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remindmeofthe) wrote2011-12-13 07:31 pm
remindmeofthe) wrote2011-12-13 07:31 pm
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So! In the finest tradition of students smack in the middle of finals panic, I have found my very favorite procrastination tool. Which, in this case, happens to be the Sherlock prompt meme. Naturally, I've picked up plot bunnies from browsing it, some of which are viable and some of which not so much. (Will someone please talk me out of the crossover with frigging Twilight where Anderson goes to work in Forks and, thanks to having picked up deductive techniques from Sherlock, is the only one on the force who figures out that vampires have been making kills in the area? It's not even my idea and it WON'T GO AWAY.)
Here is one that was good for a quick snippet! It's a Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover, because since when do I write Sherlock fic that's not crossed over with something? (I'm going to try to do it before new canon surfaces on the first, but I promise nothing.) Assume spoilers for everything that's aired for either show, though they're more implied than anything.
When the air in the flat starts blowing around, accompanied by some kind of godawful wheezing noise, John's first thought is that one of Sherlock's experiments has gone horribly wrong. Or, possibly, horribly right.
When a blue police box materializes in the middle of the room, John is forced to reconsider his first thought. Sherlock's experiments do any number of things, some of them amazing and some of them just disgusting, but he's never seen one result in spontaneous generation before.
The room goes silent. John spends what feels like ages staring at the phonebox, mouth open, mug of tea he was making completely forgotten, before the phonebox door opens and a woman with riotous blonde curls steps out. She lights up when she sees him, smiling warmly and making a beeline toward him with her arms out.
"John!" she exclaims, hugging him. "It's so good to see you. How are you? Let's have a look at you." She steps back to hold him at arm's length, her hands on his upper arms, then frowns slightly in consternation as their eyes meet. "Hmm."
She angles her head toward the phonebox without looking away from John. "Sweetie, what year did you say this was?" she calls.
A man pops his head out through the door. His hair is darker, though still blond and less than tame, and he's wearing a bowtie. "2017. Why, is it . . ." His gaze lands on John. "Ah."
"Yes," the woman says. "'Ah.' I don't know why I let him drive," she tells John confidingly.
John stares at her. It isn't that he can't think of any pertinent questions; it's that he's got so many they're all jamming up against each other in his head and none of them are able to get out.
She gives him a sympathetic look, squeezing his arms before she lets her hands drop. "I'm afraid the next twenty minutes or so are going to be very confusing," she says. "Don't worry, though, you'll get the hang of it quite admirably." The way she says it is odd, leaving him with the impression that she's not so much trying to reassure him as she is stating a fact.
"You're parking with the brakes on again." In his bewilderment, John hadn't heard Sherlock come in. He closes the flat door behind him, stripping off his gloves. "I could hear you all the way down the street."
"Don't look at me," the man says. "She does it on her own sometimes. She likes the noise, too." He pats the side of the phonebox fondly.
The woman makes her way across the flat to hug Sherlock, less exuberantly than she had John but with a great deal of a deeper kind of affection. To what would have been John's considerable surprise had he been capable of being any more surprised at this particular moment, Sherlock returns the embrace and even allows her to kiss his cheek.
"Hello, Sherlock," she says.
"Hello, Mummy," he answers, then glances past her toward the phonebox to nod at their other visitor. "Dad."
"What," John says.
"You've not met John yet," Sherlock says. It ought to sound like a question, a request for confirmation, but Sherlock presents it almost like a warning.
"Yes, we'd noticed," she answers, a bit dry. "And you've not said a word about us, have you?"
"There's no explaining you to anyone without the TARDIS," Sherlock says. "I've tried. Lestrade just asked if I was using again."
"Sorry," John says, "what?"
"Right," she says. "Introductions first, 'bigger on the inside' second, then we'll pick up Mycroft and pop over to Leadworth? I think it's about time they meet their grandsons." She glances to her companion for confirmation.
"High time," he says. "Absolutely time. May as well get all the first meetings done at once. Just try to remember, Sherlock, don't call Amy Grandmum, you know she doesn't like that when she's younger than you are."
"EXCUSE ME," John says. "What the hell is going on here?"
The woman gives Sherlock a pointed look. He clears his throat.
"John," he says. "This is River Song and the Doctor. They're my parents."
Before John can even begin to unpack all the things wrong with that statement as applied to a man ten years Sherlock's junior and a woman roughly Mycroft's age, the Doctor speaks up.
"Come on, John," he says bracingly, gesturing toward the phonebox, "we'll give you the tour. It'll all make sense after you've had the tour."
"Will it," John says flatly.
"No," the Doctor admits. "But it'll be easier to pretend it does. So!" He repeats the gesture. John doesn't move.
"It's a phonebox."
Sherlock has the gall to roll his eyes. "Just go in, John, so we can get this bit over with."
"I love this bit," the Doctor protests.
"They always say the same thing," Sherlock says. "It's tedious."
"Why don't I call ahead to Mycroft," River says, "so he can clear our way. We don't want a repeat of last time."
She walks past the Doctor into the phonebox. Sherlock moves to follow, but the Doctor stops him with a hand on his arm.
"Hey," the Doctor says gently. "Good to see you, yeah?"
Sherlock's expression softens. "Good to see you," he says.
The Doctor grins and hugs him fiercely; John finds himself looking away, to give the reunion a few seconds' privacy. When he looks back up, the Doctor has gone into the phonebox and Sherlock is paused on its threshold, looking at John expectantly.
"Are you coming?"
"- Yeah," John says, wondering how they're all meant to fit, wondering if that's even a relevant question when it comes to a phonebox that materializes out of nowhere. "Right behind you."
Here is one that was good for a quick snippet! It's a Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover, because since when do I write Sherlock fic that's not crossed over with something? (I'm going to try to do it before new canon surfaces on the first, but I promise nothing.) Assume spoilers for everything that's aired for either show, though they're more implied than anything.
When the air in the flat starts blowing around, accompanied by some kind of godawful wheezing noise, John's first thought is that one of Sherlock's experiments has gone horribly wrong. Or, possibly, horribly right.
When a blue police box materializes in the middle of the room, John is forced to reconsider his first thought. Sherlock's experiments do any number of things, some of them amazing and some of them just disgusting, but he's never seen one result in spontaneous generation before.
The room goes silent. John spends what feels like ages staring at the phonebox, mouth open, mug of tea he was making completely forgotten, before the phonebox door opens and a woman with riotous blonde curls steps out. She lights up when she sees him, smiling warmly and making a beeline toward him with her arms out.
"John!" she exclaims, hugging him. "It's so good to see you. How are you? Let's have a look at you." She steps back to hold him at arm's length, her hands on his upper arms, then frowns slightly in consternation as their eyes meet. "Hmm."
She angles her head toward the phonebox without looking away from John. "Sweetie, what year did you say this was?" she calls.
A man pops his head out through the door. His hair is darker, though still blond and less than tame, and he's wearing a bowtie. "2017. Why, is it . . ." His gaze lands on John. "Ah."
"Yes," the woman says. "'Ah.' I don't know why I let him drive," she tells John confidingly.
John stares at her. It isn't that he can't think of any pertinent questions; it's that he's got so many they're all jamming up against each other in his head and none of them are able to get out.
She gives him a sympathetic look, squeezing his arms before she lets her hands drop. "I'm afraid the next twenty minutes or so are going to be very confusing," she says. "Don't worry, though, you'll get the hang of it quite admirably." The way she says it is odd, leaving him with the impression that she's not so much trying to reassure him as she is stating a fact.
"You're parking with the brakes on again." In his bewilderment, John hadn't heard Sherlock come in. He closes the flat door behind him, stripping off his gloves. "I could hear you all the way down the street."
"Don't look at me," the man says. "She does it on her own sometimes. She likes the noise, too." He pats the side of the phonebox fondly.
The woman makes her way across the flat to hug Sherlock, less exuberantly than she had John but with a great deal of a deeper kind of affection. To what would have been John's considerable surprise had he been capable of being any more surprised at this particular moment, Sherlock returns the embrace and even allows her to kiss his cheek.
"Hello, Sherlock," she says.
"Hello, Mummy," he answers, then glances past her toward the phonebox to nod at their other visitor. "Dad."
"What," John says.
"You've not met John yet," Sherlock says. It ought to sound like a question, a request for confirmation, but Sherlock presents it almost like a warning.
"Yes, we'd noticed," she answers, a bit dry. "And you've not said a word about us, have you?"
"There's no explaining you to anyone without the TARDIS," Sherlock says. "I've tried. Lestrade just asked if I was using again."
"Sorry," John says, "what?"
"Right," she says. "Introductions first, 'bigger on the inside' second, then we'll pick up Mycroft and pop over to Leadworth? I think it's about time they meet their grandsons." She glances to her companion for confirmation.
"High time," he says. "Absolutely time. May as well get all the first meetings done at once. Just try to remember, Sherlock, don't call Amy Grandmum, you know she doesn't like that when she's younger than you are."
"EXCUSE ME," John says. "What the hell is going on here?"
The woman gives Sherlock a pointed look. He clears his throat.
"John," he says. "This is River Song and the Doctor. They're my parents."
Before John can even begin to unpack all the things wrong with that statement as applied to a man ten years Sherlock's junior and a woman roughly Mycroft's age, the Doctor speaks up.
"Come on, John," he says bracingly, gesturing toward the phonebox, "we'll give you the tour. It'll all make sense after you've had the tour."
"Will it," John says flatly.
"No," the Doctor admits. "But it'll be easier to pretend it does. So!" He repeats the gesture. John doesn't move.
"It's a phonebox."
Sherlock has the gall to roll his eyes. "Just go in, John, so we can get this bit over with."
"I love this bit," the Doctor protests.
"They always say the same thing," Sherlock says. "It's tedious."
"Why don't I call ahead to Mycroft," River says, "so he can clear our way. We don't want a repeat of last time."
She walks past the Doctor into the phonebox. Sherlock moves to follow, but the Doctor stops him with a hand on his arm.
"Hey," the Doctor says gently. "Good to see you, yeah?"
Sherlock's expression softens. "Good to see you," he says.
The Doctor grins and hugs him fiercely; John finds himself looking away, to give the reunion a few seconds' privacy. When he looks back up, the Doctor has gone into the phonebox and Sherlock is paused on its threshold, looking at John expectantly.
"Are you coming?"
"- Yeah," John says, wondering how they're all meant to fit, wondering if that's even a relevant question when it comes to a phonebox that materializes out of nowhere. "Right behind you."