Caffeine Diary

WAdvent FIC: Gift of the Oracle, BBC Sherlock AU

2016-12-20T23:56:30Z

Gift of the Oracle
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG
Length: 499
Universe: BBC-AU: Silverfox 'verse
Genre: Sci-fi
Summary: Silverfox receives and unexpected gift.
Date: 20 December 2016
WAdvent Open Prompt 19 Dec: Alternate View: Whether it's an alternative family, an AU, or just another way of looking at things, let alternatives inspire your work today.
A/N: Part of the Silverfox 2.0 Adventure series. Written in a rush and completely beta-free.

Greg frowned at the inexplicable package on the gunmetal-grey table. “What is that?”

“I don’t know. It looks like a gift,” replied Sophie.

“A gift?”

“You do recall what that is, don’t you?” Her question was only half-joking. It had been lifetimes since seasonal gifts were part of the human experience. Holidays had given way to survival during the war; no one could pinpoint exactly when.

His tone was sardonic. “Yes. But where did it come from? Who did it come from? How did it get into our quarters without one of us knowing?” He regarded it with suspicion. Unexpected parcels were too often disguised explosives, in his military experience. However… The Conundrum were defeated nearly six months ago, and they didn’t send gifts with personally addressed cards attached. But there, clear as ether-glass, was the word SILVERFOX in block print on the front.

“It’s hand written. Who writes things down manually?” He reached out a cautious hand and turned over the card.

“Someone old-fashioned?” Sophie offered.

“More like someone intent on keeping record of something out of the computer systems.”

“Well, what does it say? Or have you forgotten how to read script?”

“You’re full of comedy tonight, aren’t you?”

He read the note, a bemused smile slowly turning up the corners of his mouth.

Sophie tapped an impatient finger on the metal table top. “Well? What does it say? Out loud, if you please.”

“I will regret this moment of sentimental madness later. For now, accept this token of thanks. You stood by John in direst circumstances and for that I will be forever grateful. Of course, if you speak of this—particularly to him—you must expect consequences.”

“Who’s it from? It’s like pulling teeth with you.”

“It’s signed ‘Oracle’.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” He showed her the hand-written message to prove it.

“Well, open it then.”

Greg picked up the package. A bit heavy for the size. The wrapping was a roughly cut piece of red safety fabric tied with a green decontamination clearance lanyard. Something about the colours rang the faintest of bells in a distant corner of his memory and he paused.

“Come on,” urged Sophie. “I’m dyin’ to know what it is.”

“Hold on. What’s the date? In Old Earth time, I mean.”

“Och, Christ. Y’expect me to do the conversion in my head? Hang on.” She looked up at nothing, an indication she was running numbers through her brain. “Late December, I think. Maybe the twenty-fourth or twenty-fifth.”

Greg let out a snort of laughter. “’Christ’ is right. It’s Christmas.”

“Is it? Who’d’ve thought? And you getting a gift from Oracle of all people.” She shook her head in disbelief.

Greg set the parcel back on the table.

“Don’t you want to know what’s in it?”

He smiled. “Yeah, but it’ll wait.” He sat down and looked at the bright spot of colour in the monochrome world of Edinburgh Base. “Right now, I’m going to enjoy it just as it is.”

WAdvent FIC: A Progression of Post-its - BBC Sherlock

2016-12-12T23:53:51Z

A Progression of Post-its
By MonkeyBard
BBC Sherlock
Rating: G
Length: 100
Genre: Slash - John/Sherlock
WAdvent 11 Dec open post prompt: Recycle Title: take the title of a favourite carol or holiday film and use it as your inspiration.
Date: 12 December 2016
Author's note: Day late for the open post date. Sorry!

It began in spring with a Post-it on the fridge reading simply: DON’T. John didn’t and found something from the cupboard for breakfast.

The notes grew less terse that summer: CONTENTS UNDER PRESSURE. He wisely stayed away.

They expanded over autumn and into winter.

Kitchen table: VOLATILE EXPERIMENT. John guessed, but appreciated the warning.

Bathroom mirror: WILL REPLACE YOUR TOOTHBRUSH. He supposed mouthwash would do today.

Sitting room: AVOID SOFA. DON’T TELL MRS H.

Mantelpiece: TOXIC FLOCKING POWDER! DO NOT INHALE!

Lestrade read the latest warning. “Since when is Sherlock so considerate?”

John smiled. “Since he fell in love, actually.”

WAdvent FIC: Christmas at Holmes - BBC Sherlock

2016-12-09T15:04:49Z

Christmas at Holmes
by MonkeyBard
Universe: BBC
Rating: PG
Length: 964
Summary: John gets into a bit of mischief with the help of a friend.
WAdvent Date: 9 December 2016

Sherlock was bound and determined not to spend the holidays with family. He'd made it quite clear to John that under no circumstances would they be visiting Mummy that Christmas. It was Mycroft's turn and that was that. He was particularly humbuggy about it and so John, after one innocent enquiry brought a near-tirade down upon him, let the matter lie. That didn't stop him being disappointed, however. Not that he ever said so. Not that the slightest peep of regret or protestation crossed his lips. Which made it all the more shocking when Sherlock did a full about-face on the subject.

"I'll be going out to Mummy's the morning of the 24th," Sherlock announced out of the blue over breakfast. He didn't look up from the newspaper as he spoke. He simply stirred sugar into his tea and went right on reading. "Expect me back on Boxing Day. Sooner if I can manage it. You needn't come. It's bound to be enormously tedious."

John knew better than to draw attention to the sudden change of plans by expressing surprise, never mind interest. "All right."

Companionable silence fell between them once more. John was on his third slice of toast by the time Sherlock added, "Of course, if you're looking to escape spending the holiday with your sister or something equally dire, I suppose you could come."

"Mm. I'll let you know." Inside he was delighted. Outwardly, he showed no sign of it.

"Don't try to be coy, John. You've been hoping for this for weeks."

John lips turned up in a tiny half smile around his bite of toast, acknowledging without speaking it aloud. He took a swallow of tea before replying. "You're doing your own gift shopping for your mother this year."

***

John loved Christmas at the Holmes' estate. The enormous evergreen tree inside and its carved ice doppelganger outside were a particular delight. The best part, though, was the array of gingerbread houses that the local children decorated. He looked for a particularly peculiar one as they passed through the front foyer. Not seeing one, he slowed, falling behind Sherlock. He frowned. They were all so disappointingly traditional this year.

"Where's Ford's?" he muttered under his breath.

"I couldn't get any of the kids to cooperate this year."

John smiled and spun to face the young ghost of his partner's eldest brother.

"Hallo, John," Sherrinford said with a sigh.

"No one wanted to play this year?"

"No. They were all stupid and naff and boring."

"Maybe they just wanted to do their own thing this time."

"No. They were stupid. And naff," Ford reiterated firmly. "And boring."

"Okay." There was no point arguing the matter. Ford might technically be older than Sherlock, but he was still the adolescent he'd been when he'd died. Much of his point of view was still the black-and-white of a child.

An idea occurred to John. "Any chance there's an extra house left over? One no one decorated?"

"Dunno. Maybe. Why?"

John shrugged. "Dunno," he echoed. "Maybe you and I could decorate one together."

Ford perked up considerably. "You mean it?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't offer if I didn't."

"I'll make sure there's a house for us."

Ford shimmered and vanished at the same time Sherlock poked his head back into the entry hall.

"John. Are you coming?"

"Right behind you."

***

"What on earth were you thinking?"

John smiled placidly across the formal dining table. His and Ford's creation took pride of place at the centre of it, surrounded by what should have been seasonally appropriate ornamentation. Somehow the holly and ivy didn't quite jibe with their creation, although John still considered it festive. "What do you mean?"

They'd not gotten a proper Victorian house to decorate like the children had, but Ford had used his spectral influence to convince the cook to put together what remained of the gingerbread building materials into two small structures, one with four sides and the other with three, and neither particularly plumb. He'd even gotten her to fish out the biscuit cutters he wanted to make the appropriate figures for the display. John had charmed a kitchen maid into providing him with the leftover decorations and bags of coloured icing, and they were on their way. Together, he thought they'd come up with something rather special.

"Dinosaurs, John?"

"I admit they're a tad anachronistic."

"At the gingerbread birth of Christ? It's all ridiculous."

"That was rather the point, actually."

"No imagination, this one," muttered Ford from the chair to John's left.

Sherlock went on, unaware of the ghost's critique of his creativity. "Your choice to place the crèche next to a brothel escapes me."

"See? Told you so."

The house of ill repute had been John's addition to Ford's design. Dinosaurs in place of all the people from Ford; a shepherd dino eyeing the "Girls!" sign on the adjacent building from John. Both had giggled uncontrollably the entire time they'd worked on it. God only knew what the servants thought about his behaviour. Although if they hadn't gotten used to John's odd ways by now, what chance was there?

"Who's to say the inn where the stable was located wasn't actually a bit more than advertised in the text?" John said in perfect imitation of sincerity. He nearly lost it when both Ford and Sherlock burst out laughing.

Sherlock regained enough composure to speak. "All right, John. You win. If nothing else, I look forward to the expression on Mycroft's face when he sits down for Christmas supper and finds himself staring at a dinosaur in a thong."

That sent all three of them into a fit of giggles.

"It's a good thing Mummy likes you," Sherlock said eventually.

"A very good thing." John grinned.

FIC: R & R (Silverfox 'verse) - JWP 14

2016-11-01T16:12:21Z

R & R
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 667
Universe: BBC-AU: Silverfox 'verse
Genre: Sci-fi; Gen
Summary: Greg and John meet for rehab, but whose idea was it?
Date: 1 November 2016
JWP 14 July: Rehabilitation/Recovery: What comes after the whumping? Focus today on the recovery from an illness or injury.

"Hi, Doc. Fancy running into you here."

"If you consider hospital-issue sweatpants and t-shirt fancy."

"Someone's in a mood," quipped Greg.

"Why are you here, Commander?"

"Same as you, I imagine. PT." Greg's tone was too innocent, his smile too bright. He didn't care. He was here for a bit of fun with his workout. He went to the appropriate torture device and began his physical therapy routine. He'd been slack about it, but this was an opportunity not to be missed.

John's eyes narrowed, expressing his disbelief at the coincidence that brought them both to the Rehabilitation & Recovery Centre at the same time.

"Doctor Watson?" The physical therapist's address pulled John's attention away from Greg. The younger man's tone was pleasant but firm, all the meaning clear without needing all the words.

Greg had heard it plenty and done his own grouching about it. It was a pleasure to watch John going through the misery of rehab, having so recently been there himself. The exercises he did now, in fact, had been prescribed by Doctor John Watson and administered by the same therapist, a fellow by the name of Oscar.

Both Greg and John were intent on their own exercises for several minutes. Greg quietly cursed himself for not keeping up with his PT the past couple of weeks, but damned if he would let it show. That would spoil the fun of payback.

"R and R used to mean...rest and...relaxation, didn't it?" snarled John.

Greg didn't have to look to imagine the strain he was under; he could hear it in John's voice. He looked anyway. Oh yeah. He remembered that phase. Resistance exercises on the grav-and-mag bed. Greg's had been mostly arm work; John was doing leg exercises at present, trying to get his damaged left side back to the strength of his undamaged right side.

"Something like that, yes," Greg agreed without sympathy.

"This...is neither."

"No."

"That's enough thank you, Commander." Oscar's tone was clear once again, not unkind, but brooking no arguments.

"Sorry." Greg fell silent and the young man turned his attention back to John, who had a lot more recovering left to do than Greg. He shouldn't interrupt, especially as he was meant to be motivation not distraction. Not that John knew that. It wouldn't work if he did. Doctor Jones had requested Greg's presence that morning to spark John's competitiveness, drive him to work harder at his PT. Greg did his best to fulfil Jones's request. He went methodically through every exercise he'd been prescribed, taking the time to get his form right and not skip any repetitions.

He finished before John and could see no good way to stall that wouldn't be obvious. Hopefully the work he'd done today had been helpful both to Doctor Jones and to John.

"Hey." He caught John's eye across the R & R Centre. "Maybe I'll see you here tomorrow."

John pursed his lips and drew his eyebrows together in annoyance. A sheen of sweat stood out on his scowling face. "That would be lovely."

Greg chuckled and made his escape.

When the door had shut behind him, Oscar and John traded a satisfied look.

"That went well. I think he did everything I prescribed," John said.

"He did," confirmed Oscar with a smile. "I kept notes. Good plan."

"I have them occasionally. We'll have to make sure Jones speaks to him again. If watching me suffer is what it takes to get him to do what I ordered him to do, I can handle a little mocking."

"Yeah, but can you handle a little more PT?"

John let his head fall back against the grav-and-mag bed with a gentle thud. "I hate this."

Oscar chuckled sympathetically. "You'd be rare if you didn't. Okay. One more set and you can have a rest."

"I'd rather have a bath and a curry."

"I'll have to ask Doctor Jones about the curry."

John sighed. "Don't bother. All right. Let's get this over with."

FIC: Third One's the Charm - JWP 10

2016-10-28T22:39:08Z

Third One's the Charm
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1370
Universe: BBC
Summary: What is that third set of symbols carved into the body?
Date: 27 Oct 2016
JWP 10: A higher power: Choose a deity from any mythos, religion, or mythology (Tiamat, Zeus, Cthulu, whoever) and use them as an inspiration.
A/N: Sequel to West End Blues and Behind the Wall. I need a title for this growing series. Suggestions welcome.

He should've snapped some photos when he'd had the chance. John had neither Sherlock's acute observational skills nor his bloody mind palace to store things in. He relied on a better-than-average memory and technology. Only this time he'd failed on the tech front. He should be forgiven under the circumstances; that had been one of the most gruesome crime scenes he'd ever seen. Shocking even to a military doctor who'd served in wartime because the trauma inflicted was so precise and deliberate.

John sipped at his scotch, glad he'd bought a new bottle even as he was finishing up the old one. He'd been scrolling through arcane websites looking for anything familiar for what felt like an ice age with no luck at all. He rolled his head around on his neck, stretched his arms over his head, and leaned back in his chair. His back cracked satisfyingly and he sat up straight again, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"All right." His current methods were getting him nowhere. It was time to try another tack. He might not have a mind palace, but he'd spent long enough with Sherlock know his methods and to have picked up some observational skills beyond the ordinary person's.

He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. He thought back to the body he'd found under the altar. There'd been a one of those strange symbols on the dead man's right shoulder. Focusing his mind on shapes and contrasting patterns of light and dark, he narrowed down what he saw in his mind's eye. He thought about what he knew. The shape of the shoulder joint, the muscles and bones. He thought about the skin and finally moved to the slices and cuts to the flesh. What had they looked like?

Opening his eyes, he scrambled on the desk for a pencil and paper. The image was on the tip of his mind. If he could only draw what his inner eye had seen...

Curved lines. Hard angles. Broad strokes that narrowed to sharp points. The symbols themselves were vaguely blade-like, and carved into flesh with a knife as they had been? It was all a bit much. He stopped sketching and slugged back his scotch, looking at what he'd drawn.

Haitian Vodou, Brazilian Candomblé, and...? What the fuck was it? It almost looked Klingon.

He rolled his eyes. "God only knows what Sherlock would say if I suggested that. A fictional language from a sci-fi show? Not likely." He tossed the pencil aside and crumpled the paper. Rethinking, he smoothed it out again and stared at it, then shook his head and crumpled it again. He needed to get another look at the body. Examine it properly. Make a catalogue of the symbols and sort them. "Damn it!" Why hadn't he taken photos?

"Idiot," he muttered. "Molly." He glanced at his watch. It had been long enough, hadn't it? Surely she'd have the body--bodies, he corrected himself--at St. Bart's by now. Speaking of the time, where was Sherlock? Never mind. One puzzle at a time.

He shut his laptop and grabbed his coat, shoving the wadded page into a pocket as he trotted down the stairs to the front door.

***

It had been a long time since Molly had bothered to offer the rote protest to allowing John or Sherlock access to the morgue. Nowadays she simply offered a small nod and quiet greeting. "You're after the bodies from the speakeasy, I imagine."

"Ah, yes. Just the one, actually. With the, ahem, carvings."

"He's over here." She led him to the closer of the two occupied exam tables and pulled back the sheet.

It was both better and worse looking at the corpse in the clinical light of the morgue. Better in that it was easier to put professional distance between himself and the victim. Worse in that he could properly see the havoc that had been wrought on the man's body. Or rather what remained of his body.

"Heard from Sherlock?" he asked.

"No. I figured he's looking for the missing bits."

"Don't mention it to Lestrade."

"I expect he's figured it, too," said Molly with a quick, knowing smile.

"Good point." They looked back down at the body.

"Odd, isn't it?" said Molly.

"That Sherlock's looking for the limbs?"

"No. That's no surprise. I meant that they'd leave the head but take the appendages."

"Oh. Yes. I suppose that is a bit odd." He cleared his throat. "Mind if I--?" He gestured. She nodded.

"Be my guest."

He stepped up to the slab and found the symbol that he'd been working to recreate. He'd not done too terrible a job of it, as it turned out. Maybe a reverse image search would find it if he got a clear photo. He pulled out his phone and aimed the camera at the symbol.

"Fhtagn," said Molly, startling him.

"Sorry, what?"

"That." She nodded to the symbol. "Fhtagn. It means sleep. Or wait."

"How do you--?"

"There's another on his chest, just below the fourth rib on his left side. Uln fm'latgh. I'm only guessing at the pronunciation, of course. He didn't leave a proper guide."

John felt as though he'd missed something. The sounds she'd made sounded more like someone choking than communicating and her English statements weren't making much more sense. "Who didn't leave a guide to what exactly?"

"Lovecraft. He made up R'lyehian words, but not rules how to say them. Oscar figures he didn't expect anyone to actually try to speak it. I mean, there are fewer vowels than in Georgian. Personally, I think he was just being lazy."

"I'm sorry," he said again. "Lovecraft?"

"H.P. Lovecraft. He invented Cthulhu and Shoggoths and all that."

Finally something that made sense. He'd heard of H.P. Lovecraft and Cthulhu, not that he actually knew anything about either. Only the names. Suddenly his earlier thoughts of Klingon didn't seem so ridiculous. "Are you saying that these symbols are--what did you call it?"

"R'lyehian. Again, just guessing at the pronunciation."

"That's fine. Have you found any more of this R'lyehian on the body?"

"Oh!" Molly perked up. "A few more. You saw that one, fhtagn. That means sleep or wait. Under the circumstances I'm guessing sleep. Uln fm'latgh, there, that means summon burn. There's some on his back, too, and on his legs."

John wasn't normally someone who counted on others to do his homework for him, but for the sake of efficiency... "Have you identified them all?"

"Sure. It wasn't hard. You know the two on his torso now." She pointed out one on the dead man's thigh and started her lesson.

He pulled the crumpled page from his pocket and a pen from another. Smoothing the twice crushed paper he turned to the blank sign and began taking notes, guessing at the spellings as she guessed at pronunciations. By the end he had a fair list.

Sleep or wait. Summon burn. Travel + dream. Spirit/soul. Threshold. Servant of darkness.

"Well, that's a cheerful sentiment." He huffed out a sigh and scratched the back of his neck, almost as if he were trying to rub away the chill that suddenly ran up his spine.

"Oh yeah. It's not exactly light reading, is it? At least it's not the actual call of Cthulhu."

Her comment only half registered, focused as he was on what the symbols were, not what they weren't. "What about the rest of it? What Sherlock identified as Vodou and Candomblé?"

She shrugged. "No idea. You can have a look at the photos of everything if you want. Maybe you can even catalogue the three different sets for me?"

It was a fair trade for the information she'd just given him. "I'll do my best."

"I really can't send them to you, though, so you'll have to do your research here."

A small smile tugged at the corner of John's mouth despite the gravity of the setting. "Like old times. In here?" He quirked a thumb in the direction of the lab.

"Mm-hmm."

"Thanks. You'll let me know when Sherlock shows up?"

"I think he'll let us both know, don't you?"

"Right."

FIC: Contraband and Compromise - JWP 6

2016-10-14T16:18:35Z

Contraband and Compromise
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG
Length: 915
Universe: BBC-AU: Silverfox 'verse
Genre: Sci-fi
Summary: Doc has visitors in hospital, and they brought gifts.
Date: 14 Oct 2016
JWP 6 July: Food, Glorious Food: A crime/mystery/anecdote/scenario involving food. As complex or simple as you wish to make it.
A/N: It's been a while since we visited Silverfox and his mates. As I recall, we left him with his arm in a sling and Doc slowly recovering from getting rather blown up. That means it's more than time for a bit of levity, don't you agree?

"Take it away."

"But, sir."

"I said take it away," snapped John with as much vigour as he could manage. It wasn't much, but judging by the look on the orderly's face, he'd gotten his point across. The young man reclaimed the tray of what purported to be food, and left without further word. It wouldn't be the end of the matter, of course, but for the moment John revelled in the tiny victory.

Hollow victory, he thought. Perfect for my hollow stomach. It wasn't so much that the base hospital's food was bad. It wasn't any better or worse than what you'd get in the commissary: not fancy but generally palatable. The problem was that he was so bloody sick of eating the same bland, safe, prescribed diet that he'd faced for the past six and a half days. All right, it was a step up from the nutrition drip IV, but right now he'd about kill for something he could sink his teeth into properly. He was certain his taste buds had fallen into coma from sheer boredom.

The door swept open and John braced himself for a lecture from Nurse Williams (if he was lucky) or Doctor Jones (if he wasn't). To his pleasant surprise, his visitor was neither.

"This is a surprise."

"One you'll be glad of, I expect." Lestrade shot a wary glance behind him and slipped into the room, the door closing softly as he stepped out of its sensor range. "I brought you something." He unzipped the dark, military-issue hoodie he wore and removed a familiar silver insulthene package. He set it on the tray beside John's bed and pulled a package of disposable cutlery from his pocket. He ripped it open and dumped the silverware onto the tray. "Figured you'd be mad for a decent meal by now."

"You're three days late on that score, but I forgive you. Give it to me." John hauled himself more upright and rolled the tray across his lap. "What is it?"

"Madras curry. Mild," Lestrade added at John's surprised look. "I didn't want to cock up your gut. If it's anything like mine was when I was in recovery, it's still quite dodgy."

John tore open the pouch and inhaled the first whiff of spices. His mouth watered at the heavenly aroma, but he hesitated. "You're sure it's free of capsaicin?"

Lestrade gave a mock salute. "On my word as a soldier. Everything a good curry wants but the chiles."

"You're a lifesaver."

"Yeah, but not usually like this." Crossing his arms over his chest, Lestrade took up a post leaning against the door frame just beyond its sensors.

John spared enough time for a snort of amusement, then plunged the fork into the steaming pouch of goodness. He savoured the first bite like a man in the desert savours fresh water.

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but why hasn't Oracle brought you something by now?"

"He tried," answered John around a mouthful of deliciousness.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

"He got caught."

"You're joking."

"If only." His words came between bites, sentences only as complete as necessary so as not to interrupt his eating. God, the food tasted good! "Orderlies have kept him at bay ever since. Jones won't clear him without submitting to a search. Make sure he's not carrying contraband."

"And he won't allow them the satisfaction. That sounds like Oracle." He gave a snort of dry mirth.

The door opened abruptly and both men jumped. John couldn't hide the food so he didn't try. He'd fight anyone who tried to confiscate it, IV tubes, wires, and sticky sensors be damned. It turned out he didn't have to.

He barely swallowed his latest mouthful before his jaw fell open, and John could see Lestrade's had done the same. "Sherlock? What are you doing?"

"I see you're feeling better," Sherlock said, striding in purposefully. "Good."

Lestrade's smirk carried from his eyes to his voice once he found his tongue. "I see you've reached a compromise with the doctor's orders."

Sherlock turned to look at him over one bare shoulder. "Commander, hello. Yes. We've reached a compromise, as you say."

"I'll leave you two alone then." Lestrade slipped out the door. His barking laughter carried to them even after the door closed behind him.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?"

"Is this really the best option you could come up with to visit me?"

"You're not disappointed."

"No! I just—" John shook his head, bemused. "Never mind. Sit?"

Sherlock glanced at the standard hospital issue chair. "No, thank you. I wouldn't find it comfortable."

"Sit on the bed then, you absurd man."

Sherlock sat without further protest. He wrapped the end of the blanket over his lap.

"Cold?"

"A bit."

John couldn't stand it any longer. "Where exactly did you leave your clothes, then? In quarters?"

"Certainly not." Sherlock huffed indignantly. "They're at the nurses' station. I intend to claim them on my way out."

"Of course you do." John shook his head again, chuckling. "You couldn't have kept your pants on at least?"

"I wished to leave no room for suspicion on Doctor Jones' part."

"Naturally."

Sherlock ignored the quip. He tipped his head to the tray in front of John. "Lestrade brought you that did he?"

"Yes. He's cleverer than you at being sneaky," John teased.

Sherlock looked down his nose at what was left of John's supper. "Hm. Perhaps. Far from perfect, however. I'd've brought you pudding, too."

FIC: Fireside Quartet (BBC Sherlock) - WAdvent 2 December

2015-12-02T07:08:27Z

Fireside Quartet
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 100x4
Characters/Pairings: Greg/OFC, Molly/OMC, Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock/John
Universe: BBC
Genres: Mixed (het; magical realism; hint o' slash)
Summary: Four fireside vignettes for the holidays.
Date: 2 December 2015

Broughton

The fire glowed warmly. Outside, a light snow drifted down, dusting the cobbled Edinburgh street to postcard perfection. Greg stood at the window and watched it fall, dressing the world in its soft white shroud. "Shame it doesn't look like this all the time. It's actually pretty."

Sophie snaked an arm around his waist. "Are you disrespecting my town, London boy?"

Greg huffed a chuckle. "You know what I mean."

"Maybe if more people saw beauty like this, there'd be less horror in the world?"

"Something like that."

She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. "I love how you think."

Croydon

The fire glowed warmly. Every tree branch wore cheerful decorations. The table was laid with the family china. Jerk turkey and other heady Caribbean aromas perfumed the air. Lights sparkled wherever Molly looked.

Oscar was telling a funny story she already knew, but she laughed just as merrily as the others listening. She was nervous about spending the holidays with his big, boisterous extended family, but they all made her feel so welcome that she quickly settled in.

Molly's cheeks flushed with the combined effects of the fire, crowded room, and rum punch. This year was her new favourite Christmas.

Baker Street 221a*

The fire glowed warmly. Martha sat beside it, sipping a mug of tea laced with brandy. For no reason she could name, she expected company that rainy winter's night, but company hadn't yet appeared.

The timer went off in the kitchen and she rose to attend to it. With a nod of satisfaction, she pulled the bubbling apple pie from the oven and set it to cool on a rack on the counter.

When she returned to her sitting room, a familiar red-headed woman and a grinning corgi waited for her.

Martha smiled. "Hello, ladies. Would you like some tea?"

Baker Street 221b

The fire glowed warmly. Its occasional pop and crackle punctuated the melody from Sherlock's violin. John's hands wrapped around a mug of hot toddy that was nearly empty and long gone tepid. He sipped the last of the sweet, boozy concoction and snuggled deeper into his fuzzy bathrobe and cosy slippers.

The last note of his favourite Christmas carol hung in the air before fading to silence.

"Come sit with me." He patted the sofa cushion and soon Sherlock's long form curled up beside him.

Rain beat against the windows. "Hardly a 'midnight clear'."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

*If you're curious about Mrs Hudson's visitor, check out When in Need... and/or A London Fairytale.
If you want to see more of Sophie or Oscar, feel free to ask in a comment. They're scattered about in various fics and I can point the way.

FIC: Bound Up and At Loose Ends - JWP AP5

2015-08-09T00:37:44Z

Bound Up and At Loose Ends
By MonkeyBard
Rating: R language
Length: 1771
Universe: BBC-AU: Silverfox 'verse
Genre: Sci-fi; Het; Slash
Summary: Silverfox visits sick bay.
Date: 7-8 August 2015
JWP AP5: 5 + 5 = 1. Create a poll on your own LJ listing up to five of your own Watson-centric fics that you would be willing to create an additional scene/story for. Leave the poll open for five days. Use the results and write that continuation.
A/N: And the winner is ::drumroll:: Silverfox! I guess folks wanted to know what happened after I blew up Doc. *evil laughter* Ahem. Now where did that come from?

It felt good to have solid metal under his feet again, and recycled air had never smelled so fresh. Lestrade would have preferred being back on duty to convalescing, but at least he'd been released to his own quarters on Edinburgh Base. His injuries were healing well, thanks to Doc's quick thinking and outstanding treatment.

Doc.

There was something perverse, something so very wrong that the doctor had become the patient. Certainly Doc would agree, but he'd not been awake enough to express much of an opinion. At least not while Lestrade was around to hear it. Fucking Conundrum. The war was over and the Conundrum lost, damn it, but those cocksucking drones had just kept coming.

He didn't know he'd made a noise until Marquardson spoke up.

"You're thinking about Doc."

"What gave me away?"

She looked up from where she sat reading status reports, her feet upon on the small metal table that served as desk and eating space for them both in the shoebox of a living space. "The expression on your face. The muttered profanities. The fact that you can't keep your ass in a chair for more than three minutes running despite the fact that Doctor Jones told you take it easy."

Lestrade's good shoulder slumped. The other was still secured with heavy-duty bind against the plasma blast that had taken him out of the battle against the Conundrum reps. He scratched idly at it with his opposite hand.

"Don't scratch," Marquardson chided.

He dropped his hand and glared at her half-heartedly. "I've got nothing else to do but pace and swear and scratch. They won't even let me review combat reports from the battle I bloody well commanded! Arse-licking medical leave bullshit."

"Oh, you poor, wee babe," she replied without sympathy. "Have you tried reading a book? Or you could take up the piano."

"Funny."

She let her feet meet the floor and set aside the reports. "Stop pacing and go to sick bay. See how Doc's doing."

"I'd be in the way."

"Nonsense. You could get yourself seen to while you're there. Maybe they'll let you out of all that bind. You know you'd like to have use of that arm back even a little. Besides all that, I'm tired of you prowling around our quarters like a caged tiger."

"Have you ever seen an actual caged tiger?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She shrugged. "No, but I still say you're doing a fine impersonation. Now scoot! Some of us aren't lollygagging invalids. I've got work to do." She picked the reports.

"You'd choose paperwork over my charming company?" he teased.

"I'm sorry. Are you still here?"

He chuckled and crossed to the bed where he sat down and shoved his feet into his boots. He couldn't be bothered do them up one handed and he wasn't going to ask for help, so he left them loose and simply determined not to fall on his face on his way to the medical bay.

"Love you," he said on his way out the door.

"Love you, too, you sorry whiner," she replied good-naturedly.

Greg grinned to himself as the door closed behind him. It had taken three days after his injury before she'd insulted him. That was when he knew she wasn't scared anymore that she might lose him. It felt good to be back to normal in at least one part of his life.

The trip to sick bay was via the base's maglev train. He savoured every moment as the transport carried him through tunnels of verdant trees and lush foliage. The lungs of the space station he remembered Boffin Stamford calling it. How long ago had that been? A month? A lifetime.

He watched the trees skim past and thought, Sophie and I still haven't had that picnic.

He arrived at the Medical Halt and disembarked along with a pair of orderlies and someone who looked like she was going visiting. Convenient, that, as the woman distracted the desk drudge enabling him to slip past unnoticed.

Ignoring the fact that he really did need to have his injuries seen to, he went straight to Doc's room. He was unsurprised to find Oracle there before him. In fact, he wasn't entirely convinced Oracle hadn't spent the entire time since their return from Earth at Doc's bedside.

He looks exhausted. Has he slept? He must sleep. Mustn't he? I mean, he's just as human as any of us. It was a fact easy to forget when more often than not Lestrade only dealt with him when Oracle was uploading data directly into his brain.

"Commander."

Lestrade waved a hand at him. "Don't get up. How's he been?"

"Improving. He was awake for nearly half an hour earlier."

"Complaining, I hope."

"A little, yes."

"That's good. That's progress."

Oracle quirked a small smile. "It is, yes."

Lestrade crossed good arm over bad and leaned against the smooth white wall. For a while, he simply stood there, sharing the almost-silence with a man he knew well and yet whom he often felt he didn't know at all.

The medical equipment's readouts meant almost nothing to him. He took comfort in the fact that they were running and gathering data. That meant Doc was alive, and that was all he really cared about just then.

The door behind him slipped open and he turned to see Williams. The nurse stopped briefly in surprise.

"Commander," Williams greeted him. "You ought to have told someone you were here."

"Rather than sneaking into a patient's room, you mean?"

"We do like to keep track of who comes and goes." There was a hint of rebuke in the younger man's tone that Lestrade acknowledged with a nod.

"I came to get checked up, actually." He pushed away from the wall with a wince he couldn't quite keep off his face. "I hope this damned shoulder's healed enough to get the bind off."

"Take a seat in exam three. I'll be in to see to you after I'm done here."

"I'll wait here, if that's all right." Lestrade knew he was pushing protocol, but it was worth a shot. Jones would've sent him off straight away. She was young, but she was tough and battle-hardened in her own way. Williams was a gentler sort, and Greg was banking on that with his request.

"Well... Only if that's all right with you, Mr. Holmes?"

Oracle nodded. "Fine."

Williams nodded once and promptly went about his business. He checked readouts, ran scans, adjusted IV drips, and did all those medical things Lestrade was happy he didn't have to keep track of. Give him a blaster and a target any day. Even commanding an entire army was less daunting to him than those little machines that beeped and pinged.

"Good," Williams announced finally, then turned to Lestrade. "After you, Commander."

Greg led the way. Williams paused behind him to say something to Oracle. Greg didn't hear what it was and figured it wasn't any of his business in the first place.

They passed through the main area where Williams gave the desk drudge the hairy eyeball as he marked Lestrade in. They continued into exam room three, which looked exactly like every other exam room in the place, and Lestrade was fairly certain he'd seen all of them by now.

"Do you need help getting your shirt off?" Williams asked. "Or doing up your boots?"

"No. Thanks." It was a challenge every day, getting dressed and undressed. Today, he'd fought his way into a service-issue t-shirt that was a size too big to accommodate the arm bound to his torso. He'd be damned if he asked for help to fight his way out.

"I've got it." It was a struggle, but in the end he won out.

Williams examined the wound, making thoughtful and encouraging noises. "Eighty-four percent mended," he announced, reading the result from the scanner in his hand.

"So I can get out of this now?"

"Yes and no. I'll remove the heavy-duty bind, but it still needs a standard layer to keep out any impurities."

"Oh for fuck's sake. All right. But do you have to pin my arm to my side? I'm going bonkers here."

"That depends on you, Commander." Williams began carefully removing the heavy-duty bind. It was a slow process in deference to the healing flesh underneath.

Lestrade turned his head away. He seriously disliked watching medical manoeuvres being performed, particularly on himself. It was a testament to his respect and affection for Doc that he'd stood there and watched the team that put his friend back together after the drone's strike had felled him. "What do you mean, it depends on me?" he asked for the sake of both distraction and information.

"I can wrap your arm separately from your shoulder, which would allow some mobility. But can I trust you not to over do it in those circumstances?"

"Of course."

Williams' hands froze in place and he pinned Lestrade with a look.

Lestrade could see enough of it to know the nurse didn't believe him. "I'll try. How's that?"

"Hmm." Williams returned to his work, hands deftly removing bind and checking the wounded area. "It's Doctor Watson's orders, you know."

"What? You mean I've been trussed up like a one-winged turkey on Doc's orders?"

"And as he hasn't been available to alter them--"

"That little shit!"

Williams chuckled softly.

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Wait. Are you having me on?"

"I'm not, as a matter of fact."

"Then I stand by my statement."

Williams chuckled again. "Look. I'll bind you up with your arm free, but I'm giving you a sling to keep that arm in. You will use it."

"Will I?"

"You will because if I hear you haven't, I'm going to restrict your access to Doc's room."

This time it was Lestrade's turn to skewer with a glance. "You wouldn't."

The nurse didn't even flinch. "I would and I will."

A tense silence filled the air between the men. In the end, Lestrade backed down. It was a small price to pay, he told himself. "You're tougher than you look," he said grudgingly.

Williams smiled wryly. "I have to be. You haven't met my wife."

"Tough as plexteel, huh?"

"Scottish."

Lestrade snorted a laugh. "I know all about that. All right. Do what you're going to do, and I promise I'll be good."

"That's on record now." Williams tipped his head at the medical recorder.

"You don't miss a thing, do you?"

"I've learned from the best."

"Doc?" asked Lestrade.

They shared a grin.

"Doc," Williams confirmed.

FIC: Had I Known - JWP AP10

2015-08-04T21:41:49Z

Had I Known
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 483
Universe: ACD
Genre: Het, Slash, Retirement Era
Warning: I'm totally punchy by now. The fics. They are mad. Mad, I say!
Summary: Introspection on the question, 'What if?'.
Date: 4 August 2015
AP10: Memory Lane. Let this entry be about what came before: anything that happened in the past, something from childhood, a prequel, or even about the side characters prior to a case.
A/N: A twist on the prompt, but there you have it. Probably cliché.

The most ridiculous question I have ever been asked is this: If I had known before it began all that I now know, would I have done things differently?

Looking back with perfect hindsight, I gave the question serious thought despite its inherent absurdity. Naturally the little choices might change: one shirt over another; this meal instead of that. The little things that would make no difference in the grand scheme. The choices that, in theory, the ripples of time would smooth over without regard.

Of course, these aren't what are meant when the question is asked. It is the big things people want to hear about. Would I have taken the flat with him had I known? Would I have followed him on all those cases?

Would I have let him fall?

As if that were within my power to control.

Let us assume, for this brief exercise, that it was. Let us also set aside such considerations as the consequences of Moriarty and his network continuing unchecked. Ignoring these trivialities, would I have stopped him?

How much grief might I have saved myself if I had? But how much joy might I also have foregone?

I met my Mary in the absence of Holmes. Without her, I would not have known the joys of marriage and fatherhood, brief as both were. While she and I might still have made our acquaintance had Holmes not 'died', I cannot know if would have pursued a closer relationship with her. And had I not, how then would I have understood myself as I now do?

Mary gave me more than the world of the time could understand or accept. She gave me the ability to recognise that my feelings for her were not so different from my feelings for him. Our love for one another, her love for me. These were what gave me the understanding and the courage I needed upon Holmes' resurrection to put voice to what was in my heart.

No. I would not have stopped him falling just as I would not have stopped the bullet that felled me at Maiwand. As his 'death' led me to Mary, my injuries led me to him. We are but the sum of our experiences, and without knowing pain we cannot appreciate joy.

"What are you writing, my dear man?" asks Holmes. He has just come in from tending his bees and I smile to see him. He is cheerful, refreshed from the summer air.

"Only my thoughts," I reply. It has been years since there were cases to write up, and we are both content to keep it that way.

"Come have tea. I've brought in fresh honeycomb." He smiles, knowing how much this will please me.

I close my journal and set aside my pen. Rising, I follow him into the kitchen.

No. Looking back, I would not change a thing.

FIC: A Little Night Music - JWP AP8

2015-08-04T16:23:57Z

A Little Night Music
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 873
Universe: BBC
Genre: Slash, Gen
Warning: I'm totally punchy by now. The fics. They are mad. Mad, I say!
Summary: John can't sleep. Ford doesn't sleep. Sherlock is asleep.
Date: 3-4 August 2015
AP8: A Haunted Man. Someone's trying to frighten Watson. Whether it's someone trying to make him doubt himself and cleverly leaving little evidence, or just jumping out and saying "Boo!" is up to you - as is why.
A/N: I didn't include any Sherrinford fics in my 5 + 5 = 1 poll. This fic is for the people on that thread who said they wanted to see more of him.
A/N2: Follows Annual Observances, but stands alone.

Sherlock had gone to bed, but John was too restless for sleep. He'd hoped that reading for a bit might put him in a dozy state and had chosen the conservatory for it so as not to disturb his sleeping partner. He settled into the wing-back chair he preferred and opened his book.

A chill ran down his spine, making him shiver despite the cosy warmth of the room. A more superstitious person would have said someone stepped on his grave, but John figured it was a simply a draft. It wasn't that he didn't believe in spirits. He knew for a fact the Holmes house was haunted. The resident ghost was a friend.

Another chill raced through him and he wondered for a moment if he might be coming down with fever. There'd been no hint of it that day and he felt all right otherwise. He put a hand to his forehead. No fever. He was fine.

When the mysterious chill struck a third time, John had a good guess as to what was up. He shut his book, holding his place with one finger.

"Ford? Is that you?"

Silence.

"I know you're there."

More silence.

"Are you trying to scare me?"

Still more silence.

He began to doubt whether it really was the young ghost playing with him. Did other dead Holmes ancestors walk the halls of the big old house? It wasn't impossible. Surely a fair number of Sherlock's predecessors had died on the premises. He scanned the room, but could see nothing beyond the shadowy outlines of furniture beyond his small oasis of lamp light.

"Boo!"

John jumped so high he nearly dropped his book.

"Ha! Gotcha!" Ford grinned ethereally at him.

John tried to feign nonchalance while his heart slowly returned to its normal rate. "Yeah, all right. You did. 'Boo', though? That's the best you could come up with? Hardly original."

"It was enough to scare you."

"You set me up."

"Of course. That's how it works!" Ford sat down on the settee across from John. "You're up late."

"Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd read for a while." He tucked a proper bookmark between the pages and set the book on the little table beside the chair.

"Does Sherlock snore or something?"

John chuckled. "Not usually, no."

"Lucky you. Mycroft does."

"I don't need to know that," said John.

Ford swung his legs. Instead of bouncing against the couch as a living child's would do, they passed back and forth through wood and cushions. It was a disconcerting effect. "No. I suppose not."

The ghost was being unusually reticent.

"Is something bugging you?" John asked.

"Are you staying?"

"What, here?"

"Duh."

"No. We're leaving in the morning."

"You should stay. There's plenty of room. You should live here!"

It didn't escape John that, had he lived, Sherrinford would have inherited the house and the land it stood on. "That's very generous of you, Ford, but we have our own place in London."

"So? Sherlock can go back if he wants. Good riddance to dumb brothers. But you should stay here."

John felt for boy. "You're lonely, aren't you?"

"No!" Ford looked away. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry, Ford. You know I visit whenever I can. It's just not up to me."

"Yeah. I know."

"I don't suppose you can visit Sherlock and me in London?"

Ford shook his head. "I tried."

That was a surprise. "Isn't there anyone else you can talk to or play with here? What about when the village kids come at Halloween or Christmas?"

"That's only Halloween and Christmas."

"Or one of the servants?"

"I did that once. It didn't go well."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I wish I knew what to tell you, Ford. I'll do my best to make sure Sherlock accepts every request from his mum to come here, but I don't know that there's anything else I can do."

"Yeah. I know. Thanks, I guess."

John dearly wanted to cheer up the boy. He glanced around, again taking in the dark shapes within the room, searching for inspiration. His eyes landed on the dark blob that was the baby grand piano.

"Hey, Ford. We had fun playing the piano yesterday, didn't we?"

Ford perked up at that. "Yeah, we did."

"You want to play again before I have to go? Maybe we can play something quiet that will help me get to sleep."

"Yeah." Ford nodded slowly and then leapt to his transparent feet. "Yeah! We can do that!"

They played together for an hour or so, until John's fingers were tired and his eyes were heavy.

He yawned hugely. "Sorry, Ford. I'm beat."

"That's okay. I had a nice time."

"Me too. Good night, Ford."

"Good night, John. Pleasant dreams."

"Thanks." John wended his way upstairs and soon found his way into bed next to Sherlock.

Sherlock shifted and his eyes opened a fraction. "John," he muttered sleepily. "Missed you."

John's heart warmed at the sleepy confession; Sherlock never would have admitted it when awake. "Sorry," he whispered. "I'm here now."

"Mm." Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. "Did I hear a piano?"

"No. You must have been dreaming."

"Nice dream."

John smiled in the darkness. "Yeah. I bet it was."

FIC: Mad Scientist Club - Membership: One - JWP AP9

2015-08-03T22:24:58Z

Mad Scientist Club - Membership: One
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG
Length: 221B
Universe: BBC
Genre: Slash
Warning: I'm totally punchy by now. The fics. They are mad. Mad, I say!
Summary: Challenge accepted!
Date: 3 August 2015
AP9: Domestic Hazards. Research shows that an overwhelming percentage of accident-related injuries happen in the home. 221B is far from an exception.
A/N: Follows immediately after Insert Maniacal Laughter Here.

"Half an hour, Sherlock. Not even half and hour! Twenty-five minutes at most. And what was the last thing I told you before I left?"

"In my defence, John, I don't usually listen to what you say--"

"That's your defence?!"

"--of which you are perfectly well aware. Additionally, I would like to point out that the flat, indeed the entire building, is still standing, so burning it down isn't the issue."

"You're your own mad scientists club, you are. You're damned lucky you only go minor burns off this mess."

"Yes."

"You're also damned lucky I replaced the fire extinguisher and first-aid kit after the last incident."

"Yes."

"You're going to have to buy a new table and microwave. And kettle?! For fuck's sake, Sherlock! You melted the kettle?!"

"Do stop stating the obvious, John."

"You've not left me much else, have you? I can't even make bloody tea any more."

"If you'd only pause in your wild histrionics--? Thank you. I've already ordered a new microwave and kettle to be delivered first thing tomorrow morning. Also, there's ample time to shop for a new table right now."

"You think so?"

"After which, we'll go for dinner wherever you choose."

"My choice?"

"Yes."

"Without any commentary from you?"

"You have my word."

"All right. You're buying?"

"I'm buying."

FIC: Insert Maniacal Laughter Here - JWP AP7

2015-08-03T21:33:10Z

Insert Maniacal Laughter Here
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 402
Universe: BBC
Genre: Slash
Warning: I'm totally punchy by now. The fics. They are mad. Mad, I say!
Summary: A card, a club, and questions
Date: 3 August 2015
AP7: Article Prompt: Calling Cards
A/N: BWAHAHAHA. It's a thing. Dr. Bernard Leach, on the other hand, is entirely fictitious.

John wasn't in the habit of going through Sherlock's pockets. It was simply his turn to deal with the dry cleaning. His own items consisted of a few wool jumpers ready for spring cleaning and then storage until the autumn. Sherlock's were two suits, four silk neck ties, his silk pyjamas, and The Coat. Of course, pockets needed emptying before things were dropped off. That was a mistake John had only made once. They'd had to change dry cleaners after that.

"Sherlock, what's this?" He had everything bundled into a big stack, ready to go, but John wasn't ready quite yet.

Sherlock barely glanced up from his laptop where, John assumed, he was either updating his own blog or leaving scathing comments on John's. "A calling card, obviously."

"Who uses calling cards anymore?"

"Clearly the person who's name is on it."

John read aloud: "'Doctor Bernard Leach, Barton-Wright/Alfred Hutton Alliance for Historically Accurate Hoplology and Antagonistics, Seattle, WA'. Seriously? What does that even mean?"

"Bartitsu, primarily."

"Why'd he come to see you?"

"He didn't, obviously. That card was in my coat pocket, which I wouldn't be wearing should someone call on me here."

"Then where'd you meet him?"

Sherlock met his gaze at last, one eyebrow arched and his mouth hinting at a smile. "Jealous?"

John pursed his lips, not in the mood for teasing. "Curious."

"He and his associates were visiting from the States last week. They were giving a demonstration of 'Victorian antagonistics' in Hyde Park. I paused to observe them and that one handed me a card. I'd forgotten it was in there. Thank you for disposing of it for me."

"Huh." Curiosity satisfied, John went to toss out the card but paused with his hand over the bin. "Do you think they realise their acronym is BWHAHAHA?"

"I think they worked hard to make certain of it."

"Huh," he said again. "Americans are weird."

"At least that lot don't take themselves too seriously."

"Good point." John picked up the stack of clothes and stuffed everything into a clean plastic bin liner. "Don't burn the flat down while I'm gone, okay?"

"Must I point out that I am neither running any experiments nor even occupying the kitchen at the moment?"

"Yeah, well, when's that ever stopped you?"

"Go away."

John huffed a chuckle and headed for the door. "Back in a bit. Remember what I said."

"Go!"

"Right. Bye."

FIC: Foiled by Feathers - JWP AP6

2015-08-03T04:08:21Z

Foiled by Feathers
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 383
Universe: BBC
Warning: I'm totally punchy by now. The fics. They are mad. Mad, I say!
Summary: Cracking the case
Date: 2 August 2015
AP6: Down in the mouth. Interpret the phrase as you wish!
A/N: Follow up to 2 July's Jaune John.

Sherlock's disguise was perfectly logical. They had infiltrated a touring children's theatre company, and the costume he'd nicked from the dressing room had been an easy way in. John had drawn the line at dressing up as well. He was more concerned with keeping an eye on their target and catching the criminal in the act. The usual sort of thing.

Getting knocked out had been unfortunate, but at least Sherlock's cover was still secure. And since the prime suspect mistakenly believed John was out of the picture, the element of surprise was on their side.

The brief scuffle with the woman was awkward to say the least. She was strong and fast, and frankly Sherlock had been little help in his giant yellow bird suit--until the end.

John slowed her down but she managed to squirm out of his grasp, shoving John into the fly rail. She raced for the loading dock door that slowly rattled open while John untangled himself from the ropes.

It was Sherlock who, flinging himself after her, took her down in the broadest manner possible--via avian belly flop. He landed on her, the padded costume protecting them both from possible injury, but doing its job in holding her to the stage floor.

When John reached them, the woman was sprawled under Sherlock's padded form, gasping in air and spitting out epithets and feathers, alike.

Sherlock rolled awkwardly off her at the same time John grabbed her wrists and used a zip-tie to restrain her.

"Aw," said John, not at all sympathetically. "Why so down in the mouth?"

"Not quite the cat that ate the canary," added Sherlock from where he sat, orange-clad legs stretched out in front of him.

"Get her into interrogation and she'll crack like an egg."

The woman glared daggers at them both. She drew breath to curse and choked on a bright yellow feather off Sherlock's costume.

When Lestrade arrived moments later, he found her still coughing and cursing while John and Sherlock sat giggling like bedlamites.

He looked from one to another as he hauled the woman to her feet. "Have some respect, guys. You're acting like a couple of loons."

Sherlock's enormous bird head tilted thoughtfully. He and John exchanged a look, and then burst out into wild guffaws.

POLL - JWP AP5

2015-08-03T02:51:58Z

AP 5: 5 + 5 = 1. Create a poll on your own LJ listing up to five of your own Watson-centric fics that you would be willing to create an additional scene/story for. Leave the poll open for five days. Use the results and write that continuation.

Yeah, okay. Technically two of these aren't "Watson-centric", but they were all written for JWP so I figure they count. If there's something else you desperate want to see continued that isn't on the list, please leave it in the comments. Thanks!

Poll will be open until 8:00pm PDT 7 August.

View Poll: JWP Amnesty Prompt #5

FIC: Annual Observances - JWP AP4

2015-08-03T02:28:45Z

Annual Observances
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 404
Universe: BBC
Summary: A birthday, a ghost, and a piano.
Date: 2 August 2015
AP4: Another Year Older and Surrounded By Idiots: Benedict Cumberbatch is not the only July birthday among Holmes actors – Robert Stephens (Private Life of Sherlock Holmes), Vasily Livanov (Russian Sherlock Holmes films), and William Gillette (the first stage Sherlock Holmes) share the month with him. Incorporate a birthday observance in some way.
A/N: If you've not met the ghost of Sherrinford Holmes yet, I don't know what to tell you. Maybe check out my JWP 2014 series A Weekend in the Country. That should have links back to his first story. Maybe.

"You needn't come if you don't like," Sherlock said. "It's tedious, of course, and futile, but Mummy appreciates it and it's my turn this year."

A small tow-headed figure appeared behind Sherlock. "Don't go. Stay here with me." Sherlock, of course, heard nothing. Only John was able to converse easily with the ghost of Sherrinford Holmes.

If a ghost could seem tense, Ford did as he waited for John's reply.

"I'll stay here, then, if that's all right," said John. He saw the boy smile.

"I won't be long. Flowers at the grave and all that. Meaningless nonsense."

"Not for the person who leaves them there. I know from experience." John pinned Sherlock with a look that would have cowed a drill sergeant.

"Yes, of course. Well. I'll see you shortly."

"Don't rush on my account." Which really meant: Do whatever the hell your mother wants to do and keep your complaints to yourself.

"Of course."

Sherlock departed, leaving John and Ford alone in the big house. Well, John amended silently, as alone as one ever was when there was domestic staff about.

"I'm glad you're here, John. It's been ages since I had anyone to play with on my birthday."

"What do you want to play?" What could an ex-army doctor and a pre-teen ghost play together?

"The piano!"

John laughed. "I'll do my best to follow you."

"Just like last time!"

"Just like last time, yes."

"Only this time there's no naff brother around to spoil it."

John followed Ford to the conservatory where the piano sat, untouched by anything but dusters and polishing rags. He sat on the bench and the boy sat beside him. Ford placed his transparent hands on the keys and John laid his corporeal hands over them.

"Take it slowly, please."

"I will. Well, I'll try. You try to keep up!"

John chuckled. "I'll do my best, but I promise nothing."

Haltingly at first, they began to play a simple melody. John was no musician, but his hands were strong and nimble and he did, indeed, do his best.

Ford glanced up at John and grinned. "You're all right."

"Thanks."

"This is the best birthday ever. Thanks, John."

"My pleasure, Ford."

And if passing members of the household staff heard the piano or saw the man who seemed to play it speaking to the air, they never said a word about it. Not even to one another.

FIC: Slipped Up - JWP AP3

2015-08-02T19:09:43Z

Slipped Up
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 221B
Universe: BBC
Summary: Oleaginousness testing continues.
Date: 2 August 2015
AP3: Dubious Chemistry. Holmes has created a new solution with his chemistry experiments and Watson accidentally gets dosed, with hilarious results.
A/N: Not quite "hilarious", but one hopes amusing.

"Stay back!"

The warning came too late. One step into the kitchen, John slipped. His legs flew out from under him and his arms flailed wildly in the split second before he landed on his bum. Sherlock's latest experiment had bubbled over from table to floor, leaving it a slippery mess.

"What the hell, Sherlock?" John reached for the table to pull himself up, but he couldn't get a grip. His feet, likewise, found no purchase on the usually reliable flooring. "What is this stuff?"

"You recall the oleaginousness tests we embarked up on?"

"Yes. They've been quite enjoyable. Of course, they haven't involved me on the kitchen floor." The table was another matter, but he didn't need to remind Sherlock of that particular bit of research. Neither of them was likely to forget it.

"So this is your latest experiment?" He gave up trying to stand and simply squirmed into a reasonable sitting position.

"Yes. It's a blend of--"

"I don't care what's in it. Does it wash?"

"It should."

"Should," echoed John.

"I may have gone too far. This particular formula is virtually frictionless."

John frowned thoughtfully. "That's no good. One wants a bit of friction."

"Indeed one does."

"It washes off?"

"Probably."

John sighed. "I guess the question then becomes how I'm going to reach the bath."

FIC: Gearing Up - JWP AP2

2015-08-02T18:06:29Z

Gearing Up
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG
Length: 616
Universe: BBC
Summary: Crashed alien tech sends Torchwood to London.
Date: 1-2 August 2015
AP2: Timestamp. Pick a story you wrote in a previous year's JWP (or if this is your first year, any previous Holmesian story you've written, or if you have never written any Holmesian fic before one of the stories/movies/episodes from any Holmes-based canon) and show what happened either just before or just after it.
A/N: Prequel to 2014's JWP series Present Imperfect Tense. That makes it a cross-over with Torchwood/Doctor Who.

"It's crashed smack in the middle of London."

"You're sure it's alien?"

"Sure I'm sure. Thing came from quadrant beta-four-two. Way deeper than anything humans have got in orbit. Check the trajectory for yourself." Mickey rolled his chair back from the desk so his boss could lean in and look at the data on the screen if she wanted.

Gwen declined the offer. "I trust you. You wouldn't be on my team if you didn't know what you're doing. Are the cops there yet?"

He typed in a command that granted him access to New Scotland Yard's systems--not that NSY knew that. "Nah. They've been called, though. Be on their way any minute."

"Naturally. Hey, Ace?" Gwen turned and called over her shoulder to the team's explosives expert and saw that the woman was already donning her black motorcycle jacket for a night-time ride. Gwen nodded approval, a tight smile on her lips. "Good. Get in there and do what you can to hold the police back and keep people safe. Mickey, you and Martha tool up and follow in the SUV. Lois and I can cover things at this end. We'll be ready when you bring back whatever it is."

"Shit," muttered Mickey, still at his computer.

"What is it?" asked Ace. She grabbed her helmet off the old sofa by the door.

"They're sending that Inspector Lestrade guy you hear about in the news sometimes. You know what that means."

"No. What?"

He looked at Ace like she was the village idiot. "Seriously? You must know who he's going to call in, right?"

"I said no. Who is it?"

"It's gonna be Sherlock Holmes, isn't it. He's always in on the weird shit. Duh."

"Just what we need," said Gwen with an irritated sigh. "The Yard's pet consulting detective."

"Oh yeah!" Ace grinned wickedly. "I dunno, though. I think I'd like to see him try to logic out alien technology. Might just make his head spin round or steam come out of his ears or something."

"I want to see that!" Mickey rose and headed quickly for the subterranean garage where the SUV was parked.

"Call Martha!" Gwen shouted after him. "You need to pick her up on the way, and you know how she is if you wake her up by pounding on her door!"

"Yeah, yeah! I know. I will!"

"What about Lois?" Ace asked after he'd gone.

"I'll let her sleep. You lot won't be back before morning anyway."

"You're a good boss, Boss."

"You've got what you need?"

"Yeah. The bike's got a full tank and the standard mini-kit's already on board. I checked it was stocked up this afternoon. Good thing, too, huh?" Ace bounded across the Hub and stood on the open platform lift that would take her up to the Bowl. "I'm looking forward to this."

"I see that. I admit some curiosity about Sherlock Holmes, myself."

"Oh he's whatever, yeah? But that mate of his, John Watson? He's kind of cute."

"Mind on your job, if you please," chided Gwen, half-seriously.

"Aw, you never let me have any fun," joked Ace.

"You poor thing. Off you go. It's a long drive to London."

"Not if I kick in the afterburners."

"You'll do no such thing without my authorisation. I'll keep an eye on things from here and let you know if that becomes necessary. Otherwise, stick to your usual methods."

That meant break every speed record she could without engaging the suped-up engines she'd fitted into her bike's systems. It wasn't as good, but it mollified Ace for the time being.

Gwen shooed her out. "Go. Now."

"Yes, ma'am!" Ace mock-saluted and activated the lift.

FIC: Les Fleurs du Beurre - JWP AP1

2015-08-01T19:16:12Z

Les Fleurs du Beurre
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 221B
Universe: BBC
Summary: Mrs Hudson is baking something new.
Date: 1 August 2015
AP1: Picture Prompt: "Une fleur des montagnes!"
A/N: Not technically going for points, but who knows what might happen given the amnesty prompts?

Aromas of butter and sugar filled the flat from below. Mrs Hudson was baking something, and it wasn't anything John or Sherlock had known her to bake before.

Delectable scents rose up the stairs and John inhaled deeply. He hazarded a guess. "Rosemary?"

"Obviously. Also lemon and almonds," said Sherlock.

"What do you think it is?"

"Your real question is: Do you think we'll get to taste it?"

"Clearly you're wondering the exact same thing."

Sherlock didn't dignify that with a response. Of course he wondered; his sweet tooth was legendary.

John rose from the desk and shut his laptop with a snap. "I can't stand it. I have to know what it is."

He stepped down the stairs and, trying to act casual, knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. Sherlock slipped in beside him.

Mrs Hudson answered the knock, oven mitt on one hand and knowing smile on her face. "Hello, boys. Curiosity got the better of you, has it? Come in."

Her table was laden with biscuits shaped like flowers. Each was speckled with ground almonds at its centre, rosemary flecks in the leaves, and lemon zest in the petals.

"They're for my poker club and I was feeling ambitious. You may each have one."

"Poker?" asked John around a warm, delicious bite.

"Yes, dear. What did you expect? Bridge?"

FIC: A Personal Request - JWP31

2015-07-31T19:17:32Z

A Personal Request
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG
Length: 100
Universe: BBC
Genre: Slash, Fluff
Summary: Sherlock asks. John eventually obliges.
Date: 31 July 2015
JWP #31: Putting on a Show. Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.

"Absolutely not."

"But I'm bored."

"You're always bored."

"That is a gross overstatement."

"You think so?"

"All right, it is a mild overstatement."

"Thank you."

"So?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Like you mean it, if that's not too much trouble."

"Please."

"Hmm..."

"I'll make it worth your while."

"Damn right you will."

"Please, John. For me?"

"All right. But if you start making '70s porn music noises, I'm stopping."

"I don't even know what that would entail."

"We'll see."

In the end, Sherlock got the striptease he desired, and if there was an occasional quiet bow-chicka-bow-wow, John chose not to hear it.

FIC: Behind the Wall - JWP30

2015-07-31T03:40:41Z

Behind the Wall
By MonkeyBard
Rating: R
Length: 1120
Universe: BBC
Warnings: Gruesome crime scene. Severed body parts.
Summary: Behind the hidden door at the speakeasy.
Date: 30 July 2015
JWP #30: Words of Warning. "You are going to die tonight." Use this however it inspires you.
A/N: I think the heat is getting to my brain. This is seriously twisted. Sequel to the much less horrific West End Blues.
A/N2: Written faster than usual with even less beta than usual. Oh dear, oh dear.

The strains of Louis Armstrong died in John's throat. His head swam and his stomach balked at the sights, the smells. The place reeked of both death and fear. He had seen both in many forms, but never anything like this. The room was an altar to them, a place to worship pain.

"The decorators have left the speakeasy theme well behind," said Lestrade dryly. "This looks more like some voodoo witch-doctor's office."

Sherlock was silent, taking everything in with keen eyes.

Hopkins poked cautiously at a heap on plant stand.

"Touch nothing!" Sherlock barked, but it was too late. The thing shifted and the woven cloth that had covered it fell away revealing a severed human head. Its eyes were open and staring, and its scalp and cheeks were carved with arcane symbols.

Hopkins threw a hand over his mouth and dashed for the outdoors. John hoped he made it but spared no further thought for the young inspector's discomfort.

Sherlock crouched down by the head and pulled his magnifying lens from a pocket. He began his examination. "The head was removed post-mortem. The carvings however were inflicted while the victim was still alive."

"Have any headless bodies been reported?" John asked Lestrade.

"I'd've called," the DI pointed out. "Or Molly would've."

Sherlock rose and addressed Lestrade. "I believe further investigation will find that the body, or parts of it at least, are in this room."

Hopkins, looking pale but steady once more, chose that moment to reappear. At Sherlock's pronouncement, however, he turned and hared back out again.

"All right. Do what you do as quickly as you can, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "I need to get my team in here to start photographing and collecting evidence, yeah?"

Sherlock offered only a raised eyebrow and a mildly irritated glance in reply. "John, come here. What do you observe?"

John shook his head. "Not this time, Sherlock. I'm done showing off for the day. This is...extreme. So you do the deducing. I'll do the encouraging flattery bit. And then we'll get the hell out of the Yard's way."

Sherlock looked disappointed but for a change capitulated to John's suggestion. While he examined the head, John went about his own search, making random sounds of appreciation of Sherlock's deductions at appropriate intervals. Within three minutes, Sherlock had pegged the carved symbols as a mix of Haitian Vodou, Brazilian Candomblé, and something else.

"What do you mean something else?" demanded Lestrade.

"I mean I cannot identify the remaining symbols. Yet."

Preoccupied, John leant them only half an ear. He tipped back the corner of a heavy rug that hung over a long table, revealing what lay beneath it. "Um, I've found the rest of him," he announced. "Or, well, much of the rest of him."

His words coincided with another untimely reappearance by Hopkins, who swallowed hard but this time managed to stay put in the doorway of the chamber of horrors.

"He's under this table, or altar, I suppose you'd call it. Someone's left a note, too. Maybe a warning? If it was for this poor fellow, it's old news. It's written in his flesh. Can't make it out in the dark under there, though."

Sherlock and Lestrade joined him and peered into the gloom. "Limbs, minus the hands and feet. Torso, minus the genitalia."

John saw Hopkins and Lestrade wince, although the latter did a better job at hiding it.

"Hopkins, fetch a torch. Brightest you can find," Lestrade ordered.

"Yes, sir," said Hopkins in clear relief, and ducked out in search of one.

"So less an office and more an abattoir."

Hopkins returned soon and together John and Sherlock took a closer look at the pieces of the corpse.

"Can't be 100% positive in the circumstances, but it's a safe bet these parts belong to the head Hopkins found," said John.

"Of course they do," Sherlock replied. "Look at the angle at which the neck was severed. It perfectly matches our friend out there. And the other cuts by the same blade." He rattled off the characteristics of the blade while Lestrade recorded every word on his mobile for later transcription.

"What does the message say?" asked the DI.

Sherlock answered him. "'You will die tonight.' As with the symbols on the man's head, it was carved--"

"Before he died," Lestrade finished for him. "Right. Unless you can tell me anything else..."

Sherlock stood up straight and John rose beside him. "You're looking for more than one killer. Possibly as many as seven are involved, but certainly three are directly responsible. At least one is female. The one who carved this message is left-handed. The one who carved the symbols is right-handed."

"And you reckon Haitian or Brazilian?"

"Why would you assume that?"

"You said the symbols--"

"Anyone can practice Vodou or Candomblé," said Sherlock disdainfully.

Lestrade got a dig of his own back. "And whatever the rest of it is."

Sherlock ignored the jab. "Come on, John. We're finished here." He strode past Lestrade and paused next to Hopkins. "I'll contact you when I have more." Then he swept out.

John followed, giving Lestrade the usual conciliatory shrug and nodding once to Hopkins. As he passed through the main part of the old speakeasy, he noticed that the first body had been removed while they were inside the secret room. As he followed Sherlock out into the street, he heard Lestrade calling for his team.

Sherlock waited for him, buttoning up his coat and adjusting the scarf about his neck. "Ready, John?"

"Are we going after the missing pieces of the body or the identity of the third set of symbols?" John asked quietly enough that even if any officers passed close they wouldn't overhear.

"I'm going after the body. You're going after the symbols."

John was almost relieved. He could get down with some internet research just then. Preferably with a beer handy. Or indeed something stronger. He thought there was a bottle of Glenmorangie left in the back of the cupboard. "Right. See you at home whenever you get there. Do not bring the bits back to Baker Street with you," he added firmly.

Sherlock looked hurt. "I haven't done that in over a year."

"Yeah. Let's see if you can make it another year, okay? See you at home," he said again. "And, Sherlock. Be careful."

"Of course."

"Of course," echoed John, unconvinced. There was nothing to do about it, however, so he simply squeezed Sherlock's hand and the two headed off in different directions.

John decided to take a quick detour on his way home. A stop at the off-license was in order, just in case he was wrong about that scotch.

FIC: Sleep Tight - JWP29

2015-07-29T23:49:54Z

Sleep Tight
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 100
Genre: Slash
Universe: BBC
Summary: He's gotten used to sharing a bed.
Date: 29 July 2015
JWP #29: Picture prompt: Snow Wolf
A/N: Damned if I was going to write another long fic today.

Even in sleep, he is conscious of the cold. The blankets are insufficient. He curls into a tight ball, seeking elusive heat. He grasps the covers and pulls them closer.

Not enough. Something is missing.

He's alone. Lone wolf. Prey stalker. Not tonight. Too cold to hunt.

Someone is missing.

He shivers but doesn't wake. Relax. Blood will flow and bring heat.

Too cold to relax. Paradox.

Weight beside him. Warm body snuggles up close. Arms wrap around him.

He inhales deeply. The scent warms him from within as the body warms him from without.

He exhales a name.

"John."

FIC: A Hex of a Day - JWP28

2015-07-29T00:27:42Z

A Hex of a Day
By MonkeyBard
Rating: R language
Length: 1410
Universe: BBC
Genres: Magical Realism. Hint o' Slash
Summary: Bad luck abounds.
Date: 28 July 2015
JWP #28: Bad, Bad, oh so Bad! Whether it's bad art, bad fiction, or just plain awful, let the badness inspire you in some way today. Take a bad song and make it better, or make it so bad it's good? It's up to you!
A/N: An odd take on the prompt, methinks. Also, I seem to have lost my ability to write short fic. O! for a muse of drabble!

John's luck had been rotten all day.

The morning began with a failed alarm clock and therefore a late wake-up. There followed an argument with Sherlock who it turned out had been the cause of the failed alarm. After that came a broken shoelace that had to be hastily knotted as he had no spare laces, and the discovery upon reaching the tube that he'd left his wallet at home. He walked to work then, rather than go home and face his partner's snarky comments, which made him even later than he already was.

Mid-morning brought piping hot spilled tea on his trousers. Fuck, that had been unpleasant. The resultant stain was just as delightful in its own way.

Noon rolled in and he went lunchless due to his lack of wallet and therefore lack of cash or any other way to pay for anything. He didn't want to beg a loan off a co-worker; he couldn't bare the thought, frankly. Too shaming.

In the afternoon, things seemed to be looking up until the patient with a beer bottle stuck up his arse hobbled in. When would people learn to just go to the fucking sex shop for proper toys?

He was late getting off shift in the evening, which was par for the course and only fair, really, since he'd come in so late. When his relief didn't show up until half-six, however, John was damned near ready to commit homicide. Only the thought that he'd be stuck cleaning up his own mess stopped him.

Perhaps he was becoming a bit too hungry for rational thought.

At last he left for home. He began his self-imposed walk, thinking desperate thoughts of supper and a cold beer. Maybe two. Maybe three.

He was half a mile out from Baker Street when the lace on his other shoe gave out. He stopped and knelt to knot the busted bits, hoping they'd hold the rest of the way home.

Could this day get any worse? he wondered silently, and so of course it did. A sudden storm opened up with literally no warning, drenching him to the skin. I shouldn't have asked.

The shower stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving him wet and annoyed and more than a little fed up.

A barking dog raced up to him and he had a moment's fear thinking the thing was going to bite him on the leg and wouldn't that just be the capper on a fucking fantastic day. He straightened up, prepared to defend himself from canine attack. To his astonishment, the dog stopped at his feet and looked up at him.

"What're you up to, then? Gonna piss on my ankle or something? Go on. Why shouldn't you get in on the universe's Fuck with John Watson Day, too?"

The dog only pawed at his left shoe. The one with the first busted lace.

"What? Stop that." He tried to step away, but the dog did it again, looking plaintively up at John. There was something familiar about it, a ginger and vanilla corgi.

"Hang on. I know you." He knelt again and put out a cautious hand. The dog licked it and then pawed again at his left shoe. He tried the awkward Welsh name he remembered was on the dog's tag. It didn't come out sounding right. "Creirwy?"

She only cocked her head at him in that perfectly Welsh corgi way as if to say, Please don't do that again. You'll only embarrass us both.

"Right. So. You're trying to tell me something, obviously. About my shoe, yes?"

Creirwy pawed at it again and then used her teeth to pull on the lace.

"Okay. Okay. Hang on. It's double-knotted." He felt odd kneeling again in the wet street while strangers--oddly dry, he noticed--trotted quickly past quite blatantly trying not to catch the eye of the wet crazy man talking to a dog and taking of his shoe. "Now what?"

She growled and grabbed the shoe, shaking it.

"Hey! What are you--? Stop that!"

She shook the shoe hard until something bright flew out of it. John grabbed the shiny thing before it could roll off into the street. Creirwy dropped the shoe and began barking at John's hand. He opened it to see a metal disk no bigger than an old six-pence but barely thicker than two sheets of A4. "What the hell is that? How did I not notice it?" He shoved his wet foot back into this wet shoe, eyeballing the little token curiously.

No. Not a token. A charm.

Wait. How did he know it was a charm? He looked at the corgi who looked back up at him with eyes far too keen for even the cleverest of doggie intellects.

"Magic charm?" he asked quietly, glancing to either side to make sure no one might overhear him. The dog barked an affirmative. "Like bad magic? Bad luck magic, maybe?" Another confirmation by bark.

"Well isn't that just perfect. Who'd want to mess with me? And why? Never mind. I need to get rid of it. I can't I just throw it away, can I?" He recalled that it was never that simple in the old fairy tales he read as a kid.

Creirwy ran in a frantic barking circle before him. "Okay, don't throw it away. Got it. How about this? How about you take me to Winnie's right now, and I'll see what she can tell me."

That seemed to satisfy the corgi, who turned and with a look to make sure he was following, led him around one corner and then another and up to the door of Winnie's mystically mobile shop. The pair entered together to the tinkle of familiar bells.

This time, Winnie was behind the counter waiting for them. "Whew! You don't half stink of that nasty little hex. I'm glad Creirwy found you. The sooner we get it off you, the better."

"Hello, Winnie." John laid the charm on the counter. "If today is 'little', I don't want to see big." A horrible though struck him and his eyes widened. "Wait. This isn't that same witch from last summer is it?"

"No, no. Your Sherlock made amends with her. This isn't anything as grand as that. This is simple mischief making." She picked up the charm and turned it in her fingers, examining it. She frowned. "Huh. It's not even aimed at you. It found you by chance."

"Great. How much is it going to cost me to get rid of it?"

She blinked at him owlishly. "Dear me. I'd feel guilty taking anything from you, seeing as this is none of your doing, but one must make a living."

John sighed. "I know you don't take cash, so what'll it cost?"

Winnie thought, her eyes once more trained on the little scrap of silver. "You take Creirwy for the night, I'll keep this, and we'll call it square."

Creirwy yipped a surprised protest that John was hard pressed not to echo.

"That'll do." Winnie pinned the dog with a stare and John remembered suddenly that she was the dog's mother. Creirwy ceased to protest and flopped heavily to the floor. "Don't pout. It's only one night." She turned back to John. "Do we have an agreement?"

"I take Creirwy--" Winnie and the dog both visibly winced. "Sorry. I take her for the one night, you keep the bad luck charm, I'm free of its hex, and my account is all paid up?"

"Yes."

"All right." It seemed too easy but he wasn't in a position to question. He looked at the dog. "Anything you need or want before we go?" Creirwy rose and shook her whole body: No. "What should I call you, since my attempts at Welsh have failed so miserably?"

"Call her Beauty," said Winnie. "It'll do for your English tongue."

"Okay. See you tomorrow, then, Winnie. Right?"

"I'll be around. Have a good night, John. Creirwy, behave yourself while you're a guest."

Creirwy only sulked in reply.

John and the dog stepped outside. "Come on, Beauty. I'll introduce you to Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. You'll like one of them, at least. And we'll find some dinner. I'm so famished I'm imagining ancient Celtic goddesses in modern London," he joked drily.

Creirwy shot him a corgi grin and the two set out to cover the last few blocks to Baker Street.

FIC: Getting to Know You - JWP27

2015-07-27T21:45:42Z

Getting to Know You
By MonkeyBard
Rating: G
Length: 1907
Universe: BBC
Genres: Gen; Slash
Summary: John hangs out with a new friend.
Date: 27 July 2015
JWP #27: "Aside from yourself, I have none." Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be the anti-social one with Watson as his only friend. But who are Watson's friends outside of Sherlock Holmes?
A/N: This is awfully long considering there's no plot, but some days are like that. More notes at the end.

Given the choice, John would have gone with Sherlock. This time, however, he'd been scheduled to work all weekend and there was simply no one else available to cover the shifts. So Sherlock was off attending to family obligations on his own and John had the flat to himself.

There were times a quiet flat was welcome. As a respite after a hectic case, for example. Or simply as a chance for domestic downtime with his partner. Today was not one of those times.

He got off work at the clinic at half-past five and found the last thing he wanted to do was go home to a solo supper and an empty flat. He rode the tube towards Baker Street Station, all the while trying to think of anything else to do with his evening. He could go to the local for supper and a pint, maybe watch the football match. No. Sitting among friendly acquaintances watching a game he didn't really care about wasn't any more appealing than going home. In either case, he would feel alone.

A quick text to Greg found the DI was in Edinburgh until Sunday night. Good on you, thought John. At least someone was spending a pleasant weekend with his significant other.

Molly turned out to be working late, although she appreciated the invite for fish and chips.

Mike Stamford LOLed his reply and asked if John was scraping the bottom of the barrel by asking him. Not that it mattered as he had a dinner party he'd promised his wife he would go to.

The tube pulled into Baker Street and John nearly gave up and went home. Then an idea hit him. Molly was working late; therefore she wouldn't have a date with her boyfriend, Oscar. He was a good bloke, based on the few times John had hung out with him--all of which had been couples events at Lestrade's, oddly enough. Maybe Oscar would be up for a pint and a bite. Only John didn't have his mobile number to text and see.

John stood against one wall, out of the way of other commuters. He thought hard, trying to remember where Oscar's bakery was or what it was called so he could Google it on his phone. Where would he put a cupcake shop if he owned one? That was easy. Notting Hill. He pulled out his mobile and typed "cupcakes" and "notting hill" into the search engine on the off chance he was right.

Bingo! Vortex Fairy Cakes. That was the name. How had he forgotten something as random as that? And they were open until 6:00. He should just be able to make it. He didn't know if Oscar was there, but if nothing else it would kill some time and get him out of his own neighbourhood for something besides work or a case.

How novel.

He crossed to where he could catch the Circle Line headed towards Notting Hill Gate. As he rode, he sent a quick text to Sherlock. Checking in. Seeing if Sherlock had died of boredom yet. That sort of thing.

The reply he received made him chuckle: Neither dead nor murderous yet, but the weekend is young. -SH

Stay out of jail. I don't have the cash to bail you out, and Lestrade would never let you live it down. -JW

He expected no response to that and so was surprised to get one.

Your presence would make this tolerable, although I wouldn't wish the tedium on you. Yours, SH

John smiled. That was about as sentimental as Sherlock ever got. He must be miserable indeed. Well, there was nothing to be done. Miss you, too. -JW

This time there was no further response from Sherlock and John's stop was up anyway. He checked the address of the bakery so he'd know which way to go once he was up on the street, and then pocketed the phone.

It was a short walk to the shop but he stepped quickly, wanting to be sure to get there before they closed. If Oscar wasn't there, perhaps he'd buy a cupcake anyway. Maybe even bring one back for Mrs. Hudson as a sort of pre-emptive apology for something Sherlock was bound to do to upset her.

He found the place and entered to the jingle of a bell. The young woman sweeping up in front of the counter looked at him and smiled. "Hi. We're about to close up, but if you're good at snap decisions I can get you something. There's not a lot left to choose from in any case. All of it half price."

"Thanks, but actually I was looking for Oscar, if he's around."

"John, mate!"

He turned to see a dark, familiar face grinning at him in surprise. "Oscar, hi."

"Fancy seeing you here. What can I do for you? Not a lot left, but everything's half off. I remember your fellow likes his sweets, eh?"

"Oh, uh, thanks but he's out of town for the weekend."

"So then what brings you to the neighbourhood?"

John let out an awkward chuckle and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He felt silly enough now that he was here, and the presence of a witness only made him feel that much sillier. "Everyone's busy and I didn't want to go home," he admitted. "I, uh, wondered if you might want to grab a pint. We've not gotten to know each other outside of group functions."

"You must've asked Molly first," Oscar said with a friendly laugh. "So you knew I was free, like."

"Yeah."

"Sure! I'm up for a pint and how about dinner? You hungry?"

"Famished, actually. Long day."

"Cool. Let me just close up, okay? Take about twenty minutes. You can wait here if you like. Grab a seat. There's free Wi-Fi. The password's ZaphodBeeblebrox, all one word, upper-case Z and B."

"Ta." John sat at one of the little tables.

"Grab cake to tide you over, too. On the house."

"I couldn't."

"No, do. Here." Oscar pulled one from the case and brought it to him. "New flavour. Tell me what you think. It's meant to taste like a Dutch stroopwafle. Life is short, right?"

"Eat dessert first. Thanks." John peeled off the paper and took a bite. His eyes widened.

"Good?"

"Delicious!"

"Cool." Oscar turned to his employee who'd finished sweeping. "Hey, Fiona, can you turn round the sign and lock the front door?"

"Done already," she said.

"Perfect. You want to box up the leftovers or do the till?"

"What do you think?" She went behind the counter and began boxing the remaining cakes.

"What's that for?" asked John. He assumed anything left would simply get thrown out.

"Local shelters. Whatever doesn't sell by closing time gets taken to someplace as can use them. It's the youth shelter on Fridays." Oscar closed out the till and removed the drawer. "Be right back."

It turned out to be less than twenty minutes later when Oscar returned. Fiona had already gone, leaving the boxed and bagged cupcakes on the counter. "There's a great pub not too far away, if that's cool with you."

"Pub sounds great."

"Just one quick stop on the way." Oscar collected up the sweets and they left the bakery.

The sidetrack to the youth shelter took only a few minutes. The woman at the front counter was clearly expecting Oscar, and just as clearly thrilled to see him. "Bless you, love. You're a saint, you are," she declared in a strong Geordie accent.

"See you next week, Meg," he said with a wave, and they were back out on the street.

"I had no idea you donated to charity like that. That's really great."

Oscar shrugged. "It's little enough, but sometimes it's the little things that make the difference, you know? Little luxuries, like."

"I know what you mean." He thought back to care packages from home when he'd been deployed in Afghanistan. He rarely got one himself, but his mates had been generous with theirs.

They reached the pub and it wasn't long before beers and burgers were set before them. It was just the sort of comfort food John wanted and he tucked in heartily.

"So," he began once the first pangs of hunger were assuaged. "Vortex Fairy Cakes?"

"Yeah. Don't you get the reference? I figured you would once you heard the Wi-Fi password. Or maybe I'm overestimating your geekiness. It's been known to happen."

"Sorry. My geekiness?"

"Yeah. I tend to assume everyone's as big a geek as me until I'm proved wrong. It's from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. Well, technically it's from the radio version of The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The Total Perspective Vortex, you know?"

Finally John understood. It had been years since he'd even thought about the Douglas Adams 'trilogy'. "Oh yeah! Something about extrapolating the universe from a fairy cake, right?"

"You got it!" Oscar grinned over his pint. He quoted: "An invisible dot on an invisible dot. Infinitely small."

"Wow. It's been ages."

"So come on then. Your turn."

"My turn?"

"What's your geekdom? Mine is all things sci-fi, so what's yours. I mean beside dead bodies and criminal investigations."

It was not a question John had been asked before. He thought hard, trying to find an answer. Finally, it came to him. "Mystery Science Theatre 3000, I guess."

"Oh my god, I loved that show!" Oscar laughed. "The bots just slayed me!"

"You know they do this thing called RiffTrax now, right?"

"No, what? What's that?"

"Basically the same thing, only the actors as themselves and no silhouette of the bots or anything. You can buy them and download them to watch whenever you want."

"Oh. My. God. I am so doing that!"

The rest of the evening's conversation went much the same way. Sharing geekdoms, as Oscar put it. Swapping stories. Getting to know one another. A couple of mates hanging out.

When John eventually returned to Baker Street, it was with a smile on his face. He knew the flat was empty. He knew he wouldn't see Sherlock until after the weekend. He knew he had to be at work early in the morning. None of that bothered him nearly so much as it had earlier. He still wished Sherlock were there, but he would manage until Monday.

His phone chimed a text as he climbed the stairs. He didn't check it until he was inside with the door locked behind him, by which time it had chimed twice more.

I am one country parson away from homicide. -SH

Mummy says to tell you hello. -SH

Mycroft didn't show up. He is permanently on my shit list. -SH

One more text came in before he'd finished reading the first three.

Tell me something good about your day so I can imagine you're happy even while I am in the throes of mind-crushing boredom. -SH

Something good? John pondered the request. What could he say that would constitute "good" by Sherlock's rather skewed standards? What, in Sherlock's opinion, would be the highlight of the day John had had. Then it struck him.

I went to Oscar's bakery. Stroopwafle fairy cake. I'll treat you when you get home. -JW

There was a short pause and then the reply. John smiled as he read it.

Thank you, John. Yours, Sherlock

A/N2: RiffTrax is a thing. A thing of genius. Which is to be expected because, hello, it's the MST3K guys. www.rifftrax.com I recommend going there and giving them your money for their product. They deserve it. Also, John's been a fan of MST3K in my version of things since Sherlock dragged him into a marathon during A Misty London Sunday.
A/N3: If you don't know Oscar, you can meet him in last year's JWP fic Soldier's Dance, and again in this year's Déjà Vu All Over Again.

JWP 2015 Master List Post

2015-07-27T01:13:40Z

Thanks to everyone who read and commented/kudoed here or over on AO3! It's been another fun-packed, crazy-making July!

ACD Holmes
3 July - Our Own Making ~ G / 221B / Watson's old haunts
4 July - Crossing ~ G / 100 / Returning home alone
7 July - Kitchen Helper ~ G / 221B / Toby helps out
19 July - A Good Talking To ~ G / 221 / An amusing theory

BBC Sherlock
1 July - A Friendly Game ~ G / 221 / Dangerous sport
2 July - Jaune John ~ G / 536 / Pure yellow crack
5 July - A Gentle Reminder ~ ~ G / 245 / Timeliness matters / Slash
8 July - Shared Experience ~ G / 475 / Sharing isn't always good / Slash
9 July - No Choice ~ PG / 221 / Emotional whumpage and death
10 July - Introductions ~ G / 221 / Anticipation
11 July - Coat Check ~ G / 221 / Pleasant employment
12 July - To the Rescue ~ PG / 1597 / Slash, Magical Realism, and a bit with a dog
13 July - War Sonnet ~ PG / 146 / Old homework, Poem
14 July - Wanderer ~ G / 522 / Constabulary and a cat
15 July - Symmetry ~ G / 221 / Greg and his dad
15 July - Adage ~ G / 100 / Beginning. Middle. End.
17 July - Sibling Exchange ~ G / 120 / Watson family sense of humour
18 July - Déjà Vu All Over Again ~ PG / 675 / Not the Matrix
20 July - West End Blues ~ PG / 874 / Locked-room + dead body
21 July - Sweet Relief ~ PG13 / 1393 / London heat wave
22 July - Unintended Side-effects ~ PG / 221 / A note on the door
23 July - Improvisation ~ NC17 / 897 / A missing item and quick thinking
24 July - After Disaster, Tea ~ PG / 1434 / Mrs Hudson investigates / Hint o' slash
25 July - Meta-go-round ~ PG13 / 460 / Rabbit holes and metafiction / Slash
27 July - Getting to Know You ~ G / 1907 / New friends
28 July - A Hex of a Day ~ R / 1410 / Bad luck John
29 July - Sleep Tight ~ G / 100 / Sharing / Slash
30 July - Behind the Wall ~ R / 1120 / Graphic crime scene, Sequel to West End Blues
31 July - A Personal Request ~ PG / 100 / Slash, Fluff, and a Favour

Silverfox 2.0
6 July - "A fearful battle render'd" ~ PG13 / 1375 / The battle begins
16 July - Bloody, but unbowed ~ PG / 1066 / Silverfox in hospital
26 July - Parting Shot ~ PG13 / 2004 / Is the war really over?

Amnesty Prompt Fics
1 Aug - Les Fleurs du Beurre ~ G / 221 / Mrs Huson bakes treats
1-2 Aug - Gearing Up ~ PG / 616 / Alien tech in London, Crossover
2 Aug - Slipped Up ~ PG / 221 / A slippery situation
2 Aug - Annual Observances ~ G / 404 / A birthday, a ghost, and a piano.
2 Aug - Foiled by Feathers ~ G / 383 / Cracking the cracky case
3 Aug - Insert Maniacal Laughter Here ~ G / 403 / A card, a club, and questions
3 Aug - Mad Scientist Club - Membership: One ~ PG / 221 / Challenge accepted!
3-4 Aug - A Little Night Music ~ G / 873 / A quiet night
4 Aug - Had I Known ~ G / 487 / Introspection on 'What if?' (ACD)
7-8 Aug - Bound Up and At Loose Ends ~ R / 1771 / Silverfox visits sick bay

FIC: Parting Shot - JWP26

2015-07-26T23:56:54Z

Parting Shot
By MonkeyBard
Rating: PG13
Length: 2004
Universe: BBC-AU: Silverfox 'verse
Genre: Sci-fi; Hint o' slash; Hint o' het
Summary: Is the war over when the battle continues?
Warnings: Mild gore. Strong language. Sci-fi medicine.
Date: 26 July 2015
JWP #26: The One You Were Expecting: Everyone expects certain kinds of prompts in JWP. Today's prompt is exactly that: the one you personally had expected to see by now, but haven't. Whether that's a 221B challenge, a woeful injury, or a cracktastic combination - well, it's whatever you expected from JWP!
A/N: I expected a Whump-a-Watson prompt by now, so I guess that means I'm going to be writing whump today. Wish Watson luck. He's going to need it.

Lestrade hauled his tired brain into wakefulness, the challenge made greater by the dose of heal-sleep he'd been given. It had been a long time since he'd been so injured as to need the bio-chemical assistance and he found he liked it no better now than he had then.

He opened his eyes to the dim light of the recovery tent at pre-dawn. The silence was preternatural. Accustomed as he was to the hum of engines or the clamour of battle, the quiet niggled at his senses and made him restive.

He looked around and caught the eye of the duty nurse. What was his name again? Williams. Doc had called him Williams.

The young man came over, checking Lestrade's vitals as he asked quietly, "Do you need something, Commander?"

"Information is all." His last update had been--when? "How long have I been asleep this time?"

"Just under 11 hours. You really shouldn't be awake yet." He frowned a little and Lestrade could see the wheels turning in his mind.

"Do not up the dose on me."

"That's not my call."

"Nor mine, I know. You don't have to say it," he added when Williams looked about to protest. "Why's it so damned quiet?" It couldn't be the calm before the storm; the storm had already begun. Had it finished and no one told him?

"I imagine the lack of native wildlife has a lot to do with that."

"Don't get cheeky, son. I want a report from the field ASAP."

"I'll see what I can do." Williams moved off and Lestrade saw him speak to another nurse who nodded and disappeared out the flap of the tent.

Minutes ticked past until, to his surprise, the second nurse returned not with Doc but with Oracle.

"You want a report," Oracle said without preamble.

"Yeah."

"Agra and Sable One accomplished their mission. The Nucleus is destroyed. The Conundrum has fallen."

Just like that. Lestrade ought to feel relief but he felt only numb. It was more than he could comprehend in that moment. So many years of war and devastation left their mark. It would take time to truly understand the ramifications of Oracle's simple declaration.

"Go on."

"Both are currently deployed helping the cavalry hunt down and neutralise stray Conundrum fighters."

Lestrade nodded thoughtfully against his pillow. His own squad hadn't had much trouble from the flying units, but he knew others had. He was glad to hear that Marquardson and Morstan were on the case. The fighters ran more independently than the reps, unfortunately. It would take some time to be sure every last one was reduced to so much scrap.

"Infantry are still in the field, as well," Oracle went on. "All reps appear to have deactivated with the destruction of the nucleus."

"But they're making sure. Naturally."

"Yes." Oracle continued with tactical reports, casualty reports, and clean-up reports. Lestrade took it all in. He parsed what he could as he heard it; like Oracle's first announcement, the rest would have to wait until he had time for deeper thought. He still couldn’t quite believe it.

Dawn broke and the light in the tent grew to comfortable levels by the time the report was complete.

A shout from outside caught the ear of both men.

"That sounded like Doc," said Lestrade, trying to sit up. Immediately, Williams was there pushing him back down.

"Please stay put, Commander!" The nurse turned to Oracle. "Would you please see he remains here while I--"

An explosion rocked the compound, the terrible noise that much more deafening after the heavy quiet. The shockwave hit in a split second, knocking Williams, Oracle, and the second duty nurse from their feet. Lestrade was nearly tossed from his cot; others were less fortunate, hitting the floor in painful thumps and thuds. The tent's plexteel super-structure bent sharply at the base, bringing the canopied ceiling a good half-metre closer to Lestrade's face.

"Fuck!" This time Lestrade hauled himself to his feet, bind and bandages be damned. Williams was too busy righting himself and checking on other patients to stop him pulling the IV from his arm and shuffling stiffly to the tent's now ragged flap. "What in the name of Satan's ball sack--?!"

The chaos outside froze the question in his throat at the same time a wave of heat blasted through his hospital pyjamas. He observed the scene like the trained soldier he was, taking in the broad swath and the details at once.

Crater. Smoke. Fire. Bodies sprawled, whole and in parts. People running, shouting.

A fire team was already dousing the flames at the impact site. The fire hadn't spread far, thank balls. Triage had begun but it soon became clear to him that much of the medical staff were among the dead and injured. He caught sight of Anderson moving from one felled comrade to the next, pointing and issuing orders Lestrade couldn't hear.

Williams pushed past him into the fray, too intent on rescue even to order him back to his bed. As if Lestrade would have gone. And yet, what help could he be out here?

He snagged a passing corpsman with his good hand. The woman stopped, her expression so focused as to appear almost glazed. "What happened?"

"Conundrum fighter kamikazed."

"Christ." He let her go and she dashed off to answer the hail of a paramedic. He watched her go and that was when he saw it. His heart and stomach lurched.

Doc.

Even from that distance he could see the blood and burned flesh.

Paramedics already had him on a grav-gurney. He saw Williams and a doctor at Doc's side, rushing the gurney to the surgical tent. His mind pulled up the woman's name from who-knew-where: Jones. He followed as quickly as his battered body would allow, dodging sprinting corpsmen, rushing paramedics, and fire fighters, all of whom were more interested in their own tasks than on one wayward patient quietly hobbling his way toward Surgery.

Inside the big tent, Doc was already off the gurney and onto the operating table. Lestrade snagged a surgical mask and pulled it on, and then tucked himself into a corner of the operating theatre where he could see and hear what was happening. As long as he kept quiet and out of the way, he doubted anyone would bother him.

"Get that mask on him!" Williams ordered the anaesthetist at the same time he pulled over a tray of medical equipment and began cutting at Doc's clothing.

"Yes, sir."

Satan's cock! That wasn't an anaesthetist, Lestrade realised to his horror. That was a conscripted slinger who'd probably only ever seen one of those masks from the other side, if at all. She looked too young to have been in the war long. Still, the kid got it on Doc quick enough and right enough not to draw a sharp word from the professionals.

"Plasma burns to the left thigh, hip, and abdomen," Jones stated in that cold medical tone Lestrade both hated and understood. "Fractures of left radius and ulna. Deep shrapnel wounds to the left shoulder and chest. Damned lucky nothing's nicked the aorta. I need two units of synthblood and burn kit, NOW!" she added at a shout.

A proper corpsman caught the order, acknowledging it at the same time she dashed off for the stuff. She was back by the time they'd stripped Doc's uniform off him.

There followed a litany of medical jargon that was well beyond Lestrade's ability to follow. He focused more on the tones of their voices than the words. He heard every change of pitch and volume, noted when the tension increased and when it levelled again, held his breath when the pace of the words seem to race. Finally, Jones stood up straight over her patient and locked eyes with Williams. "Finish the weaving, will you? I've got more patients to see to."

"Yes, Doctor." Williams took over the suture loom and Jones moved off to tend another wounded soldier who'd just been brought in.

Lestrade sucked in a breath through the surgical mask he'd forgotten he wore, and let it out slowly. Oracle's voice beside him was unexpected but oddly unsurprising.

"He'll survive, Commander. We should go."

Lestrade nodded. He pushed upright away from the wall and nearly fell. Only Oracle's quick grasp around his waist saved him. The taller man held him upright until he got his equilibrium back.

"I'm all right."

"Of course. However, I suggest you lean on me, as it will make the trip back to the recovery tent swifter."

"Yeah." Lestrade nodded. He didn't object to the assistance like he normally would; he was that knackered just from standing there watching the med-staff work on his friend. He took Oracle's offered arm, leaning as heavily as he needed. Oracle made no objection.

They both pulled off their surgical masks once they were in the open air. Lestrade inhaled the acrid smells of charred earth and charred flesh along with the normal fetid smell of the dying planet. He looked forward to the recycled atmosphere of Edinburgh Base. Maybe he and Marquardson could finally have that picnic on a maglev train as it shot through the wooded transit tubes.

No one noted the odd pair crossing the compound from surgery to recovery. People still scurried about, tending the few remaining wounded, but the fire was out and clean-up had begun. The chaos had calmed to an orderly flow of personnel and equipment. Corpsmen arranged, identified, and counted the dead.

"He'll be fine," Lestrade said and only realised he'd spoken aloud when Oracle answered him.

"Yes. Doctor Jones is one of our best. When the physician cannot heal himself, she is the one I would choose to tend him."

There was something in his words, oddly formal, almost old fashioned, that caused Lestrade to look at him closely. There was tension in his jaw, fine lines at the corner of his mouth, dark circles beneath his eyes.

"How long did they have him on the table?"

"Two hours and thirty-eight minutes."

Lestrade let out a low whistle. That was a long time in a combat situation. That was more than a stabilise-and-patch-up job.

"And how much of that were you standing next to me?"

"Two hours and thirty-seven minutes."

"Huh."

"Doctor Jones was determined to assure that John would have full mobility in his arm and hand once he's healed. It required some delicate repair and reconstruction."

"I see." It was his use of Doc's proper name that caught Lestrade's ear. He'd never stopped to consider how close Doc and Oracle were. How close John and Sherlock, he reminded himself, were. It was only now, in this uniquely unguarded moment, that he recognised their deeper connection.

He gave Sherlock's arm that he leaned on a brief squeeze of sympathy. "He'll be fine."

Sherlock paused and looked at him. His lips were a thin line, but the relief and resolution in his face was clear.

"Yes. He will."

They were silent the rest of the way back to recovery. Lestrade looked at the bent structure and snorted derisively.

"Which is more than can be said for this tent." To his great surprise and greater delight, Sherlock burst out laughing like he'd never heard him laugh before. Lestrade grinned and chuckled. "Come on. It hasn't fallen down yet, but I might."

Still giggling--Giggling! Lestrade could hardly fathom it.--Sherlock led him inside and helped him back into his bunk. Immediately, the duty nurse bustled over and re-established his abandoned IV. Lestrade ignored him, and spoke to Sherlock.

"Thanks. Go on now. I appreciate the help, but I don't need you any more." And John will when he wakes up, he added silently.

Sherlock nodded.

"Hey," Lestrade called him back before he could go a step. "I won't tell him we were there if you don't."

"Were where, Commander?" asked Sherlock blankly, and Lestrade knew he understood.

"Nowhere at all."