FanFic

Wedding: #1 The Not-Really-Johnlock Version

Sorry. After doing the caption here, I just couldn’t resist the challenge of coming up with a non-gay, non-slash version of the Sherlock Holmes — John Watson BBC Sherlock wedding. So I hope you enjoy. (I’d love to have some art for this and if I get a chance I may work on it this fall.)

We’re Not A Couple. Of Course You Are.

By J. H. Watson
~1950 words

 

In all fairness John Watson was justified in failing to become suspicious a bit sooner. He’d received a call from an agent about the possibility of turning his blog into a book, and the follow-up email had put him under a short deadline for the first draft. Which was why he was rather distracted when his flatmate and colleague, Sherlock Holmes started what seemed an abstruse and irrelevant conversation.

“John, would you insist upon a religious wedding?”

John continued typing in his uniquely personal, two-finger method and replied, “Hmmm?”

“Weren’t you listening?”

“Sorry, Sherlock, I wasn’t listening. I’m trying to work over here. I’ve got to get at least another two stories done tonight.”

Sherlock had been sitting in virtually silent contemplation for the last two days. Since they had had to pretend to be filing intentions for a civil partnership so Sherlock could swipe some files from a London registry for some new case. It’d made John a little nervous, but since Sherlock had sprang it on him after they’d reached the desk, John had no choice but to go along or blow the gaff.

Fortunately, the silence had allowed John to complete close to a third of the book, but he knew it was too good to last. He was at the point of writing a tricky bit where he and Sherlock had bent a few laws into pretzels and was trying to figure out how to include it without incriminating themselves, so in his later defense he was a tad preoccupied.

“I asked if you would require a church wedding.”

“Not necessarily. I don’t have a lot of people to invite and church weddings tend to be a bit expensive, not to mention tedious.”

“Exactly.”

John figured out how to avoid mentioning Sherlock questioning a suspect while John held a gun on the man and went back to pounding the keys of his computer. He said, “But I’d be willing to go with whatever my partner wanted.”

“Really?”

John shrugged. “I figure I’m not going to get a lot of say anyway and it doesn’t make any difference to me, so long as the marriage is legal. Actually, I’d prefer something small with just a few friends.”

“What a sensible attitude, John.”

“That’s me, Mr. Sensible. I just hope you’re aren’t expecting to be best man.”

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied from behind his steepled hands. A beat later he did a double-take and said, “Why not?”

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And There There’s the Jelly on His Doorknob

Martin Freeman as John Watson in BBC Sherlock walks behind Benedict Cumberbatch as Sherlock Holmes peering in a microscope

Apparently, Sherlock hasn’t noticed the boot black on the eyepieces yet, John

Let’s face it, John Watson would be perfectly within his rights to get a little of his own back…

Check back a little later on and there should be a new bit of flash fic for this one.

Right. Took a little longer than expected. Unexpected sunshine.

Sherlock. Timing.

By J.H. Watson
~950 words

 

John Watson wandered through the kitchen in his bathrobe and slippers, dabbing at his freshly shaved face with a towel. His flatmate, Sherlock Holmes, was peering into the microscope that took up a large portion of the kitchen table. The rest of the table was covered with books, papers and assorted scientific and chemical paraphernalia. John’s lip twitched at a corner as he passed Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock said, “John, please do not not touch my equipment without my permission.”

“Something wrong?’

“I’m familiar with the ‘boot black on the eyepieces’ form of hazing.”

John picked up the paper and sat in his chair. “Seb and his buddies at uni teach it to you?”

Sherlock continued to look into his scope. “No. My preparatory school classmates.”

John turned the page of the paper before saying, “Started young?”

“They had the excuse of being children. You are being merely childish.”

John turned another page. “I was referring to you. What did you do? Nicked all of their lunch money? Changed all of their grades? Exposed them to the bubonic plague to study the results?”

Sherlock sighed and finally looked up from his scope. The area around his eyes were red from apparent scrubbing. “I’ve apologized. It was not my intent to inconvenience you.”

John tossed his newspaper to the floor and stood up to face Sherlock. “Inconvenience me? I was humiliated in front of my date and about 100 other people in one of the poshest restaurants in London!”

“She wasn’t going to have sex with you anyway.”

“How— That’s not the point!” John took a deep breath and bit back whatever he was about to say. Sherlock tilted his head and stared at him with a questioning look. Quietly, John continued, “We’ve discussed this, Sherlock. You are not to use me, or anything of mine, without my knowledge.”

Sherlock stood up and started heading towards the hall.

John said, “You may want to grab some kitchen roll if you’re heading for the bathroom or your room.”

“Petroleum jelly on the knobs?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock stepped back and grabbed some sheets and then disappeared. John went to the kitchen and poured himself some tea. From the bathroom there was a loud cry, followed by a rather choice string of expletives. John raised his voice and called out, “Sorry. Forgot about the cling film on the toilet bowl. Hope it didn’t ruin your suit.”

John couldn’t make out the subsequent comments, but he heard the door slam as he settled back into his chair. He smiled to himself as he picked up the paper and continued reading.

The next morning John came down to find Mycroft Holmes in conversation with his brother. Sherlock had his back to his brother, fussing with something around the coffee machine.

“This is important, Sherlock.”

“To you.”

John said, “Morning, boys. Arguing about who gets to play with the army today?”

Sherlock turned around with a cup of coffee in his hands. As he stepped towards John, Mycroft started coughing. Sherlock said, “John, good morning. Have a cup of coffee.”

John looked at the proffered cup suspiciously. “You don’t make coffee.”

“Not often. But I made it for you today.”

Mycroft was still coughing. He reached over and took the cup from the saucer and drank it in a gulp. Then he made a face of distaste and turned to Sherlock and said, “That’s awful! No wonder you don’t make the coffee.”

Sherlock looked at his brother. His face twitched. “That was for John.”

“Well, he should consider himself lucky.” Mycroft’s phone signaled. He looked at the screen and said, “I have to take this. We’ll talk more later, Sherlock.” As he passed John he said, “Good morning, John. Don’t drink the coffee.”

John blinked. It was a beat before he could say, “Right. Uh…” Mycroft was already heading down the stairs and out the door.

John turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock wore his innocent face. John said, “His tongue and lips were blue.”

Sherlock burst out giggling.

“Methylene blue?” John asked. He raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock nodded. John held his countenance for a beat and then started giggling as well. “It’s not funny. You can’t go around dosing people with chemicals. What if he was on medication or had a reaction?”

“He isn’t and he won’t.”

“He’s an important government official.”

Sherlock nodded. “Very important. He’s off to meet the prime minister.”

John held Sherlock’s gaze for a moment in sheer horror at the scene playing out in his mind. Then they both burst out laughing. They fell onto the sofa and laughed until John’s sides hurt. Each time they started to quiet down, they caught each other’s glance and started again.

Finally, John, between trying to catch his breath, said, “It was meant for me.”

“My favourite suit is at the dry cleaners. I had to say I was holding a child on my lap.”

John smirked. Then he fought for control of his face, working to wipe the smile off of it. No good. He said, “How long do you think until someone dares to tell him he’s blue?”

Sherlock’s phone rang. He glanced at it. “Apparently, ten minutes. Probably the prime minister.”

Sherlock looked at John. This set them both off giggling again.

“He’s going to pee blue for days,” Sherlock offered.

Trying to catch his breath, John said, “I suppose we’d better call a truce before innocent people are hurt.”

“My brother is hardly innocent.”

“Okay, call it collateral damage. Imagine if it had been Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock stared out as if contemplating the outcome. Quietly, he replied, “Agreed.”

### End ###

 

 

 

A Bit Not Good, Sherlock

Martin Freeman as John Watson in BBC Sherlock looking at a smiling young woman in the back of a car

John, Sherlock just sent me some nude photos of you. Let’s have dinner!

 A Naughty Bit Not Good

by J.H. Watson
~ 1,700 words

 

“John, we need to go to Kent.”

John Watson jumped and dropped his washcloth. Soap was washed into his eye. He plunged his head under the shower to wash away the rest of the soap and get control of his temper before replying. “I’m in the shower.”

“Obviously. But you apparently couldn’t hear me talking to you when I stood outside the door.”

“That would be because I’M IN THE SHOWER!” John snatched up the washcloth and began vigorously scrubbing himself. “And while I don’t mind sharing the shower from time to time, you are not the person I want to share it with.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, John, you’ve been in this bathroom for over forty minutes. Surely you’ve finished mastur—“

“SHERLOCK! Get out.”

“Fine. But the train for Kent leaves in fifty minutes.”

“Now.”

John heard the bathroom door close and finished scrubbing down with hard, fast movements in less than a minute. He stood under the shower head, letting the hot water rinse away his rage and watched the suds slip down the drain, then reached over and turned the knob to cold. He shivered under the flow for thirty seconds before turning the water completely off. Shaking himself like a dog, he grabbed a towel and roughly dried himself. He dropped the towel on the floor and picked up his pants.

The bathroom door flew open and Sherlock said, “And you should pack your gun. It might be dangerous.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock closed and dashed away. John finished putting on his clothes and took the toenail clippers from the cabinet. He’d just sat down and was inspecting his foot, when he heard the footsteps approaching again. As they reached in front of the door, John said, “Sherlock, don’t you dare open that door!”

“We don’t have time for you to clip your nails. Just grab your electric shaver and toothbrush and come on. I’ve packed you a bag.”

You packed—“ but the footsteps were moving away before John could finish his sentence. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he put on his socks, pulled out his toiletries bag with his shaver and spare toothbrush, floss and toothpaste and tucked the adult magazine under the towels in the back of the closet.

John found Sherlock pacing in the living room.

Sherlock said, “About time.” He then turned and flew down the stairs, hollering to Mrs. Hudson that they’d be gone for a day or two and that she wasn’t to touch the stuff on the kitchen counter until he got back.

John counted to five silently, then picked up the two bags and followed.

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Maybe You Could Make a Trail, Like in E.T., John

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock looking at something off camera with decided interest

Ooh, look, Smarties!

I’m Not That Angry

by J.H. Watson
~ 150 words

“Black, two sugars.”

It’s funny what you remember, John Watson thought as he put down his cup of coffee.   He pulled out his wallet and signaled for his check. When the waitress merely waved a lazy hand and continued chatting with the tall man who’d ordered the coffee, John tossed a note on the table and left.

He’d been fine. He’d been fine for days. Until he heard a posh baritone order a cup of coffee black, with two sugars. John pressed his lips together and blinked telling himself it was the biting, bitter wind that made his eyes sting and well up. He walked on, his hands jammed into the pockets of his black jacket, his shoulders hunched, against the cold he told himself again. It’s just that I’m cold.

It seemed like lately John was always cold.

## End ##

I swear this started out to be a comedy… I have no idea what happened. I think I had an attack of the Reichenfeels.

But seriously given how Sherlock takes his coffee and the fact that the one thing he raided from Mrs. Hudson’s fridge was a icing covered tart, I think it’s safe to say that Sherlock has a sweet-tooth. So I’m thinking John (or Molly) could do a bit of neuropsychology here…

Holmes Boys #4: I Worry About Him — Constantly

 

by J.H. Watson
~ 3,000 words

Mycroft looked up from his studies as soon as he heard the sound of a chair being pushed across the floor in the hall. He was on his feet the moment he heard the chair creak as weight was placed on the seat and back, but it still wasn’t fast enough to stop Sherlock or the accident. Mycroft arrived just as his little brother had gotten his right foot onto the top shelf of the hall closet and was pulling the rest of him up with his left hand. A chair that had obviously been used to start the ascent stood in front of the open door.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called out sharply.

Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder at his big brother. They would never know whether the shelf was already loose or it was the stress of the sudden movement combined with the extra weight of a two-year old hanging from it, but the end of the shelf gave way and the boy came down in an avalanche of boxes, toys and sporting equipment. Sherlock bounced once off the chair and then to the hall floor, amidst the detritus still raining down from the cascade started by the collapse of the top shelf.

Mycroft reached his little brother before the last item, an Action Man figure, ricocheted off Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft tossed aside the cricket bat, pads, tennis rackets, badminton net and assorted toys until he uncovered his brother lying very still in a very awkward position. Mycroft said very quietly, “Sherlock.” When he got no answer, he called a little louder, “Sherlock?” He’d reached out and touch his brother’s head and his fingers felt damp and sticky. He pulled the hand back and saw blood. He felt for a moment as if his stomach had plunged to his feet and he froze in fear as the limbic portion of his brain seized control. But it was only a moment, no matter that it seemed an hour. Mycroft’s higher level mind quickly regained control and he carefully turned his brother over and was relieved to see his brother breathing with eyes wide open in shocked surprise.

It had all happened in a matter of seconds and by now the noise had brought Nanny on the run and Mummy at a more sedate pace. Nanny pushed Mycroft aside and began fussing over Sherlock with cries of “Oh, poor baby!” and “How many times have I told you not to climb on the furniture?”

Mummy glided to a halt and surveyed the carnage like a general surveying the aftermath of a battlefield. She didn’t have to ask what happened. She rarely did. “Call the doctor, Nanny, and get the car brought around.”

Nanny gently eased Sherlock back down and took off down the stairs. “Don’t run, Nanny. We don’t want another accident,” Mummy ordered. Nanny slowed to a fast march and quickly disappeared.

Mummy looked down at Sherlock and asked, “Can you walk?”

Sherlock flexed his legs. He started to sit up, but as soon as he tried to put weight on his hands, he cried out. Mycroft dropped instantly beside his brother and placed an arm around his waist and helped Sherlock get to his feet. Then Mycroft set Sherlock on the chair and looked at him. Silent tears were coursing down Sherlock’s cheeks. His lower lip trembled as he held out his left hand where two fingers bent at odd angles. He pressed his left arm against his body as if to brace it. Mummy said, “Get a blanket, Mycroft.”

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You Could Always Start With Moby Murdoch, Sherlock

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock holding a harpoon and looking peeved

John, I think it’s time we did a little hunting of our own. I’m heading to Fleet Street!

Hatman and Robin Strike Again

by J. H. Watson
~ 450 words

“Put the harpoon down, Sherlock,” John Watson said before taking another sip of coffee.

“No, John, that was the last straw. I’ve had enough of this relentless stalking.” Sherlock paced around the flat, tossing the harpoon from hand to hand, his dressing gown snapping with every sharp pivot.

John flipped to another channel on the telly. “You’re a celebrity now. You can’t stop them.”

Sherlock stopped pacing. “Do you really believe I can’t do that? That I can’t do anything I set my mind to?”

“Sherlock, you aren’t harpooning journalists. Even Mycroft couldn’t get away with that.”

“Don’t bet on it.” Sherlock tossed the harpoon on the sofa and collapsed into the chair across from John. “Maybe you’re right.”

John did a double-take. “Say that again.”

Sherlock ignored him and continued to stare ahead, his hands steepled below his chin. “Perhaps I should give them a taste of their own medicine. I could start publishing daily bits about them and their private lives online.”

“That would just escalate things and make you more enemies, Sherlock. The last thing you need is more enemies. And what happens when they start going after your family?”

Sherlock tilted his head towards John and raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Or your friends,” John added. As Sherlock raised the other eyebrow, John continued, “And don’t say you don’t have any friends. Imagine what they could do with the story of Mrs. Hudson and her flirtation with the bigamist downstairs. Or poor Greg Lestrade and his adulterous wife. Or Molly who violates regulations to let you abuse corpses and see medical records.”

Sherlock studied the wall for a moment in silence before closing his eyes and saying, “Or you and I sharing a flat and a partnership.”

“Yeah, well, they already do enough with that one. And maybe you shouldn’t call us partners. Colleagues. Colleagues, works.”

John punched the remote and the television went black and silent. “Look, Sherlock, it isn’t that big a deal. It’ll die down if you just leave it alone.”

“The hat didn’t. Until this.”

“Yeah, well, I told you not to buy it, but did Mr. I’ve-Got-Better-Fashion-Sense-Than-You-Sweater-Boy listen?

“Now you’re just being petty. I needed a new coat.”

“Yeah, but did it have to be an Inverness?”

John tossed the paper to Sherlock. Sherlock looked the front page photo of himself  with the headline “The Caped Crusader!” He said, “Well, it does look good on me.”

John sighed and clicked the telly back on as he replied, “And that’s all that matters, Batman.”

### End ###

 

 

I Spy With My LIttle Eye Something Beginning With Sherlock

Benedict Cumberbatch with ginger red hair

Watson will never recognize me as a ginger!

Uhmmm, you may need a better disguise, Sherlock.

You See, But You Do Not Observe

by J.H. Watson
~100 words

John Watson did a double-take as Sherlock Holmes stepped into the room. Sherlock wore faded jeans, trainers and a hoodie while sporting dark red hair cut several inches shorter than his usual mop. John wore a puzzled expression as he asked, “Uh, Sherlock, why are you dressed that way and what happened to your hair?”

Sherlock’s smile turned into a frown. “You recognized me.”

“Uhmm. Yes.”

“So the disguise. Not good?”

“A bit not good.”

“What about if I went blonde?”

John simply looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

### End ###

Let’s face it, Sherlock is going need some kind of disguise between Reichenbach Fall and The Empty House (Flat? Who knows how Gatiss will change the title) whenever he returns to London. But it won’t be easy to fool John Watson — or the legions of Cumberbabes on alert!

 

Don’t Even Ask About His Twitter Followers, Sherlock

Martin Freeman as John Watson in BBC Sherlock looking decidedly unhappy with someone off camera

I have a blog, Sherlock, and I *WILL* use it!

 

Because You’re An Idiot

by J.H. Watson
~1500 words

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Lestrade, I’m not explaining it again. Even John can understand it!”

John Watson’s lips tightened as if he were fighting to hold back bitter words. When he followed Sherlock Holmes out of the morgue, he moved stiffly, formally. John said nothing on the trip back to Baker Street, allowing Sherlock to go on and on about his own brilliance in solving the mystery without leaving the crime scene and the stupidity of not only London’s criminal class but it’s police force in failing to see the obvious.

John Watson continued to not say anything. Sherlock remained oblivious to the atmosphere hanging like a dank, dense fog in the flat. John sat in his chair attempting to read a book as Sherlock continued to chatter on for about an hour before John got his coat and left. He took a walk in the park. When John realized he was just storming about in circles mentally venting about Sherlock over and over in his head, he called Stamford about meeting in a pub for lunch.

At lunch Stamford asked, “So how’s Sherlock?”

“I’d rather not talk about him.”

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Buy a Clue, Sherlock

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes in his blue dressing gown looking puzzled

Why does Irene Adler keep sending me copies of the 50 Shades of Gray books with a dinner invitation?

 

You Should Get Yourself a Hobby

by J.H. Watson
~ 950 words

“Sherlock, you got another package. You know, dear, it’s cheaper if they send everything at once instead of one book at a time.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock Holmes didn’t bother to look up from the paper, but simply put out his hand to receive the box. John Watson did look up from his plate and said, “That’s six this month, eighteen in the last two?”

Sherlock continued to avoid the questioning stares of the other two people. “What an amazing memory you have, John. Too bad you couldn’t remember to drop off your laundry before you ran out of socks.”

“How did you know— Never mind. Don’t tell me.”

Mrs. Hudson wandered away to putter in the kitchen, making the occasional “tsk” noise and once gasping after she opened the microwave. John took another three bites of his breakfast before asking, “So what’s in the boxes? Books?”

“Another brilliant deduction given their size, shape, weight and source.” Sherlock rattle the newspaper as he turned a page. He still would not meet John’s gaze.

“Research?”

At this suggestion, Sherlock  did look up from his paper and stared into space. After a few seconds, he said, “I wonder.” He jumped up, grabbed the box and took off for his bedroom.

“Now what was that all about?” Mrs. Hudson asked coming in wiping her hands on a tea towel.

John shook his head and replied, “I have no idea. I just hope it’s not too messy.”

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Well You Did Have a Gigantic Hound, Sherlock

Benedict Cumberbatch as BBC Sherlock Holmes with a disbelieving sneer on his face

Dinosaurs on a spaceship? Dinosaurs on a spaceship? I sincerely hope Moftiss is planning to give me something even better for Season 3.

You’ll be getting punched int he face by John at the very least. That should stop you from being bored for at least a few moments. I confess the idea of Sherlock trying to wrap his mind around Dr. Who is intriguing (look I live in a rural area with all that implies that has become one of Death’s Little Waiting Rooms (aka a retirement community) so I have to come up with something to stop me from hearing the conversations around me (or what passes for conversations. I mean exactly how many times can you get excited about the sun coming out for half a day?)). Hmmm.

Yes, I think this is definitely some flash fanfic. Give me a moment to make some tea. If you don’t see the fanfic below, check back in an hour.

 

Don’t Blink, Sherlock

by J.H. Watson

 

“John, say that again.”

John sighed. He just wanted to watch the episode, but Sherlock was bored so he’d decided to watch with John. “Amelia Pond is the Doctor’s mother-in-law. Eventually. Well, now, actually because he’s already married River Song.”

“Who is really Melody Pond, Amelia and Rory’s daughter?”

“Right.”

“And Rory is really a Roman Centurion?”

“Right. Well, he started out as just a bloke who grew up with Amelia, but then he got killed, but came back from an alternate universe as a Roman Centurion who pledged to guard her tomb, which was actually a stasis box, for thousands of years until she was released in the 21st Century.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers and gave John his don’t-lie-to-me-you-know-who-I-am stare. “You’re making this up.”

“No, I’m not. It’s not my fault you wouldn’t watch the episodes in sequential order before this.”

Sherlock shifted in his chair. He held his empty cup out towards John. “I visited the fan sites. And Youtube.”

“Right. And how’s that working out.”

John automatically took the cup, went into the kitchen, filled it with coffee and two sugars, brought it back and placed it into Sherlock’s waiting hand. Sherlock took a sip, grimaced slightly and placed the cup on the table beside the chair. “What’s with the bow tie and the hat?”

John sat back down in the other chair and picked up the remote. “The Doctor thinks bow ties and hats are cool.”

“What happened to the glasses?”

“That was the tenth Doctor.”

“Right. So there have been 11 Time Lords.”

John sighed. “No, Sherlock. There was an entire planet of Time Lords who all died in a big battle to save the universe, except for the Doctor. And, well, the Master.”

“I liked the Master.”

“You would,” John said under his breath.

“What did you say?”

John’s shoulders sagged. He went slack in his seat. “Nothing. Can I start this episode now?”

“I just want to get this straight. All of these different actors are really the same person?”

“Yes, Sherlock. The Doctor regenerates, but each time he looks different.”

“Then it isn’t actually regeneration. From a scientific standpoint. And how can he meet his past incarnations. And why doesn’t he ever meet his future incarnations?”

John sighed heavily.  “I don’t know, Sherlock. It’s a wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey thing.”

“A what?” Sherlock furled his brow with a puzzled expression as if he thought John had gone mad.

“Look. Just go with it. Either watch the episodes with me or don’t.”

Sherlock stiffened. “Fine.” His lips tightened into a thin line of pout as he picked up a magazine.

John knew he’d pay for losing his temper later. John sighed again and pressed play on the remote. The familiar and unmistakeable theme music started.

From behind the magazine he obviously wasn’t reading, Sherlock haughtily said, “What I really don’t understand are the Companions. Why would anyone be a companion to someone so self-absorbed that he doesn’t care that he continuously puts their lives in danger?”

John rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and replied, “I have no idea.”

###