perevision (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
perevision) wrote2011-04-04 04:34 am
perevision) wrote2011-04-04 04:34 am
Entry tags:
Catch As Catch Can, 1/7 (illustrated)
Title: Catch as Catch Can
Chapter: 1/7
Summary: Sherlock is bored. John devises a game of hide and seek, with a twist: all the clues are pop culture references, comics and film and TV &c. Sherlock needs to make space on his hard drive in a hurry.
Warnings: slash (John/Sherlock), abuse of italics and parentheses, and a large amount of geekitude.
Rating: R
Notes: Written to fill this prompt on the sherlockbbc kinkmeme. Beta'd by the wonderful![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elethe and polkadotsquared.
This fic comes in two flavours: text-only, and extra spicy, with illustrations, maps bypolkadotsquared (beta, Britpicker and cartographer!), and links at relevant bits. This is the illustrated version; click here for the text-only chapter.
Catch As Catch Can, part 1
Sherlock snapped awake, his pulse hammering. He sat upright—whose bed was this? His? John's?—and winced as the migraine hit.
'Damn.'
There was a sharp tingle in his left leg, but it faded when he rubbed it. The headache, however, did not go away, nor did the pain in his upper arm. Sherlock rolled back his rumpled sleeve and peered at his arm. The tiny mark he found there made him yell and stumble to his feet.
The syringe on the bedside table— the biochemistry treatise, The Significance of Recurrent Behavioural Patterns in Criminal Psychology, 3rd Edition, and the nearly empty box of nicotine patches meant it was indeed his room—was still more than half full. Sherlock snatched it up. It was neatly capped and labelled.
'Propofol,' snarled Sherlock. 'You bastard.'
It had finally happened. He had tipped John Watson over the edge.
Last night
It had been five interminable, excruciating days without a case, St Bart's had an injunction against letting him experiment on their cadavers without written permission from Lestrade, and now John was ignoring him again, in favour of telly.
What the hell could possibly be on the idiot box that was a fraction as fascinating as a discussion on the behaviour of gastric bacteria during anaerobic metabolism? Sherlock was convinced John was being deliberately obtuse just to goad him. His deduction was proved right when John stubbornly kept turning the television on after Sherlock had switched it off, hid the remote, and even unplugged the thing.
Sherlock had had enough. When John suggested 'blokes' night in', he'd gone along out of sheer apathy, gamely joining in on curious rituals such as the Buying of the Beer, the Obligatory Bloke Movie, and even the Mocking of the Late Night Show Host ('one of the crew is in love with him, you can't miss the way the spotlight always finds him even though the show clearly directed it somewhere else'). But even contemporary anthropology couldn't hold his interest long, and when John had settled in for more of the same the following night Sherlock had rebelled.
After the whole telly scuffle, there ensued a whole hour of Coronation Street in which Sherlock sulked on the couch and found fault with everything from the background ('any pub claiming to be that old would never have fixtures like that!' 'their so-called prize garden has the wrong vegetables for the time of year,') to the actors ('that girl seems to think she's in a Christmas panto, the director must really like blowjobs').
He was just settling down to a good rant on the intellectual capacity (meager) and moral ambiguity (voyeurs and emotional vampires) on the sort of person who enjoyed this (brain poison) on a daily basis--when he was startled by a solid thwack in the ear, courtesy of John's throwing the Union flag cushion at his head. (Impeccable aim, as always.)
He raised an eyebrow. 'That was a mature response.'
'Well, I'm sick of it!' said John. His ears were red. 'I'm tired of you belittling things I like! They may not be important to you, Sherlock, but I like Corrie and Hot Fuzz and Jonathan Ross. I like panel quizzes and gardening shows. Maybe not all the time, but I like them!'
The eyebrow stayed up. 'I'm sure the Earth, as you so constantly remind me, will not cease to go round the Sun, if people stop watching this rubbish. There may even be fewer idiots in the world, dare I hope for such a miracle.'
'Maybe some people watch rubbish because it makes them feel normal,' said John.
Sherlock scoffed. (Remembering this, present Sherlock realised it might have been a mistake to ignore the way John was suddenly perfectly still, the way his voice dropped to deceptive softness. Uncharacteristic of him; he wouldn't make that mistake again.)
'Normal,' he said, investing as much scorn into the word as he could. 'Why would people want to be normal?'
John's nostrils flared as he took a slow, deep breath. His fingers had been shaky, the past few days, as danger faded from their horizon. He had almost dropped one of the beer cans last night. Sherlock saw him set down tonight's beer (the third), quite deliberately on the edge of the coffee table. Not shaking at all.
'It's nice,' said John, his lips thin, 'to do silly pointless things once in a while. To remember you're human, and alive. And maybe enjoy the fact. Because you can.'
'You call this alive?' sneered Sherlock. 'Vapid entertainment and pickling your brain in alcohol and fried food? Very good, John. You're almost as convincing as the panto girl.'
There was the sound of something being knocked over, the sudden smell of beer, and Sherlock found himself face to face with a (breathtakingly) angry John Watson.
John's hands were clamped tightly on either side of him, one on the back of the sofa and the other, thumb digging into the cushions, on the edge. His knee (the 'bad' one that was) braced him as he leaned over Sherlock. John knew Sherlock well, aversion to physical contact and all. He wasn't touching Sherlock anywhere.
He wasn't touching Sherlock. Anywhere. His breath was warm (and beery, but this was John and the proximity was more important than the smell), his eyes were alight with anger, and if Sherlock moved his leg so much as half an inch--
If we were magnets, we'd already be together, said a singsong voice in Sherlock's brain. John's magnetic field was affecting his brainwaves. That was patently insane and scientifically improbable but it was quite impossible that he actually wanted John to touch him, touch him everywhere, and he'd always said eliminate the impossible and what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Magnetic. Brainwaves. Truth. Obviously.
'Human,' breathed John, right into Sherlock's mouth (he hadn't noticed it was open. He felt no great urge to close it). 'Alive. Feel, Sherlock. It won't kill you.' He smiled a crooked John smile. 'Look,' he said, like a conjurer presenting his sleeves for inspection, and his mouth closed on Sherlock's and then there was tongue and Sherlock caught John's weight as it descended on him and there was sensation everywhere.
John kissed him with lips and tongue and teeth, and when the teeth introduced themselves Sherlock heard himself make that sound he only used to make all alone in the lab when the blood turned out to contain previously untraceable poisonous compounds, or when he spotted a tiny fracture in the cheekbone no one noticed that meant the victim was dead before they hit the water. He knew he'd made that sound before, but only by himself; he’d never dreamed he could feel like that in someone else's presence, much less that someone could wring that sensation out of him by using the body instead of the mind.
John was illuminating even as he was shutting down all thought, and now he'd got Sherlock's shirt buttons open and was mouthing his neck, even as those steady, firm hands stroked and scratched their way down Sherlock's body (oh) and undid his trouser buttons (oh) and then his fingers slipped into the warm dark space and squeezed. John bit down on Sherlock's collarbone, and pleasure burst inside Sherlock, every nerve lighting up like a perfectly orchestrated--
(explosion)
--and Sherlock fell back into his body, gasping, as John slid off him and got up.
'Well,' said John, trying to sound cold but sounding out of breath instead. There was a bulge in his khaki trousers that Sherlock would still be staring at, if he weren't staring at John's eyes instead.
John was still angry, and Sherlock didn't know why. Sex was supposed to ease frustrations, not aggravate them. He frowned and reached for the bulge. Maybe John was expecting reciprocation and was annoyed that Sherlock wasn't being quick enough.
John pushed his hand away. 'You still don't get it,' he said.
'I understand perfectly,' said Sherlock, lifting his chin. 'If you wanted a shag, you should have asked.'
John stared at him. Then he stared at the ceiling, breathing hard--a different sort of breathing hard than he’d made while bringing Sherlock off; this one had angry gargling noises in it.
'Wh—I can't—you just—arrgh!' John's hands twitched up, the fingers curving into the exact shape of Sherlock's neck. Then he threw up his hands, and the shape disappeared. 'Why do I even expect anything?' he seemed to ask the world in general. 'Why do I—gah,' he choked off as Sherlock, impatient and tired of melodrama, put a hand right on the bulge, feeling the curve of it under the fabric.
'Back,' growled John, shoving Sherlock into the arm of the sofa with the same hand he'd used to bring Sherlock off. He could smell it.
Something twitched, right where John had been squeezing him.
'Please, John,' he said, bringing all the need he could muster into his voice. It wasn't acting. Not much.
John took another deep, slow breath. 'I will be right back,' he said, forming the words one by one and pushing them past his teeth, like a nursery school teacher trying not to think of how close the chemical cleaning agents are to the afternoon snacks. Then he was gone—to get condoms or something, likely. Army doctor. Always prepared.
Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling and replaying every second over in his mind. His body felt electric all over. Who would have thought John had it in him?
John came hurrying back, opening a small white cardboard box. Sherlock smiled up at him, and John smiled back, leaning down to kiss him again. John's clever, clever fingers curled round his jaw, stroking down Sherlock's neck, and then his arm, as Sherlock closed his eyes and revelled in the touch.
Then he felt something like a sting in his arm. He blinked, and stared up at John, who was slipping something into his pocket. He looked awfully smug.
'It's games you want, then, is it?' said John as Sherlock stared, his mind already going fuzzy. 'I'll bloody well give you games. Count backwards from thirty, Sherlock, and tomorrow the fun starts.'
Today
Sherlock tore up the flat, his room, and then John's, looking for clues. He found hundreds—but none that would help tell him where John had gone, or what he wanted Sherlock to do. Apparently John had just walked out the door (after stabbing him with potent anaesthetic) and vanished.
Downstairs on the couch he saw only the rumpled throw blanket (he shivered for just a second) and the Union flag cushion on the floor. But on the coffee table, next to where John’s pint had stood, lay a roll of masking tape, its end recently ripped off, and an empty box of Polaroid film.
So, a note and a photo. Or possibly a note on a photo. Sherlock grimly returned to hunting.
Not until ten minutes later, bending over to look under the bed, did he feel a heavy tickling feeling between his shoulder blades. The next few seconds he spent hopping around, swearing, and contorting himself into various shapes until he could get the bloody note off his back.
He ripped the Polaroid off his shirt and flailed it. 'You complete bloody arsehole!' he yelled at the much-abused walls. 'Fucking John fucking Army bleeding doctor Watson! Buggerfuck!!' It took a while until his feelings were relieved enough to let him settle down and take a proper look at the photo.
It was a cartoon. Sherlock didn't like cartoons: too much detail left out. And the characters were all fictional anyway. Pointless.
And John knew this, which is exactly why he picked them. To top it off, the drawings were in black and white—no colour cues.
The Polaroid showed a yellowed door with what looked like a black and white shop sign. Two male characters framed the sign: One stocky and bearded, in a long coat and backward baseball cap (looked far too old to wear his cap that way, so unmarried, likely without even a romantic attachment, but old enough to live on his own). The other was lanky with long blond hair, a white t-shirt and black jacket, and a black beanie cap. The sign read, 'I assure you we're open.'
Sherlock turned the photo over. In black marker (permanent ink, fine-tipped; the smell was impossible to mistake) John had written, 'Dear Boo-boo Kitty Fuck: Batman's calling. The game is on.'
'What on earth?' Sherlock said aloud. But he grinned, fierce and feeling lighter by the second. The game is on.
'Oh, darling,' he sighed. 'You do love me.'
~end part 1~
Last note: About Sherlock swearing...I got the feeling he only swears or blasphemes (uses 'God', 'Christ' &c) when he's too annoyed or excited to concentrate. Otherwise he tends to substitute words, as a point of pride. But when he *does* lose it I believe he could be quite inventive.
Chapter: 1/7
Summary: Sherlock is bored. John devises a game of hide and seek, with a twist: all the clues are pop culture references, comics and film and TV &c. Sherlock needs to make space on his hard drive in a hurry.
Warnings: slash (John/Sherlock), abuse of italics and parentheses, and a large amount of geekitude.
Rating: R
Notes: Written to fill this prompt on the sherlockbbc kinkmeme. Beta'd by the wonderful
elethe and polkadotsquared.This fic comes in two flavours: text-only, and extra spicy, with illustrations, maps by
polkadotsquared (beta, Britpicker and cartographer!), and links at relevant bits. This is the illustrated version; click here for the text-only chapter.Catch As Catch Can, part 1
Sherlock snapped awake, his pulse hammering. He sat upright—whose bed was this? His? John's?—and winced as the migraine hit.
'Damn.'
There was a sharp tingle in his left leg, but it faded when he rubbed it. The headache, however, did not go away, nor did the pain in his upper arm. Sherlock rolled back his rumpled sleeve and peered at his arm. The tiny mark he found there made him yell and stumble to his feet.
The syringe on the bedside table— the biochemistry treatise, The Significance of Recurrent Behavioural Patterns in Criminal Psychology, 3rd Edition, and the nearly empty box of nicotine patches meant it was indeed his room—was still more than half full. Sherlock snatched it up. It was neatly capped and labelled.
'Propofol,' snarled Sherlock. 'You bastard.'
It had finally happened. He had tipped John Watson over the edge.
Last night
It had been five interminable, excruciating days without a case, St Bart's had an injunction against letting him experiment on their cadavers without written permission from Lestrade, and now John was ignoring him again, in favour of telly.
What the hell could possibly be on the idiot box that was a fraction as fascinating as a discussion on the behaviour of gastric bacteria during anaerobic metabolism? Sherlock was convinced John was being deliberately obtuse just to goad him. His deduction was proved right when John stubbornly kept turning the television on after Sherlock had switched it off, hid the remote, and even unplugged the thing.
Sherlock had had enough. When John suggested 'blokes' night in', he'd gone along out of sheer apathy, gamely joining in on curious rituals such as the Buying of the Beer, the Obligatory Bloke Movie, and even the Mocking of the Late Night Show Host ('one of the crew is in love with him, you can't miss the way the spotlight always finds him even though the show clearly directed it somewhere else'). But even contemporary anthropology couldn't hold his interest long, and when John had settled in for more of the same the following night Sherlock had rebelled.
After the whole telly scuffle, there ensued a whole hour of Coronation Street in which Sherlock sulked on the couch and found fault with everything from the background ('any pub claiming to be that old would never have fixtures like that!' 'their so-called prize garden has the wrong vegetables for the time of year,') to the actors ('that girl seems to think she's in a Christmas panto, the director must really like blowjobs').
He was just settling down to a good rant on the intellectual capacity (meager) and moral ambiguity (voyeurs and emotional vampires) on the sort of person who enjoyed this (brain poison) on a daily basis--when he was startled by a solid thwack in the ear, courtesy of John's throwing the Union flag cushion at his head. (Impeccable aim, as always.)
He raised an eyebrow. 'That was a mature response.'
'Well, I'm sick of it!' said John. His ears were red. 'I'm tired of you belittling things I like! They may not be important to you, Sherlock, but I like Corrie and Hot Fuzz and Jonathan Ross. I like panel quizzes and gardening shows. Maybe not all the time, but I like them!'
The eyebrow stayed up. 'I'm sure the Earth, as you so constantly remind me, will not cease to go round the Sun, if people stop watching this rubbish. There may even be fewer idiots in the world, dare I hope for such a miracle.'
'Maybe some people watch rubbish because it makes them feel normal,' said John.
Sherlock scoffed. (Remembering this, present Sherlock realised it might have been a mistake to ignore the way John was suddenly perfectly still, the way his voice dropped to deceptive softness. Uncharacteristic of him; he wouldn't make that mistake again.)
'Normal,' he said, investing as much scorn into the word as he could. 'Why would people want to be normal?'
John's nostrils flared as he took a slow, deep breath. His fingers had been shaky, the past few days, as danger faded from their horizon. He had almost dropped one of the beer cans last night. Sherlock saw him set down tonight's beer (the third), quite deliberately on the edge of the coffee table. Not shaking at all.
'It's nice,' said John, his lips thin, 'to do silly pointless things once in a while. To remember you're human, and alive. And maybe enjoy the fact. Because you can.'
'You call this alive?' sneered Sherlock. 'Vapid entertainment and pickling your brain in alcohol and fried food? Very good, John. You're almost as convincing as the panto girl.'
There was the sound of something being knocked over, the sudden smell of beer, and Sherlock found himself face to face with a (breathtakingly) angry John Watson.
John's hands were clamped tightly on either side of him, one on the back of the sofa and the other, thumb digging into the cushions, on the edge. His knee (the 'bad' one that was) braced him as he leaned over Sherlock. John knew Sherlock well, aversion to physical contact and all. He wasn't touching Sherlock anywhere.
He wasn't touching Sherlock. Anywhere. His breath was warm (and beery, but this was John and the proximity was more important than the smell), his eyes were alight with anger, and if Sherlock moved his leg so much as half an inch--
If we were magnets, we'd already be together, said a singsong voice in Sherlock's brain. John's magnetic field was affecting his brainwaves. That was patently insane and scientifically improbable but it was quite impossible that he actually wanted John to touch him, touch him everywhere, and he'd always said eliminate the impossible and what remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Magnetic. Brainwaves. Truth. Obviously.
'Human,' breathed John, right into Sherlock's mouth (he hadn't noticed it was open. He felt no great urge to close it). 'Alive. Feel, Sherlock. It won't kill you.' He smiled a crooked John smile. 'Look,' he said, like a conjurer presenting his sleeves for inspection, and his mouth closed on Sherlock's and then there was tongue and Sherlock caught John's weight as it descended on him and there was sensation everywhere.
John kissed him with lips and tongue and teeth, and when the teeth introduced themselves Sherlock heard himself make that sound he only used to make all alone in the lab when the blood turned out to contain previously untraceable poisonous compounds, or when he spotted a tiny fracture in the cheekbone no one noticed that meant the victim was dead before they hit the water. He knew he'd made that sound before, but only by himself; he’d never dreamed he could feel like that in someone else's presence, much less that someone could wring that sensation out of him by using the body instead of the mind.
John was illuminating even as he was shutting down all thought, and now he'd got Sherlock's shirt buttons open and was mouthing his neck, even as those steady, firm hands stroked and scratched their way down Sherlock's body (oh) and undid his trouser buttons (oh) and then his fingers slipped into the warm dark space and squeezed. John bit down on Sherlock's collarbone, and pleasure burst inside Sherlock, every nerve lighting up like a perfectly orchestrated--
(explosion)
--and Sherlock fell back into his body, gasping, as John slid off him and got up.
'Well,' said John, trying to sound cold but sounding out of breath instead. There was a bulge in his khaki trousers that Sherlock would still be staring at, if he weren't staring at John's eyes instead.
John was still angry, and Sherlock didn't know why. Sex was supposed to ease frustrations, not aggravate them. He frowned and reached for the bulge. Maybe John was expecting reciprocation and was annoyed that Sherlock wasn't being quick enough.
John pushed his hand away. 'You still don't get it,' he said.
'I understand perfectly,' said Sherlock, lifting his chin. 'If you wanted a shag, you should have asked.'
John stared at him. Then he stared at the ceiling, breathing hard--a different sort of breathing hard than he’d made while bringing Sherlock off; this one had angry gargling noises in it.
'Wh—I can't—you just—arrgh!' John's hands twitched up, the fingers curving into the exact shape of Sherlock's neck. Then he threw up his hands, and the shape disappeared. 'Why do I even expect anything?' he seemed to ask the world in general. 'Why do I—gah,' he choked off as Sherlock, impatient and tired of melodrama, put a hand right on the bulge, feeling the curve of it under the fabric.
'Back,' growled John, shoving Sherlock into the arm of the sofa with the same hand he'd used to bring Sherlock off. He could smell it.
Something twitched, right where John had been squeezing him.
'Please, John,' he said, bringing all the need he could muster into his voice. It wasn't acting. Not much.
John took another deep, slow breath. 'I will be right back,' he said, forming the words one by one and pushing them past his teeth, like a nursery school teacher trying not to think of how close the chemical cleaning agents are to the afternoon snacks. Then he was gone—to get condoms or something, likely. Army doctor. Always prepared.
Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling and replaying every second over in his mind. His body felt electric all over. Who would have thought John had it in him?
John came hurrying back, opening a small white cardboard box. Sherlock smiled up at him, and John smiled back, leaning down to kiss him again. John's clever, clever fingers curled round his jaw, stroking down Sherlock's neck, and then his arm, as Sherlock closed his eyes and revelled in the touch.
Then he felt something like a sting in his arm. He blinked, and stared up at John, who was slipping something into his pocket. He looked awfully smug.
'It's games you want, then, is it?' said John as Sherlock stared, his mind already going fuzzy. 'I'll bloody well give you games. Count backwards from thirty, Sherlock, and tomorrow the fun starts.'
Today
Sherlock tore up the flat, his room, and then John's, looking for clues. He found hundreds—but none that would help tell him where John had gone, or what he wanted Sherlock to do. Apparently John had just walked out the door (after stabbing him with potent anaesthetic) and vanished.
Downstairs on the couch he saw only the rumpled throw blanket (he shivered for just a second) and the Union flag cushion on the floor. But on the coffee table, next to where John’s pint had stood, lay a roll of masking tape, its end recently ripped off, and an empty box of Polaroid film.
So, a note and a photo. Or possibly a note on a photo. Sherlock grimly returned to hunting.
Not until ten minutes later, bending over to look under the bed, did he feel a heavy tickling feeling between his shoulder blades. The next few seconds he spent hopping around, swearing, and contorting himself into various shapes until he could get the bloody note off his back.
He ripped the Polaroid off his shirt and flailed it. 'You complete bloody arsehole!' he yelled at the much-abused walls. 'Fucking John fucking Army bleeding doctor Watson! Buggerfuck!!' It took a while until his feelings were relieved enough to let him settle down and take a proper look at the photo.
It was a cartoon. Sherlock didn't like cartoons: too much detail left out. And the characters were all fictional anyway. Pointless.
And John knew this, which is exactly why he picked them. To top it off, the drawings were in black and white—no colour cues.
The Polaroid showed a yellowed door with what looked like a black and white shop sign. Two male characters framed the sign: One stocky and bearded, in a long coat and backward baseball cap (looked far too old to wear his cap that way, so unmarried, likely without even a romantic attachment, but old enough to live on his own). The other was lanky with long blond hair, a white t-shirt and black jacket, and a black beanie cap. The sign read, 'I assure you we're open.'
Sherlock turned the photo over. In black marker (permanent ink, fine-tipped; the smell was impossible to mistake) John had written, 'Dear Boo-boo Kitty Fuck: Batman's calling. The game is on.'
'What on earth?' Sherlock said aloud. But he grinned, fierce and feeling lighter by the second. The game is on.
'Oh, darling,' he sighed. 'You do love me.'
Last note: About Sherlock swearing...I got the feeling he only swears or blasphemes (uses 'God', 'Christ' &c) when he's too annoyed or excited to concentrate. Otherwise he tends to substitute words, as a point of pride. But when he *does* lose it I believe he could be quite inventive.
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Of course a great many of the beans of awesome are yours by right! Am finishing up the illustrations, your you-know-what comes in next chapter! \o/
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Omg your icon. Drunk!Angrybeige!John always sends me into hysterics.
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and yeah!
John DO love Sherlock! \o
"I'm on FIRE!"
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