Chapters 26-29 of Testimony are now up on AO3!
Link to Chapter 26 here
Link to beginning here
Explicit, M/M, Sherlock/John, PWP, Angst, Fluff, NSFW, and of course an extra-delicious helping of FEELS!
Summary: Sherlock keeps a journal. It’s rather private.
I betaed this — go read! :)
Mid-morning. Time for his daily check of John’s Internet browsing history. Sherlock did this for John’s own good. Sometimes John spent an inordinate amount of time searching for things that Sherlock already knew, like “best thai Marylebone.” And if Sherlock hoped he’d someday find John was looking for gay porn, well, then he could casually work into conversation, Fancy a shag, John?
On the day he found an appalling YouTube video titled “Gangnam Style,” Sherlock stared at it and tried to think if this boded well or ill for John possibly moving in the direction of searching for gay porn.
May I just take a moment to say why 50 Shades of Grey pisses me off? It’s not the plotless erotica part; I could care less about that. No, it’s the fact that every outsider - that is, non-fandom people - and hell, even a few fandom people, now think that that’s what fanfiction looks like, that it’s all poorly written sex with no plot payoff.
But we *points to every other person who’s been in fandom* know otherwise.
The Road Less Traveled. At Least There’s the Football. Performance in a Leading Role. Impact. Give me a Label (I’ll Give You Confetti). We’ll Burn Like Falling Stars Tonight. I mean really, Sherlockinas, which of has hasn’t read at least one of these? (If you haven’t then you’re missing out. Big time.)
And fellow potterheads, have you ever read any of C.Queen’s 2nd gen stories? Some of them are proof that stories can have PLENTY of sex and yet still be wonderfully written with an excellent plot.
This whole rant was prompted by some stupide article I read on 50 Shades of Grey that made it sound like “Yep. This is what all fanfiction looks like. It’s written by a small group of weird people who’re out of touch with the world, and it’s all plotless nonsense.”
Okay, yes, admittedly there is a fair amount of that, but not all of like this article made it sound.
Am I the only one who feels this way?
Nope. I recently fought against this in an academic context. Also fought against the notion that fanfic writers are “lazy” and that’s why they write fanfic, because they can’t be bothered to come up with their own characters. I really rocked their world when I suggested that it’s much harder to write someone else’s character well than it is to just make up a character of your own.
It’s true, writing other people’s characters is a harder gig (she says as if she knows…)
A year later the day felt cool on John’s skin despite the heat. The sun had beaten his family into short sleeved submission; his son and grandchildren who were here for him - and for Sherlock.
Violet, with her curly hair and quicksilver eyes (who should have been working on a literature review) handed him his cane and began to fuss until John caught her hand. Malcolm nodded and held John’s gaze, although he and John had been shouting an hour ago – he shouldn’t have re-scheduled his office hours. Then there was Harry, who always begrudged being named after a girl, and who had to have sampling equipment confiscated on the way. The subsequent sulk made John smile.
Harry reeled off everything he had learnt this last year about bees and Violet, more subtle, had bought single dahlias and equipment to plant them (oh, how that concession had made Harry fume). Malcolm, quieter, was in the habit of visiting regularly anyway.
It was John’s first visit; he held his silence - he did not need a stone to remember, not with his three geniuses around now at home.
He looked past them to Alice, his daughter in law. She knew. She would take care of them. He turned back to Sherlock.
He did not beg this time, or bargain.
redgooner4ever asked: Did you do that fanfic? :D I would like to read it but I can't find it.
Thank you for asking!
I have ended up doing three 221Bs so far (which are drabbles that are 221 words long, the last word of which begins with B - though you probably know that!)
They’ve got buried a few pages back, I may need to turn my queue down a bit!
- Nichola :)
I keep committing 221Bs when I should really be writing other things… like CVs. Argh - stop me! I’m currently fighting the urge to do one ending in Brontosaurus of all things.
The procedure that was ignored as often as possible by Sherlock could be a particular comfort to Mycroft, especially if one regarded it as an option instead of the necessity that so many unimaginative individuals mistook it for. Until circumstance conspired. Although perhaps even then there was always an alternative. Even if it was the inconceivable choice.
It was a card Mycroft used most proficiently as a sleight of hand in moves that even Sherlock found hard to grasp on occasion. If Sherlock would only desist in his stubborn prejudices he might be a force to be reckoned with, but as it was… Mycroft always did his upmost not to think of the good Doctor Watson as a childminder.
Sherlock needed his help, today. Mycroft did not delude himself that there were any other possible reasons for his involvement. Processing a dead body that was not, in fact, dead required paperwork, and paperwork Mycroft could provide. Molly Hooper helped, but there was only so much that the poor infatuated girl could do at such short notice.
Even now in the morgue Sherlock was being difficult despite, or perhaps because of the urgency of the situation. “John. You must look after John,” a breath, “please.”
Mycroft paused, placing a hand over the microphone of his phone before he replied, “Of course, brother.”
“What?” John squinted into the sudden light. He had been dreaming and it had been a good one for a change. This had better be good, or Sherlock would be making him breakfast.
“Text from Lestrade.”
“Oh really? What’d it say?” Who was he kidding - No Sherlock wouldn’t.
“Obviously. Look - no, Sherlock. Greg has gone to France for the week with his girls. You know that. I know that. You know I know that.” John decided that the best way to combat light was not to, with his eyes kept resolutely shut.
“Who?” Sherlock landed beside John on the bed, pretty much obliterating what was left of his sleep. “Never mind John, you need to get up and dressed. Now would be best.”
“Why? What time is it?” John could see, once he levered his left eye open, that Sherlock was dressed in a suit and his coat. His scarf was in his lap ready to be donned.
“4am. Come on John, you’ve been asleep for at least 6 hours. That should be sufficient.”
“For what exactly Sherlock?” John paused momentarily, licking his lips. God knows what Sherlock was up to this time, might need help. “Will I need the gun?”
“That might be an idea, John. Yes.”
John shot up so fast he bounced.
When Mrs Hudson confronted John with the “little issue” she’d found in the freezer Sherlock was at Bart’s performing a test for Lestrade. John might have been helping him if it weren’t for his hours at the clinic, but as it was he hardly got through the door and Mrs Hudson was upon him.
“John, dear… if you would only talk to Sherlock when you next see him I’d be ever so grateful.” John was duly shown the offending item.
There was something wrong, John knew, with his initial reaction when Mrs Hudson revealed what had been irking her with a flourish and wide knowing eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.” He’d murmured eventually.
Of course Mrs Hudson objected to a human hand, she had put a moratorium (ignored by Sherlock) on body parts after she found the head (it was the eyes apparently, they stared). She proceeded to outline a number of perfectly understandable objections to human body parts, the least them being that she was not their housekeeper and now the freezer would need cleaning and defrosting.
John knew his first thought shouldn’t have been that mixing specimens with food meant Chinese was on Sherlock tonight. Normal people, when confronted with the upended severed wrist of what looked like a Caucasian male, tended to do more than blink.