Richard Book is Innocent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxfordtweed) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tweedandtinsel2010-12-13 12:06 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2010-12-13 12:06 am
Mislaid Memories (1/4) - A Study in Pink
Fandom: Sherlock; Doctor Who
Character/s: Holmes, Watson, the Doctor (12), Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 1400
Rating: G
Summary: The Doctor and his companion investigate a very evil and dastardly being who calls himself Moriarty.
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for everything, and very likely anything up to and through the fifth series of Doctor Who. To avoid any confusion, we’ll just say that this is the 12th incarnation of the Doctor (unless you’re reading this after Matt Smith has handed the sonic screwdriver over to the next guy, at which point we’ll just call it a full-blown AU).
A fill for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
alizarin_skies’ Make Me a Monday prompt last week. A bit late, but I only saw it tonight.
“Not bored now, are you?”
A promise made to him a very long time ago echoed through his mind. A very simple promise that had time and time again been kept without fail. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d been hoping to experience when he’d first signed up with the strange man with his strange ways of thinking.
Well, hadn’t so much signed up, as he’d agreed to go along with him in exchange for room and board, as well as semi-regular meals, which had been much better than what he’d had on his own.
Not bored. He was, in fact, very startled when the cabbie lurched forward milliseconds after the sound of gunfire rang in the very near distance.
The plan had gone wrong.
As soon as Sherlock saw the perfectly-placed bullet hole and the open window from the other building, he knew that he’d been followed. But of course John had found him. Sherlock would have been an idiot to have assumed John would have done anything but.
The plan had been for John to lay down a good cover, and a good cover does not involve being noticed for shooting a man from the next building over.
Damage control later. There was still a bleeding murderer lying on the floor who wouldn’t be alive for much longer, and Sherlock needed information from him. For a moment, he let himself get distracted with the business of the pill, but that wasn’t the information he needed. He needed to know who had actually been behind the killings. The cabbie’s so-called sponsor. He hadn’t expected the man to talk, but he needed to know, and was willing to try almost anything.
Stepping on the man, as it happened, turned out to be the best way to go about learning what deep down, he’d already known.
In what would not be remembered as even a podium finish for the greatest last words, the cabbie screamed a single name, and one that made Sherlock reel backwards.
Moriarty.
He’d been expecting this for some time, but he hadn’t thought it would be quite like this.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realised he hadn’t known what to expect. This was not the time to be confused over broken expectations, though. Finally, the reason he was running around London in the first place had surfaced for the first time after five very long years of waiting.
Five very long, though very exciting and strange years.
“I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket.”
Sherlock tried to stare down the detective, but it hadn’t quite worked, as evidenced in that the man kept trying to argue with him.
Sherlock couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Of course John was acclimatised to violence. He’d told Sherlock that this hadn’t been the first time he had to do this strange and terrible thing, and had apparently learned a few things from the last time.
Maybe Sherlock was in shock, because he couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d have let all that information slip to Lestrade.
His argument seemed convincing enough, because although reluctantly, Lestrade did let him leave. Not wanting to take any more chances and let this whole fragile operation fall to pieces, Sherlock jumped at the opportunity to get away as quickly as possible.
Sherlock could see that there was still something there. Something in John that had fought back and not been repressed like it should have been. He hadn’t even flinched when Sherlock all but stated plainly that he knew John had been the shooter. Even though guns weren’t his usual way of handling things, the man did know how to use them and had killed before. He’d put on a brave face about it, but Sherlock knew that it would bother him later, although he’d never show it. That’s just how he was, and always had been.
“You weren’t going to take that damn pill, were you?” John asked, sounding somewhere between angry and disappointed, but hiding it well. Not well enough, though; not when it was a tone Sherlock had been made very familiar with already.
Sherlock turned to face him. “Of course I wasn’t,” he assured. “Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”
John couldn’t figure out why Sherlock would say such a ridiculous thing. They hardly knew anything about one another, let alone what the other was likely to do in the event that one of them was kidnapped by a homicidal cab driver.
“No you didn’t,” he said. “That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”
Sherlock very nearly laughed. He had, after all, picked up this rather odd hobby from the man throwing the accusations. But, no. Laughing would not help him. Not now. It would only make things worse.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re an idiot.” John said it simply, as though he’d said it a thousand times before, and always with good reason.
Sherlock didn’t manage to hold it back this time and a wide smile spread across his face, just for a moment. Everything was different now, and yet, so much was still the same.
“Dinner?” he suggested, hoping to get off of familiar tracks.
John, thankfully, took the bait.
“Starving,” he said with a small nod and more irony that Sherlock could handle.
Sherlock ignored this by going on about Chinese restaurants and door handles, which had been something else that had been relayed to him a very long time ago. He was interrupted, however, by John suddenly seeming very nervous and nodding toward a man stepping out of a car.
“That’s him,” he said, after getting Sherlock’s attention. “The man I was talking to you about.”
Sherlock saw the man, and knew exactly what his presence at the scene represented. His very being there confirmed everything Sherlock had learned from the dead cabbie, which meant that they were getting close and things were starting to get dangerous.
Sherlock and his apparent arch enemy spoke in clipped words and carefully-constructed code. They had built up an entire fabricated relationship over the last five years, and it had been one which they had both all too easily fallen into.
That first week with Torchwood probably had as much to do with it as anything.
As they exchanged information, Sherlock would occasionally cast quick glances to John, trying to gauge how much of the conversation he was following. Very little, if the absolutely bewildered expression on his face was anything to go by. Good.
While it was fun to watch John struggle to keep up, Sherlock was rather hungry and very bored of Mycroft and his spying. Sherlock knew he was getting the job done, and he didn’t need to be babysat. They’d get the job done without Mycroft.
He left, and John soon followed after, again eager to jump into pointless chatter about fortune cookies. Sherlock had not been expecting this conversation to turn into John asking him what he was so happy about.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock answered simply. It was risky, but he had to try it. He had to see if John remembered.
“What’s Moriarty?” John asked.
“Absolutely no idea.”
It was a complete and total lie, and one he rather hoped John wouldn’t be able to see right through. But it was far too early yet to be truthful about the matter. Telling John would only jeopardise the entire mission. Best to keep him in the dark for now.
Just a little while longer, and things should hopefully begin to fall into place to be easily picked up and fitted together.
Character/s: Holmes, Watson, the Doctor (12), Mycroft Holmes
Word Count: 1400
Rating: G
Summary: The Doctor and his companion investigate a very evil and dastardly being who calls himself Moriarty.
Notes/Warnings: Spoilers for everything, and very likely anything up to and through the fifth series of Doctor Who. To avoid any confusion, we’ll just say that this is the 12th incarnation of the Doctor (unless you’re reading this after Matt Smith has handed the sonic screwdriver over to the next guy, at which point we’ll just call it a full-blown AU).
A fill for
alizarin_skies’ Make Me a Monday prompt last week. A bit late, but I only saw it tonight.“Not bored now, are you?”
A promise made to him a very long time ago echoed through his mind. A very simple promise that had time and time again been kept without fail. This was exactly the sort of thing he’d been hoping to experience when he’d first signed up with the strange man with his strange ways of thinking.
Well, hadn’t so much signed up, as he’d agreed to go along with him in exchange for room and board, as well as semi-regular meals, which had been much better than what he’d had on his own.
Not bored. He was, in fact, very startled when the cabbie lurched forward milliseconds after the sound of gunfire rang in the very near distance.
The plan had gone wrong.
As soon as Sherlock saw the perfectly-placed bullet hole and the open window from the other building, he knew that he’d been followed. But of course John had found him. Sherlock would have been an idiot to have assumed John would have done anything but.
The plan had been for John to lay down a good cover, and a good cover does not involve being noticed for shooting a man from the next building over.
Damage control later. There was still a bleeding murderer lying on the floor who wouldn’t be alive for much longer, and Sherlock needed information from him. For a moment, he let himself get distracted with the business of the pill, but that wasn’t the information he needed. He needed to know who had actually been behind the killings. The cabbie’s so-called sponsor. He hadn’t expected the man to talk, but he needed to know, and was willing to try almost anything.
Stepping on the man, as it happened, turned out to be the best way to go about learning what deep down, he’d already known.
In what would not be remembered as even a podium finish for the greatest last words, the cabbie screamed a single name, and one that made Sherlock reel backwards.
Moriarty.
He’d been expecting this for some time, but he hadn’t thought it would be quite like this.
But the more he thought about it, the more he realised he hadn’t known what to expect. This was not the time to be confused over broken expectations, though. Finally, the reason he was running around London in the first place had surfaced for the first time after five very long years of waiting.
Five very long, though very exciting and strange years.
“I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket.”
Sherlock tried to stare down the detective, but it hadn’t quite worked, as evidenced in that the man kept trying to argue with him.
Sherlock couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. Of course John was acclimatised to violence. He’d told Sherlock that this hadn’t been the first time he had to do this strange and terrible thing, and had apparently learned a few things from the last time.
Maybe Sherlock was in shock, because he couldn’t think of any other reason why he’d have let all that information slip to Lestrade.
His argument seemed convincing enough, because although reluctantly, Lestrade did let him leave. Not wanting to take any more chances and let this whole fragile operation fall to pieces, Sherlock jumped at the opportunity to get away as quickly as possible.
Sherlock could see that there was still something there. Something in John that had fought back and not been repressed like it should have been. He hadn’t even flinched when Sherlock all but stated plainly that he knew John had been the shooter. Even though guns weren’t his usual way of handling things, the man did know how to use them and had killed before. He’d put on a brave face about it, but Sherlock knew that it would bother him later, although he’d never show it. That’s just how he was, and always had been.
“You weren’t going to take that damn pill, were you?” John asked, sounding somewhere between angry and disappointed, but hiding it well. Not well enough, though; not when it was a tone Sherlock had been made very familiar with already.
Sherlock turned to face him. “Of course I wasn’t,” he assured. “Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”
John couldn’t figure out why Sherlock would say such a ridiculous thing. They hardly knew anything about one another, let alone what the other was likely to do in the event that one of them was kidnapped by a homicidal cab driver.
“No you didn’t,” he said. “That’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”
Sherlock very nearly laughed. He had, after all, picked up this rather odd hobby from the man throwing the accusations. But, no. Laughing would not help him. Not now. It would only make things worse.
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re an idiot.” John said it simply, as though he’d said it a thousand times before, and always with good reason.
Sherlock didn’t manage to hold it back this time and a wide smile spread across his face, just for a moment. Everything was different now, and yet, so much was still the same.
“Dinner?” he suggested, hoping to get off of familiar tracks.
John, thankfully, took the bait.
“Starving,” he said with a small nod and more irony that Sherlock could handle.
Sherlock ignored this by going on about Chinese restaurants and door handles, which had been something else that had been relayed to him a very long time ago. He was interrupted, however, by John suddenly seeming very nervous and nodding toward a man stepping out of a car.
“That’s him,” he said, after getting Sherlock’s attention. “The man I was talking to you about.”
Sherlock saw the man, and knew exactly what his presence at the scene represented. His very being there confirmed everything Sherlock had learned from the dead cabbie, which meant that they were getting close and things were starting to get dangerous.
Sherlock and his apparent arch enemy spoke in clipped words and carefully-constructed code. They had built up an entire fabricated relationship over the last five years, and it had been one which they had both all too easily fallen into.
That first week with Torchwood probably had as much to do with it as anything.
As they exchanged information, Sherlock would occasionally cast quick glances to John, trying to gauge how much of the conversation he was following. Very little, if the absolutely bewildered expression on his face was anything to go by. Good.
While it was fun to watch John struggle to keep up, Sherlock was rather hungry and very bored of Mycroft and his spying. Sherlock knew he was getting the job done, and he didn’t need to be babysat. They’d get the job done without Mycroft.
He left, and John soon followed after, again eager to jump into pointless chatter about fortune cookies. Sherlock had not been expecting this conversation to turn into John asking him what he was so happy about.
“Moriarty,” Sherlock answered simply. It was risky, but he had to try it. He had to see if John remembered.
“What’s Moriarty?” John asked.
“Absolutely no idea.”
It was a complete and total lie, and one he rather hoped John wouldn’t be able to see right through. But it was far too early yet to be truthful about the matter. Telling John would only jeopardise the entire mission. Best to keep him in the dark for now.
Just a little while longer, and things should hopefully begin to fall into place to be easily picked up and fitted together.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject