees foxycop678's story near the top of the page [ 5].
He reads the first part, seeing again the ridiculous, stilted dialogue between Sherlock and not-Lestrade ("please, please, never in a million years Lestrade.") He can't understand why Sherlock would think this was written by someone who knows him - the meek submission is so unlike him. John reads on.
"...As he feels the man's arousal, hot and intrusive against his tongue, he starts to breathe quickly and shallowly. Quiet, muffled moans escape Sherlock's throat and his lips slide lower and lower with each bob of his head...”
He flushes at the description of Sherlock eagerly sucking another mans ("a man's" he hurriedly corrects himself) cock.
He reads on, eyes scanning rapidly, a kaleidoscope of images conjured up in his head.
"...Always after these sessions, as soon as Sherlock finds himself alone, he will exorcise the pain and frustration by brutally and furiously..."
John winces and skips ahead.
"…'Again - do that again' he commands, his fingers clutching tightly at Sherlock's hair. Sherlock tries to ignore the sharp pain that brings more tears to his eyes, and redoubles his efforts…"
His eyes narrow.
“…He tries to pull back but his hair and the leash are being held tight. He is helpless when the man comes...”
His breath quickens.
“…Sherlock laughs bitterly. 'He always hurts me John. That's part of the deal.'…"
John slams his hand, open palmed, hard and flat on the desk, stifles a volley of swearing and gets to his feet. He paces disjointedly, murmuring imprecations against anyone who would put Sherlock through this, even in their imagination. His thoughts begin to coalesce. He will find the author. He will use Sherlock's methods to track them down. He will find them and make them delete it. He will make them choke on their words, make them sorry.
He tries to steady his breathing as the surge tide of emotion threatens to carry him away. Eventually his strides lengthen and his paces become less frantic.
Then, yes, he would go home. He would tell Sherlock that he had dealt with foxycop678, and that he was safe from any more of these stories. And Sherlock would be grateful and impressed and he would say "…but you see John, I knew they must have known me all along, because I do crave the excitement and the danger and the pain. But not from a thinly disguised Lestrade. No - I want it at the hands of someone I trust. Someone who understands pain and fear and the limits of the human body..."
John has slowed to a halt behind the door to his office. His hand is reaching out of its own accord lock the bolt. He wants not to be disturbed so very, very much. He draws in a deep and shaking breath.
Text message: 02/04/2010 12:18
Come home - I'm bored.
SH
John has the mortifying sensation of having walked in on himself doing something shameful as he realises he's started to think in slashfic.
"That's it," he thinks, with an imaginary shrug, "I might as well get myself a bloody username and start writing. I bet ‘hornydr’ is already gone. What about ‘shamefacedflatmate?’ Probably has too many characters."
He splashes his face with water at the basin, checks his reflection for traces of residual guilt and turns to leave his consulting room. He has a fifteen minute walk home. Long enough to consider how to broach the subject with Sherlock.
Coming soon in Part Three of GDwtS... Will there be better guest-slash than this? (Yes!) Will there finally be meta-slash? (Sorta!) Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of Down with this Ship - coming Friday to selected comms near you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
End notes:
[5] foxycop is a fiction. foxycop's godawful story is not... Consider it an excellent opportunity to offload all the really bitchy "Con Crit" you've ever wanted to throw at anyone. Cause yeah, foxycop deserves it! [ back]
On to Part Three
We interrupt this broadcast for an commercial break... Sorry to be pimpin' but it's a good cause. I have a couple of Sherlock-flavoured auctions at the help_pakistan comm:
A set of London ephemera (postcards, badge, maps etc). Can be tailored to be as Sherlocky as you like. For you guys I'll even go to the Bart's Hospital Museum (next to the path lab!) to see what I can get. Probably a postcard or two. Unlikely to be a consulting detective's lost riding crop.
A copy of Sherlock's big fold out map, annotated to within an inch of its MFing life by an anally retentive map-fetishist and Sherlock obsessive (hi!). Filled with BBC!Sherlock locations and factoids. Bonus BBC!Sherlock London location photos as per your request if the winning bid reaches or exceeds $30.
For you guys - I'll ship anywhere (and 'ship anyone...)
Bidding closes soon (Saturday, 11.59 EST).