To days to come

Sherlock/Doctor Who/Torchwood: Fic: Normal Need Not Apply

2012-08-30T01:32:10Z

Title: Normal Need Not Aply
Rating: T
Summary: Moriarty's got ahold of The Flesh, Sherlock called the Doctor, John's got a Vortex Manipulator.
Character: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Eleventh Doctor, Jack Harkness
Spoilers/Warnings: Through Reichenbach Fall for Sherlock, no specific spoilers for Doctor Who or Torchwood.
Notes: 17,473 words. Crossover between Sherlock, Doctor Who, and Torchwood. It was written as a companion to Unique out of Millions, but it can be read as a standalone.

On AO3

On FF.net

These Are the Things that Are Strange And Yet Somehow Normal: Part Six

2012-08-21T03:34:57Z

Title: The Space Between Breaths
Rating: T
Summary: The space between breaths can stretch to eternity.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers/Warnings: Seasons one and two, all of the episodes, canonical character death, nightmares, PTSD, violence (not applicable to all chapters)
Notes: 1,026 words

Inhale. Exhale.

I had forgotten (because I had known, had realised, in those days before Sherlock) how loud my own breathing could be in a silent room.

Two days after it happens, I catch a newspaper headline out of the corner of my eye. “THE REICHENBACH FALLS” it proclaims over a picture of Sherlock in the deerstalker. It feels like a punch in the stomach, deep like a knife in my ribs, and I can’t catch my breath. I keep walking, past the store that was originally my destination and back to Baker Street.

There are reporters camped on my doorstep, cameras at the ready. Mrs Hudson ignores them, going about her business as usual. I don’t go out much, not after seeing that headline. They’ve won, the battlefield has been lost. The ambiguous they, the criminals, the jealous, the ones who can’t see, they’ve won.

Some days it’s all I can do to remind myself keep breathing. I jerk out of dazes to find myself staring at nothing and gasping as I suddenly realise there’s not enough air in my lungs. I inhale, trying to bring the oxygen back into my body, into my bloodstream, to fuel the cells to get me moving again.

Molly drops in but doesn’t stay very long. What do we have to say to each other, really? Mike invites me out for a pint. Mrs Hudson brings cups of tea that I don’t drink, which sit there until she sweeps them away again in a wave of forced cheer.

Inhale. Exhale.

Just keep breathing.

Greg comes by one night and we have a few beers as he tells me about the inquiry that has been opened at the Yard. They’re looking at all of the cases, and even though everything they’re finding is rock solid, it’s going to take a long time to sort everything out. The next week he comes by again, this time with takeaway and more beer. He sleeps on my couch that night but is gone the next morning when I force myself out of bed. It becomes a pattern with us, every week he comes by and we drink and talk. Some weeks are better than others. I start working again, something to get out of the house. Sarah’s sympathetic but distant.

The thoughts run around and around. I really should have known something was wrong when Sherlock refused to go see if Mrs Hudson was all right. I vividly remembered what he’d done to the CIA agent who’d put a gun to her head, but his refusal to go see her suddenly made sense when I saw Mrs Hudson standing in the foyer with a repairman.

I’m not ashamed of what I say at his grave, but I do mean it when I tell Mrs Hudson that I’m angry. I’m angry he didn’t come to me, that he didn’t allow me to be there with him.

He’d gone out on his own. I’d tried to make him promise that he wouldn’t go after Moriarty alone. I’d tried to make him swear, months ago, after the kidnapping and the meeting at pool, but he hadn’t. If he’d given his word, he wouldn’t have sent me away. I should have known. I shouldn’t have left. I keep running through scenarios in my head, what I could have done differently that might have changed what happened. Around and around and around, the same thoughts, a million ways that it could have ended differently.

Hindsight is 20/20, my father always said.

I wake up in the front room most mornings, not realising I’d fallen asleep, the telly still on, blaring whatever nonsense from whatever station I’d left it on. The nightmares don’t bother me now. They’re just something that happens. I untangle myself from the blankets on the floor or on the couch if I’ve managed to stay on it and go about my day.

Years before I went to Afghanistan, I’d figured out that nightmares aren’t nightmares because of the violence or the blood or the danger. They’re nightmares because of how they feel. They’re the way the subconscious deals with the things the waking mind cannot face. I didn’t need Sherlock’s psychology journals to tell me that.

<i>There is no gunfire that cuts across the night, no cloying smell of chlorine, no stink of fear wrapped in claustrophobic wet concrete. There is no screaming, just silence, the cloudy sky mocking me with its vastness. Ghosts of buildings rise around me as I run, always moving too slowly, never ever fast enough. My footfalls slap echoslap echoslap echo strangely. I don’t know if I’m running to something or away from something, but I keep going, have to keep going, inhale, exhale, inhale exhale inhaleexhale.

Someone. Not something, someone. I’m running to someone.

There was someone, someone I had to talk to or listen to or comfort or touch or kiss. But they’re--he’s--not there, not anymore. I don’t know where to find him, or how, or why I’m trying to get to him other than the fact that I don’t know where he is and it’s killing me, tearing me apart, stripping me down in ways I’d never imagined. It hurts so much I can hardly breathe, the space between breaths takes an eternity, but I keep going because if I go fast enough I can save him, can stop whatever’s going to happen, can keep him safe (whole, intact, healthy, alive). Inhale exhale. Inhale exhale. Inhale.

I run through the grey rain and past the grey buildings and under the grey sky across the grey pavement. I’m panting, I can’t catch my breath, exhale, I’ve been running for too long, inhale, I haven’t run this long since the Army, and my leg is starting to throb. Exhale. Inhale.

My footsteps slow (exhale. Inhale. Exhale.), the pavement and the sky and the buildings all fading and smudging into a large grey blur as blood, red and shockingly vibrant against the grey, begins to run on the pavement. Inhale. I’m too late. Exhale. A lorry rumbles</i> by and I wake, everything quiet and still.

Alone.

Inhale.

Notes: This is the last part for now. I may pick this back up once season 3 starts, but I'm considering this series finished as it stands right now. Thank you for reading.

Part Five

These Are the Things that Are Strange And Yet Somehow Normal: Part Five

2012-08-21T03:30:49Z

Title: Is It So Hard to Believe?
Rating: T
Summary: The Aftermath of the Baskerville drugs is hard on John. Lestrade and John talk, and Sherlock continues to be surprising.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers/Warnings: Seasons one and two, all of the episodes, canonical character death, nightmares, PTSD, violence (not applicable to all chapters)
Notes: 1,409 words

It’s dark in the lab and my eyes won’t focus. My ears are ringing from the noise and there are dots dancing in front of my eyes. I’m struggling to see, to take stock of my surroundings, to try to figure out what’s going on. And then something cuts through the ringing. Reality’s sliding sideways, and I don’t know why.

There’s snarling behind me and oh god it’s the hound, the hound that terrified Sherlock on the moor last night. I need to hide need to find shelter need to get away.

I see the empty cages and sprint for one of them, pulling the door closed behind me.

I hear a low growl, and my hands shake as I pull out my phone, dialing, praying the call goes through. I put a hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing because I can’t give away my position, I can’t let him (it) (them) know where I am because he (it) (they) will find me and kill me or worse. There’s no answer, but my phone rings almost immediately, loud in the dark, and I try to tell Sherlock that the thing (the people) (the person) (the creature, it’s a creature, oh god it’s huge and red-eyed and glowing and things shouldn’t <u>glow</u>, not like that...)

The lights come on, blinding me, and Sherlock’s there, saying something about how it’s okay (no it’s not, it’s not okay, it can’t be okay, there’s a glowing hound out there he saw it didn’t he) and then he says we’ve all been drugged.

Wait, what?

I latch onto that, using that discovery to ground myself and rein in my terror. Being drugged explains everything and it doesn’t involve cloning. Or giant glowing dogs with red eyes. Somehow it’s reassuring. I think. I decide to blame my logic for that on the drugs.

Fear and stimulus, it turns out. A drug that makes nightmares real, or influences nightmares in the waking world. There really isn’t much difference. H.O.U.N.D., an acronym that someone had the bright idea to turn into a real monster.

I do feel a little bad about shooting the dog. I feel worse for Henry, though. I give him the name of the therapist I had been seeing before I met Sherlock, just in case his current one decides that she can’t deal with a patient who once shot at her during the course of one of his episodes.

Somewhere around three in the morning, I realise I’m probably going to be awake all night. Sherlock’s asleep beside me. I’m staring at the ceiling, trying to will myself to sleep, but I’m terrified of what the drugs will do to me while I sleep, what they’ll show me. I want to wake Sherlock and ask him how long the effects of the drugs will linger, but I can’t bring myself to do it for some reason. He’s had just as long of a trip as I have, and I could tell whatever had happened to him in the Hollow, whatever the drug had made him see, had shaken him down to his core.

My phone vibrates quietly, just a single buzz, signalling a text.

Are you awake?--GL

CAN’T SLEEP

Me either. I’m downstairs.--GL

BE DOWN IN A FEW MINUTES

I slide out of bed and pull a jumper on against the chill. I fumble for my socks, but they’re nowhere to be found, so I give up and leave, shutting the door silently behind me.

“Glad I’m not the only one who couldn’t sleep after that madness out there,” Greg says as I come into the front room, the floorboards creaking and cold under my bare feet.

“I’m not sure I want to sleep tonight,” I admit, taking the chair across from Greg. We both stare at the fireplace, the fire long since banked for the night.

“You’re both mad,” Greg says finally, surprising a chuckle out of me. “Seriously, the pair of you, you’re each as bad as the other. You at least could have told me what was going on.”

“Like Sherlock ever tells anyone what he’s planning,” I reply, going for joking and missing by a mile. I can hear it myself, and Greg catches it.

“Still haven’t broken him of that, huh?” he asks.

“I’ve tried,” I say wearily. “God knows I’ve tried. I’ve been trying for months. I thought...I thought I’d gotten him to trust me after the pool. I just want him to trust me, to trust someone besides himself. He won’t talk to his brother and everyone else he pushes away.”

“He’s been this way for as long as I’ve known him,” Greg replies, his voice kind.

“I just want him to tell me things. I don’t want to change him.”

“You might be the first person I’ve ever heard say that about him,” Greg says.

I look down at the floor. “I love him, Greg, I do.”

“Wait,” he says, and I listen hard for the judgement in his voice, but there isn’t any. “You two are actually...what? A couple? Boyfriends?”

“We’ve never really nailed that part down,” I reply. “But yes.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Greg says, “Well, that means I owe Mycroft five quid.” I look up at him, surprised. “That’s good, John. Really.”

At breakfast the next day, I realise that one of the few nice gestures Sherlock has done for me in public turned out to be what he had thought was a lab experiment. I feel like I should be angry about it, but I’m too tired to care. And it’s something I really shouldn’t be surprised about, anyway, not from him.

We’re halfway back to London when he suddenly says, “All right, I was wrong about the sugar. Stop gloating.”

“It made just as much sense as anything else we came across on this case,” I reply, fighting back a smile. “So you made a mistake, Sherlock. You’re human.” He mutters something unintelligible and I smile out out of the window, carefully turning away so he can’t see me.

Back at our flat, we both drop our things. I’m really not mad at him about the lab incident. It wasn’t the ideal thing, but I should know by now how he works.

Somewhere in the past twenty-four hours, I’d realised that Sherlock was like a magnet, or the center of a whirlwind. Everything spun around him, creating chaos and order in equal measures. Or rather, he made order out of the chaos by pulling things into his own field of influence. He can walk into a room and pull a coherent story out of the tiniest pieces of information.

“You should sleep,” Sherlock says, startling me, and I realised I’d been staring out of the window at the rain sheeting down outside.

“It’s not even dinner time,” I reply, checking my watch.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” he says.

“How do you know? You were dead to the world.”

“The only mornings you’re ever up before me are the ones where you’ve had a nightmare and slept badly or the ones where you haven’t slept at all. And your nightmares always wake me up, so you didn’t sleep,” he says. “I also heard you and Greg talking last night.”

“He texted me and asked if I was awake,” I reply, turning away from the window. “Wait, we were downstairs, how did you hear us?”

“I followed you to make sure you were all right.”

I stare at him, completely shocked.

“Is it so hard to believe that I would be concerned? We’d been drugged, all of us. And then you shot the dog in the hollow where we were drugged again and then the explosion killed Dr. Frankland,” he says. He stops, inhales, and looks straight at me. “I was worried about you. I wasn’t sure what affects the drugs would have on you in your sleep.”

“I told Greg about us,” I say, looking down at my feet, too tired to process anything else. I file it away to deal with later. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why would I?” he asks. The lack of derision in his tone surprises me, and I look up. “It doesn’t matter, John. It’s all fine. Now, go to bed.” He strokes my cheek with his thumb before he kisses my forehead. “I’ll be there when you wake up.”

Part Four | Part Six

These Are the Things that Are Strange And Yet Somehow Normal: Part Four

2012-08-20T23:54:41Z

Title: Sentiment
Rating: M
Summary: The Woman has left, her phone is still there, and Sherlock has nightmares too.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers/Warnings: Seasons one and two, all of the episodes, canonical character death, nightmares, PTSD, violence (not applicable to all chapters)
Notes: 1,224 words

Sherlock keeps Irene Adler’s phone. I’m not sure what to make of that. I find it in a drawer as I’m searching for a file two or three days after my impromptu meeting with Mycroft, but I leave it there.

Sherlock’s mind works in ways I’ll never understand. I’ve studied the brain, the neural pathways and the connections between the cerebellum and the cerebrum and the spinal cord and the body and everything that’s encased therein, but Sherlock’s neural labyrinth cannot be mapped by anyone but him. He keeps Irene’s phone but he never acknowledges it, never takes it out, at least as far as I can tell. When she does come up, she’s “The Woman,” as though just mentioning her name would conjure her back from the dead.

One night, I wake up very suddenly, but I can’t figure out why. I haven’t had a nightmare, there hadn’t been any loud noises, and no one had rung the bell (the number of times it had rung in the middle of the night had almost prompted me to disable it again, but the thought of Mrs. Hudson’s wrath was scarier than having to get up at two in the morning). I’m in Sherlock’s bed, and he’s curled on his side with his back to me.

“You need to run,” he says, clear as a bell, voice hard and just slightly frantic. I sit up, panicked, staring at the empty bedroom. I look at him, confused.

“Run,” he says again, and then it dawns on me.

He’s dreaming.

“Sherlock,” I say. He doesn’t stir. I tentatively place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. He tenses and gasps, but that’s all he does. “You wake up quieter than me, at least.”

“John,” he says, his voice rough with sleep. He turns over, looks up at me. “What?”

“You were dreaming,” I reply, smoothing his hair away from his forehead. It’s damp with sweat.

“So why’d you wake me up?” he asks, sounding grumpy.

“You were telling someone to run,” I reply, and he freezes. “I thought you might welcome the interruption.” I resolutely do not ask who he was talking to. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out. I keep stroking his hair, running my fingers through the curls the way he had done for me that first night we slept here. He studies my face, leaning into the hand stroking his hair.

“You’re being sentimental,” he says finally. His tone is accusing.

“Never mistake sentiment for weakness,” I reply. He looks at me, surprised. I expect him to come back with a cutting remark, but instead he pulls me down and kisses me.

There’s something desperate in the kiss. His hands hold on just a bit too tightly, his tongue just slightly too insistent. I allow him to roll me over so he’s on top of me, pinning me down. He runs his hands over my hair, my chest, my stomach and arms and anywhere else he can reach.

“What do you want?” I ask as his mouth moves down my jaw, trailing kisses to my neck. “Tell me what you want, Sherlock.”

He lifts his head to look at me, his hands cradling my face. “I had been caught and you wouldn’t run,” he said, his voice very nearly a whisper, his eyes suddenly unfocused with the memory. I reach up and run my hand up and down his back, rubbing circles against his shirt. “I told you to run, and you wouldn’t leave me.”

“Never leave a man behind,” I reply softly, and his gaze sharpens. I’d thought I’d gotten used to the way he seems to look straight through my skull and into my brain to read it like a book, but being this close to those eyes is something else entirely. “I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

And suddenly, he’s kissing me again, and there are insistent fingers tugging at the hem of my shirt. I push him back so we can sit up, although it means losing the contact, and he tugs my shirt over my head as I pull on the hem of his. He stops touching me just long enough for me to pull his shirt off.

He pushes me back down, presses our hips together, and we both groan at the contact.

He makes a frustrated noise and I lift my hips up enough for him to pull off my pants. He quickly dispenses with his own and slides one hand down to stroke both of us at the same time. I push up into his hand. He shifts, finding a rhythm that’s fast and relentless and somehow just as desperate as his kisses had been earlier.

I arch up as the pleasure starts pooling low and hot. His face is buried in my neck, kissing and sucking there, finding that spot just below my ear that makes me gasp.

“Come on, John,” he says, his breath in my ear making me shiver and groan. We’re both so close to the edge, and it’s one...two...three...

After we’d both cleaned up and are lying on the bed again, he says, “I went to meet Mycroft without you. She showed up. I know I’d said I’d try to tell you when I was going to meet a psychopath...”

“She wasn’t a psychopath,” I interrupt. “She was greedy and scared. There’s a difference.”

“She worked for Moriarty,” he says. “That phone of hers with all the secrets, she went to him to make a profit off of them. In return, he wanted her to undermine me. She claims he didn’t want anything in return for advice on how to manipulate me.”

“He knew that she’d do it anyway,” I reply, realising. “He knew she’d do her best to find a way to make a fool out of you and Mycroft and all he’d have to do would be to sit back and watch the show.”

“So it seems,” he says. I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be waiting for something himself.

“I’m not angry,” I say, and he sighs quietly. I could almost think it was relief. A yawn escapes me, and I looked over at the clock. Half three. “It’s time to sleep.”

Sherlock tugs me close, tucking an arm around my waist. “She’s not dead,” he whispers to me. “She’s not in witness protection in America.”

“What?”

“She was caught by a terrorist group,” he says, and I’m so shocked I can’t even begin to ask how he knows about the conversation I’d had with Mycroft. “I rescued her, helped her get to freedom, and left her at an airport in Berlin.” He paused. “I know why you lied to me, and I’m not angry.”

“So you just let me lie to you?” I ask.

“I did,” he replies. “It made you feel better, and I knew the truth, anyway, which is actually closer to the lie you told me than to what Mycroft believes happened. But it doesn’t matter now, it’s done.” I feel a light pressure on the top of my head, like he’s pressed a kiss to my hair. “Go to sleep, John.”

The next morning, Henry Knight is in our sitting room, telling us a story about the gigantic hound that killed his father.

Part Three | Part Five

These Are the Things that Are Strange And Yet Somehow Normal: Part Three

2012-08-20T23:51:22Z

Title: The Best I Can Expect
Rating: M
Summary: Jim from IT is Jim Moriarty, John wears a bomb vest, and a promise isn't made (but it's the best outcome).
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers/Warnings: Seasons one and two, all of the episodes, canonical character death, nightmares, PTSD, violence (not applicable to all chapters)
Notes: 1,946 words

With Sherlock in bed, everything is slow, languid. I had expected him to be all frantic energy and impatience, like he is most of the time. But he’s drawn-out touches and low groans as I explore his bared skin with my fingertips, my tongue. My left hand slides over his cock and he arches into the touch with a satisfied moan. I smile.

So does he, after.

It’s the best night of sleep I’ve had in weeks.

The nightmares abate after that, although I do have a nasty one just after the case with the Chinese smuggling ring. I fall asleep with Sherlock’s arm across my chest and his leg across my legs and wake some time later, panicking, unable to move, and nearly throw him from the bed. He sits up, watching me standing next to the bed as I try to get my breathing back under control. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay (and I’m thankful for that, because I’m clearly not), but he does stand up slowly, telegraphing his movements as he walks around the bed to me. He stops an arm’s length from me and holds out his hand. And waits.

He’s done this before, when a nightmare has caused me to leave the bed for one reason or another. He’ll come toward me, stop a safe distance away, and just wait for me to come to him. I don’t know where he learned to do that, if it’s something he thought of on his own or something he read in a psychology journal (I’d found one on his desk, open to a page about nightmares and night terrors). He always waits, always gives me the choice to back away or go to him.

I walk to him and lay my head on his chest as he wraps his arms around me, my own arms wrapped firmly around my own stomach and trapped between us. The images of the nightmare are already fading.

Not long after that, though, came the pink phone, and sleep was scarce for a few days.

And then the pool.

I leave to go to Sarah’s for tea, leaving Sherlock to watch crap telly and get the milk. I get maybe three blocks before someone grabs me from behind.

I struggle, but there are three of them, all larger and stronger than me. I manage to break one bloke’s nose before the cold barrel of a gun is jabbed into my neck. I freeze immediately. They shove me into a vehicle (I think it’s some kind of delivery van) and manhandle me into a strange harness and a coat before jamming an earpiece into my ear.

“That’s Semtex under that coat, Johnny boy,” a voice says into my ear and I go very, very still. “I’m sure you know what that is. Now, unless you want to experience first-hand what it’s like to be that close to that much explosive material, I suggest you do exactly as I tell you.”

The voice continues to talk to me, enumerating instructions and telling me exactly what’s going to happen. I’m not to speak unless directly told. I’m not to move unless directly told. On and on.

I lose track of time as I’m driven around, but we stop abruptly and they lead me into a building that smells like wet concrete and chlorine and shove me in a curtained cubicle and told to wait. So I wait.

Jim from IT turns out to be Jim Moriarty and also a complete fucking lunatic.

Mycroft arrives ten minutes after Moriarty leaves and accompanies us back to 221B (after I fish the memory stick out of the pool).

I leave the brothers arguing in the front room to retreat up the stairs to my own room. I close and lock the door behind me before I sink down to the floor, back braced against the wall, and put my head between my knees. I’d managed to keep it together at the pool and in the cab, but the adrenaline is fading and the horror of what had happened (gun against my throat, kidnapped, held hostage, wrapped in explosives, forced to be a puppet) is rising in my brain in a tide I can’t fight.

This used to happen to me in Afghanistan. I’d go out on a mission, be completely calm through it. Surgeries too. Everything was clear, sharp, even when everything was going to hell. It was only afterwards, when I was safe and quiet, that reality set in and I panicked.

A soft tap on my door pulls me back.

“John?” Sherlock calls through the door. “Are you alright?”

“Go away,” I say, my voice a croak from the tightly reined in terror.

“John,” Sherlock says again.

“No,” I say, and it’s both an answer and a reprimand.

“Tell me what you need,” he says. “I don’t know how this works, John. Nightmares I understand. This is different.” A pause, and then a soft sound like a deep inhale. “Please.”

“I’ll be out later,” I say finally. He’d said please. He never says please. “Just let me be, all right?” It pains me to send him away, but I can’t be around anyone right now. I need to calm down first. He doesn’t reply.

Eventually, the shaking does subside and I lever myself off of the floor. I change my clothes, leaving the ones I had been wearing in a pile on the floor. I stare at them for a bit, debating whether to clean them or find a way to burn them. Sherlock probably has some corrosive chemicals I can use.

The flat is quiet when I open my door. Sherlock is on his laptop (his own for once) on the couch. He doesn’t look up when I walk into the room.

The flat looks exactly the same as it had when I left. The windows are still blown out. Debris is still everywhere. It felt like it should have changed, somehow, like I had been gone longer than a few hours.

I wander into the kitchen and open the fridge. I ignore the head and glance through the contents. They’re the same as they had been a few hours before as well. Damn.

“I didn’t get the milk,” Sherlock says from his seat on the couch.

“Yeah, I noticed,” I reply. “Don’t really blame you, though.”

“I had planned to get some on the way back from the meeting,” he says as I’m filling the kettle. I almost don’t hear him over the water, but when his words sink in it’s all I can do to not slam the kettle on the counter. I put it carefully in its base and brace myself on the counter.

“You planned that?” I ask, voice steady. I don’t look at him.

“Not that specifically,” Sherlock replies.

“But you arranged to meet with him?” I say, turning to look at him. He’s still looking at the laptop.

“Yes. How was I to know that he’d involve you?”

“For someone who’s so intelligent, you really are an idiot, you know that?” I say. He finally looks up at me. “You could have told me.”

“You would have tried to stopped me.”

“Damn right I would have tried,” I say, turning the kettle on without looking. “Or at least I could have gone with you.”

“You would have?” he asks, confused, finally looking up at me.

“You daft git,” I say. “I shot someone for you the night after we met, do you really think I wouldn’t have come with you to meet the maniac?”

“You’re angry that I didn’t tell you,” he says, but it’s half a question.

“No, and you just made a guess. Don’t deny it, you did,” I say, cutting off his token objection. “I’m angry that you went alone.” I turn the kettle off and pour two mugs, dropping a tea bag in each of them. “I’m angry that you didn’t even give me the chance to tell you no. You just assumed.”

“You would have said no. People normally say no to these types of things.”

“Do I react to you the way normal people do?” I ask, and he actually pauses. “Exactly.” I pull the teabags out, toss them in the bin, and then take Sherlock his mug. I sit down beside him. “Don’t do it again.”

“I will do my best,” he replies, and I take that for the answer it is and nothing more. He’ll try. That’s about all I can ask for.

That night, though, Sherlock falls asleep with his head tucked under my chin.

The world is close, too close. It’s normally echoingly vast, but now there is concrete instead of sand, a roof instead of stars. Everything smells wrong, not like vegetation or sand or exhaust or gunpowder or blood, but instead there’s fear (there’s always fear, fear has a smell, it’s sharp and brittle and malevolent) and there’s sweat and there’s chlorine.

I’m wrapped in something that’s slowly pulling me down there’s water nearby it’s trying to drag me to the water. A voice murmurs in my ear, alternately low and smooth and then loud and brash. It directs my movements, and I have to obey the voice or the thing I’m wrapped in will pull me in the water and then I’ll drown or die or dissolve.

“John,” it says, pitched lower than usual. “John you have to wake up.” Only I can’t obey that order because I’m already awake and so I’m dragged toward the water, inexorably forward, and there’s dancing red dots on my chest (I know they’re sniper rifle sights, I know that like I know the water’s going to kill me) and they ensure that I’m not going to fight because I’ll die one way or the other. “John,” the voice says again in my ear. “John,” it says, and I flail, twisting, my hand connecting with something solid before I slip off of the bed and onto the floor with a thud.

It’s dark. A hand lands on my shoulder and I flinch back. It removes itself and a light comes on, blinding in the darkness. Sherlock’s room, Sherlock’s floor, the underside of Sherlock’s bed (there’s the sock I lost last week).

“John,” he says, looking down at me. There’s a red mark across his right cheekbone.

“What?” I ask. My breathing is slowing, everything’s coming back into focus.

He disappears and then I hear footsteps come around to my side of the bed. He offers me his hand. I take it to pull myself to my feet.

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” I say when I see the red mark on his cheek.

“It’s fine,” he says. “You didn’t mean it.” I know that, and I know he knows it, but it still makes me feel guilty. I run my fingers across the mark, but he doesn’t even wince. It’ll be a bruise in a couple of hours.

“Better put some ice on it,” I say.

“John, it’s fine,” he says again, gently pulling my hand away from his face, interlacing our fingers. “Are you coming to bed?”

I glance at the clock. It’s half four, not quite late enough to sleep but still too early to be up. Sherlock’s watching me, and he lifts our twined hands and trails kisses across my knuckles. The gesture makes me smile. I tug his hand down and kiss him properly.

“You’ll tell me next time you go to meet a psychopath, won’t you?” I ask between kisses.

“I’ll do my best,” he replies, repeating his words from earlier.

It’s still the best answer I can hope for.

Part Two | Part Four

These Are the Things that Are Strange And Yet Somehow Normal: Part Two

2012-08-20T03:46:57Z

Title: This is Us
Rating: T
Summary: John has nightmares and Sherlock decides that John is his area.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers/Warnings: Seasons one and two, all of the episodes, canonical character death, nightmares, PTSD, violence (not applicable to all chapters)
Notes: 2,118 words

Noise. Motion.

Another body next to me.

Get moving.

I’m out of bed and two steps away before I manage to stop myself. I’m not in my room; I’m in Sherlock’s. Sherlock. Flatmate. Plays violin. Deduces people. (Right old arse, sometimes.) Calmed me until I fell asleep last night.

I turn around.

“Good morning,” he says, watching me from where he’s sitting up on the bed. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “Yeah, I did.” I swallow, suddenly nervous. “Thank you for last night.”

He waves a hand, as if dismissing my gratitude. “You were distressed, I calmed you down.”

Is that all it was?

“Right,” I say, and turn on my heel to go shower.

“You’re welcome, John,” he says to my back before I’ve even take two steps. “That’s the response you wanted, right? ‘You’re welcome?’ Or I could have said, ‘It was no problem,’ because it wasn’t.” I turn back around, surprised. “This isn’t my area, John, I told you that. I don’t know what the etiquette is for this.”

“I don’t quite know either,” I admit. Here, in the light of day, I feel kind of ashamed about last night. They were just nightmares. I’m a grown man.

“You were startled when you realised there was someone else with you in bed,” Sherlock observes, watching me. “But you’re calm now.”

“Getting there, at any rate,” I say. “It’s been...awhile since I’ve had someone else in bed with me.”

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he replies.

“I know.” I did. I know he didn’t mean to. It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. Is mine. “Breakfast?” He nods, and I turn and leave.

The day passes in a haze of drowsy laziness. Neither of us had gotten much sleep, and although Sherlock seemed to able function completely on tea and nicotine patches, he seems rather content to watch television on the couch with me.

With his head in my lap.

We are midway through the second movie when I find my hand running through his hair, much the same as he had done to me last night.

“Sorry,” I mutter, pulling my hand away.

“Don’t,” Sherlock says, grabbing my wrist before I can pull it away. He places it back on his head. I tentatively start stroking again. He... nuzzles (there is no other word for it) into my hand and then rests his head more firmly on my thigh.

“What is this, Sherlock?” I ask later, after lunch when we’re back on the couch, his head in my lap again. He is staring at the ceiling with his hands folded under his chin, ignoring the television.

“This is us, John,” he replies.

“All right,” I say, and stroke through his curls again.

That night, I go to my own bed later than I normally do, alone. I can hear Sherlock downstairs, doing something in the kitchen, and then faint music from his laptop. I fall asleep to the soft noises.

I’ve got blood up to my wrists. It’s a boy, this time an actual boy, a local child who couldn’t be more than fifteen and who had been caught in the crossfire and taken shrapnel to his back. He’s barely breathing, and we’re exposed. I pick him up gently and get us behind a mostly-whole wall of a nearby house. He’s muttering something, breathless, his voice breaking, and I catch the words for mother and sister, but everything else is blurred out.

His voice grows softer and then, all of a sudden, he’s gone.

“John!” someone’s calling, and someone grabs my shoulder and I lash out instinctively. “John, let me go.”

Calm voice, cool, deep, authoritative. Called me by my first name. I’m holding a wrist, attached to the arm that is twisted up behind the back of my flatmate. Who is pushed against the wall.

I’m holding him there.

“I’m sorry,” I say, immediately letting go. I look at my own hands, the afterimages of the boy’s blood coating my hands ghosting in front of me. I blink and the image fades and I put my hands resolutely behind my back. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Sherlock says, but I can see the red mark my hand made around his wrist. He follows my gaze and pulls the cuff of his shirt over it. “I’m all right. Lestrade called.”

“What’s he want? What time is it?”

“It’s half seven. They’ve found a body near the Thames, by Tower Bridge. Come on,” he replies, heading for my bedroom door. “He wants us to meet him at the morgue.”

I have just enough time for tea and toast before I’m following Sherlock out the door and we’re on our way.

“I’ve got to get back to the scene, call me with what you find,” Lestrade says as we pass him in the corridor heading for the morgue. “Apparently they’ve found another body.”

The body is a boy, no older than fifteen, and his back has been sliced open. I can see his spinal cord from where I’m standing at the doorway. I remember the dream, the blood on my hands, and gasp.

“Yes, Molly, coffee would be lovely,” Sherlock says. Molly moves past me, and Sherlock looks up at me. I’m frozen in place.

“John,” he says, and he’s in front of me, stooping to look me in the eye. He’s grasped my hands, which I’d raised to look at, intertwining his fingers with my own. His fingers are long, bony. “John.”

“What?” I reply, finally finding my own voice. Jesus, they’re just nightmares. It’s daytime, this is London. (But the boy is so young.)

“Look at me,” Sherlock commands, and I do, tearing my eyes away from the prone figure lying face down on the table. “You’re safe.”

“I am not a child,” I say, surprised at the vehemence in my own voice. He pushes our linked hands down but doesn’t relinquish my fingers.

“I never said you were, John,” he replies. “You’re not weak, either. What is it about this particular body?”

I swallow around a suddenly dry throat. He waits, more patient than I’ve ever seen him, for me to answer him. “The wounds,” I finally manage. “There was a boy who died in my arms. I could see his spine.” Bones aren’t white in a live body.

Sherlock studies my face. I have no idea what he’s seeing and I frankly don’t care. But I feel steadier, watching him examine me, anchored by our linked hands.

“Molly’s coming,” he says suddenly, and lets me go. He tugs on my shoulder, dragging me over to the body. I’m not panicked anymore, and I study the wounds.

“Most of these were accidental,” I say.

“How can you tell?” Sherlock asks. He knows. He just wants to hear me go through it.

“They’re too random, too jagged. The biggest wound,” I say, indicating the one along the boy’s spine, “is deliberate. A knife or scalpel.”

“Good,” Sherlock says, and Molly opens the door to see us both bending over the body.

“Find anything?” she asks, setting the coffees on a table, well away from everything else.

“Quite a lot,” Sherlock replies. He picks up both coffees and hands one to me. I look askance at Molly, who nods that the coffee is for me. Sherlock taps out something on his phone as I sip. His phone starts dinging madly, a cacophony of different text tones. He grins and grabs my arm, towing me out.

We’re back on the street before I quite realise what’s going on. Sherlock is on the phone with Lestrade, saying something about black market organ harvesting and a recent kidnapping. He gives an address to Lestrade, telling him to look there.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“We are going home,” he replies. “This was barely worth my time.” He’s frustrated.

“How’d you know?” Organ harvesting? Really? Did that sort of thing still happen?

“The boy’s kidneys were missing. It was very clumsily done, and the other wounds were a distraction.”

“But there wasn’t a wound by his kidneys,” I say, confused.

“There was,” Sherlock replies. “They’d closed it with glue so the seam was nearly invisible, which argues that the person who’d done it had some medical training.”

“And the address you gave Lestrade?”

“Homeless network reported some things that suddenly added up.”

“Ah,” I say. He falls silent and the city scrolls past the window of the cab. I study my hands again, the dual memories of the boy’s blood and Sherlock’s fingers playing in my head.

“Have you hurt your hands?” Sherlock asks. The solicitousness surprises me.

“No,” I reply, curling my fingers in and tucking them resolutely under my folded arms.

“You had another nightmare last night,” Sherlock says after a few moments of silence.

“It happens,” I say, shrugging.

“So you’ve said before,” he says, and I realise I’ve given him the same reply I’d given when I’d woken up the night before last.

“And?” I ask, bracing for more questions.

“I just wanted to know,” he replies, and settles back into the seat of the cab.

It’s delivery Chinese and more television that night, both of us settled on the sofa with our laptops. I’m trying to write up a blog entry and he’s doing...something. It appears to involve looking at autopsy photos. I don’t ask, and don’t look.

“I meant what I said last night,” he says, breaking the silence. I jump. I’d been staring at my blog, watching the blinking cursor mock me.

“Which part?” I ask, scrambling to try to get some context.

“You don’t fall under the ‘not my area’ thing,” he says.

Oh. That part. I’d begun to wonder if I’d dreamed that part.

He shuts his laptop and places it under the sofa, out of harm’s way. I look over at him, and he’s suddenly in my space, close enough that I can feel his exhale on my cheek.

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” I reply, and then his lips meet mine. He’s gentle, which surprises me, and the kiss is almost chaste. Almost.

“Is this what you want?” he asks when we part.

I close my own laptop, not bothering to power it down properly, and set it aside. “Yes,” I reply. He leans forward again, and I put a hand on his chest, stopping him but not pushing him away. “Are you sure this is what you want? This isn’t an experiment, or some kind of test?”

“Yes, I’m sure, and no, this isn’t,” he says.

I knot my fingers into his shirt and pull him forward. He gasps a bit in surprise, but lets me, and I tilt my head to allow for the height difference. Our kiss this time is heated, less tentative. I feel his tongue trace my bottom lip and I part my lips, allowing him access.

He tastes like salt and beef, remnants of his takeaway, but there’s something underneath that’s uniquely him. He shifts on the couch so we’re sitting closer, facing each other more, and winds the fingers of his right hand into my hair, stroking it gently.

He kisses like he observes: comprehensively, and then the minor details. Broad movements turn into smaller ones, tracing my top lip, a small hint of teeth on the bottom one, tickling my tongue with his. His mouth is slightly cooler than my own, which surprises me, a small detail I file away for later. I’m learning him as he’s learning me, a thought that almost makes me smile. My right hand threads into his hair, traces the shell of his ear and the trails down the sensitive skin just behind it. He shudders and grunts in surprise, and I do smile then.

“You are surprising,” he says, pulling away just enough to speak. I cup one hand around his jaw. I trail my fingers down that spot again, and he smiles, a genuinely happy look that I’d never seen before. He cups my jaw and kisses me again, gently, just a soft brush of lips. It’s tender, a word I never thought I would be able to apply to Sherlock Holmes.

“I do try,” I reply, just a bit breathless, and then I yawn involuntarily. The lack of sleep from the night before last, the late night last night, and the early morning this morning are hitting me all at once.

“Let’s go to bed,” he says, pulling me up and leading me to his room.

I wonder, as we’re going to his room, if this is going to go any farther tonight. I decide to follow his lead, and climb into bed beside him.

Part One | Part Three

These Are the Things that Are Strange And Yet Somehow Normal: Part One

2012-08-20T03:36:34Z

Title: Unexpected
Rating: T
Summary: In which John has nightmare and Sherlock plays the violin, among other things
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers/Warnings: Seasons one and two, all of the episodes, canonical character death, nightmares, PTSD, violence (not applicable to all chapters)
Notes: 1,110 words

Violin music floats out over the sand, in the darkness and over the shouts of the soldiers trying to take cover. I’m fingerspalmswristselbows deep in a boy (so young, when did they become so young?) trying to keep his entrails from becoming his extrails. Isn’t that a line from a movie? Something about knights and lying and the hero getting the girl.

A glissando of notes cuts between the screams, under the curses and behind the deep reports of gunfire. The heart under my hands (quite literally under my hands) flutters and stills, and there’s nothing I can do. Everything gets quieter for a moment as I run through my options, which are limited out here in the middle of all this.

Yelling and violin music through the night. No, that’s not quite right. I’m yelling, but my voice isn’t heard but I can hear it but no one around me does but that can’t be right, someone always hears me, hears the doctor. The lieutenant’s right there, he should be able hear me.

Curling through it all, reaching a crescendo just as I feel a searing pain through my left shoulder. The song reaches its culmination and I jerk awake, disoriented, flailing against the things holding me down (sheets, blankets). The song continues, though, skewing dream into reality. I find myself free of the blankets and across the room through the door down the steps into the sitting room, where there is air and peace and music.

Right. New flat, new flatmate.

Sherlock lifts his bow and the music stops. I’ve stopped just inside the doorway, gasping for breath. I can feel my hand shaking (nothing unusual there) but my leg is steady.

“Did I wake you?” Sherlock asks. I try to reply, but my mouth is desert dry. “I told you I play violin when...”

“It’s fine,” I say, cutting him off. “You didn’t wake me.”

“You had a nightmare,” he says, looking me up and down. Christ, I’m in a t-shirt and shorts, no robe, scar faintly visible through the shirt. I fought the urge to cover it with my right hand. He’d already noticed it, anyway.

“It happens,” I reply, realising that I had been silent for too long. “I’m sorry to disturb you, I’ll go back.” I motioned up to my room, starting to turn.

“You’re not disturbing me,” he says. “Stay, if you want.” He doesn’t ask what the nightmare was about. He can probably guess (deduce, he’d correct me) what it was, probably heard me flailing around my room. Unfamiliar surroundings, new noises, new flatmate. “Do you need me to do anything?”

I feel bad asking. I feel foolish for wanting. But I’m so grateful that he offered I can hardly stand it.

“Can you play?” I ask. “Play some more, I mean? Please? Anything, anything at all.”

He looks surprised. “Of course,” he replies, lifting the bow again.

I drift into the kitchen to make tea as soft, slow notes start from the violin. The familiar motions are soothing, and I carry two cups back to the sitting room.

Sherlock’s in the middle of the floor, so I place one cup on the mantle and take mine to the coffee table near the sofa. There’s a blanket crammed at one end, and I pull it over my legs as the music continues.

By the time Sherlock’s played two songs and my tea is gone, I’ve stopped shaking. He ends a third song, something slow that’s making my eyelids droop, and puts his violin away. I know I should get up, go back to my bed, and leave him to whatever he does when he’s not sleeping, but I’m too comfortable to move. It’s that quiet time of night where nothing feels quite real, when the whole world is still.

He sits down on the other end of the sofa, and I tense involuntarily. Oh, God, here it comes, the talk about the nightmares, their subjects, about the things I don’t (won’t) even tell my therapist.

He wraps one hand gently around my shoulder and pulls my head into his lap.

“You’re not able fall asleep while I play,” he says, his voice low, a rumble I can damn near feel, this close to him. He’s right.

“What makes you think I’ll fall asleep like this?” I ask, and then his fingers are brushing through my hair.

“You like touch,” Sherlock replies. “You don’t mind it, at any rate; you’re the first to offer your hand to shake when you meet someone new. Touch is comforting to you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” I say. “Thought it might fall under that whole ‘not my area’ thing.” That was rude. Damn.

But his hand doesn’t stop. “This doesn’t,” he says. “You don’t. You are surprising, John, new.”

“Ah, so you don’t have all of humanity figured out,” I say, surprising a soft chuckle out of him.

“It seems not,” he says. “Is this okay?”

“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s more than fine.” I’d like to actually be lying beside him. Would he do that?

As if he’d read my mind, he says, “My bed’s more comfortable than here.” I look up at him, dislodging his hand. “Nothing like that, John, I just know that company helps with nightmares.”

“All right,” I say, after thinking about it. He sounded like he had been speaking from experience. I couldn’t help but wonder how he knew. “I may hit you, though. If I have another nightmare, I mean. You don’t have to do this. And don’t try to hold me down or wake me up.” I sit up, pushing the blanket back down.

“I’ll be fine,” he replies, pulling me up and leading me to his room. “We both need to sleep.”

It feels strangely intimate to climb into his bed, but it’s Sherlock. My life hasn’t been normal since I met him (what was it, now, a week ago?). Chasing cabs, shooting serial killers, nightmares from my own subconscious. Climbing into his bed. These are the things that are strange and yet somehow normal.

I start to lay with my back to him, but he tugs my shoulder until I turn over, and then starts carding his fingers through my hair again, slowly, lightly. I relax quickly, lulled both by his presence and the feel of his fingers in my hair.

“Thank you,” I say, catching his hand and placing a kiss on the palm. His fingers stiffen just a little in surprise, and then stroke once down my cheek before winding back into my hair. It’s the last thing I remember before falling into sleep.

Part Two

kallaneboi @ 2012-05-05T21:17:00

2012-05-06T01:20:00Z

Soooo I got a new job and will be moving. Soon. Like by the end of the month soon. If anyone has any recommendations on places to live in or around Royal Palm, FL in Palm Beach County, I'd greatly appreciate it!

This entry was originally posted at http://kallaneeboi.dreamwidth.org/3618.html.

When Five Becomes Nine, Part Two (BBC!Sherlock)

2012-03-05T03:46:01Z

Title: The Senses that Experience the Self
Rating: G
Summary: Sherlock has used all five external senses to discover John. But he finds that John has become more of a part of him than he'd originally realised.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers: None.
Notes: 610 words. This is my reverse birthday gift from me to you.

Part One

Sense of Pain

John Watson really was an excellent doctor.

John wasn’t Sherlock-level observant by any means, but one day they were sitting in a cafe drinking coffee and John started discreetly pointing at people and diagnosing them. Carpal tunnel, back pain, hip replacement, scoliosis. It’s not that Sherlock forgets that John’s a doctor as well as a soldier. It’s just that sometimes he doesn’t remember until John reminded him.

John frequently patched up Sherlock’s various scrapes and bruises that he collects on cases. He’s gentle but firm, good with a needle when Sherlock needs stitches. He made Sherlock eat and sleep, which Sherlock rebelled against, but it’s really more for the sake of rebelling than of any real desire to thwart John’s ministrations.

Sense of Temperature

John Watson made the flat seem warmer, just by being in a room.

Sherlock knew that the temperature change from one person being in a room would be negligible to the point of immeasurability, so he knows that John doesn’t literally make a room warmer by being in it. It just seems that way.

And then it was Sherlock’s turn to fall in the river. When John helped to pull him from the water, Sherlock’s lips were going blue and he was shaking with cold. John pulled off Sherlock’s sodden jacket (he’d shed the coat before he’d gone in the water) and wrapped one blanket around his shoulders and another around his legs. He curled up as much as he could, trying to warm himself as John dried his hair with yet another blanket. But the shaking wouldn’t stop, so John pulled off his own coat and unwrapped the top blanket and wrapped his arms around Sherlock before tugging the blanket around both of them. John breathed against Sherlock’s neck, the warm air sending goose bumps down Sherlock’s spine. The resulting shiver wasn’t due completely to the cold.

Sense of Balance

John Watson liked to keep things on an even keel.

Sherlock appreciated the stabilizing influence John has on him, even if he didn’t always show it. Didn’t ever show it, truth be told.

John was tea when he’s agitated and coffee in the mornings and blankets when he’s cold and food at least once a day, usually more. John was sleep and caretaking and responsibility. He’s crap telly on rainy days and good Chinese after a case. He’s medicine and bandages and steady hands and the comforting sensation of having another person looking out for you.

And, best of all, he was a conscience.

Proprioception

Sherlock saw John Watson in Moriarty’s hands, and it was as though he’d lost one of his own limbs.

If Moriarty was to kill John, he wouldn’t just be burning Sherlock’s heart. He’d be amputating a hand, an arm, a balancing force, the warmth of companionship, Sherlock’s shield against the world.

Sherlock always knew where John was afterwards. Periodically, when he realised John wasn’t in the same room, he would stop and listen, only resuming his pacing or experiment when he heard the creak of floorboards or a cough or a snore. Once, just days after Moriarty and the pool, Sherlock had woken to find John gone from the flat and John’s phone on the coffee table. He’d paced for half an hour until John returned carrying the shopping. John stopped in the doorway, startled to see Sherlock, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John’s mouth twitched in a humourless smile and he’d apologised for leaving his phone.

Mycroft sneered at caring, at sentiment. Sherlock knew that it wasn’t an advantage, it was a weakness, but once the caring started it was so hard to stop.

~~~

More Notes: Proprioception is the knowledge of where your limbs are in relation to you without having to see them.

The titles of these two parts I borrowed from something Hank Green said in a video on YouTube. The video can be found here, the part I'm talking about starts at around the two minute mark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj0eXvMpnak

There are other senses that the human body has (sense of hunger, etc.) but I chose these because they're kind of internal senses that can be influenced by external stimuli.

When Five Becomes Nine, Part One (BBC!Sherlock)

2012-03-05T03:41:27Z

Title: The Senses that Experience the World
Rating: G
Summary: Sherlock can see John, touch him, smell him, and hear him. But tasting is a different matter...
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Spoilers: None.
Notes: 742 words. This is my reverse birthday gift from me to you.

Sense of Sight

John Watson was interesting to watch.

He looked very unassuming. Sherlock figured that this was a conscious decision on John’s part. But Sherlock knew the truth. John had deft hands, whether he was fixing tea or examining a body. They were a doctor’s hands, quick and precise in their movements.

Sherlock loved to watch John pull on the invisible armour of the soldier persona that he could never quite leave behind. It wasn’t that John wasn’t a confident man in his everyday life, far from that, but when he drew himself up, back straight, shoulders square, head high, he became someone more. Give him a gun and he became mesmerizing, hands steady, feet planted, something fatal and beautiful all at once.

Sherlock wasn’t normally given to such sentimental hyperbole, but he knows artistry when he sees it.

Sense of Hearing

John Watson’s voice was uniquely expressive.

Sherlock and John had infrequent but quite spectacular shouting matches. Sherlock had seen John angry at him, and was quite familiar with that tone of voice, the one that meant that Sherlock had done something “wrong” and didn’t care and John didn’t approve.

John’s angry voice and John’s command voice were very similar, but the steel behind the commanding tone brooked no argument from anyone. John had even managed to use the voice effectively on Irene Adler. Unbeknownst to them at the time, Sherlock had overheard every word.

But Sherlock was also familiar with John’s joking, happy voice as they bantered about cases or about crap telly shows. It was warm, if a voice could be categorized as such, and John’s laugh was infectious, making even Sherlock smile.

Sense of Smell

John Watson smells of tea and wool and London and something uniquely his own.

Sometimes he smelled like cologne or toast or the chip shop or, once after a particularly difficult case that almost ended quite badly, river water and the coppery tang of blood. Not his own blood, fortunately, but the blood of the man he’d disarmed and then subdued so the police could take the man away.

Sherlock had wrinkled his nose at the smell of river that clung to John, but John was too high on adrenaline to notice, although John had taken a shower as soon as he’d gotten home. Then he’d smelled like soap and shampoo and clean.

Sense of Touch

John Watson was surprisingly muscular.

Under the coat and the jumper and the shirt, John was still in good shape from the army. The few times Sherlock had touched John, he had felt that through the layers of cloth and wool.

Sherlock, though, could still remember feeling the trembling in John’s body as he’d stripped off the Semtex vest that Moriarty had strapped on him. Sherlock almost recoiled at touching the vest itself, trying to keep the coat between his hands and it, and then slung them both as far away as he could at the first opportunity.

Sense of Taste

Sherlock honestly had no idea what John Watson tasted like.

Tea, probably, if Sherlock had to make a deduction. Wool, cotton. Sweat, if he’d been running. Soap, maybe, after a shower. Toast. Chinese food.

They both came in laughing and exhilarated after catching a particularly stupid thief. John was gasping out something that the thief had said to which Sherlock had made a retort that had left the thief gaping at him in open mouthed confusion.

“I swear, I could kiss you sometimes,” John gasped out, still laughing, and then froze. Sherlock froze as well, and then hung up his coat and turned to John. “Sherlock, I’m so—“

Sherlock cut him off mid-word by pressing his mouth to John’s. John froze again for a moment.

And then John was kissing him back.

A distant part of Sherlock’s brain registered that John did indeed taste faintly of tea, but John mostly tasted like John. Another distant, smaller part, was registering how interesting tasting another person was, how it was both touching and tasting at the same time, engaging two senses at once.

Sherlock could smell John’s scent that was woolcottonLondonJohn, see that John had his eyes closed, hear John make a small pleased noise in his throat, feel the softness of John’s hair under Sherlock’s left hand and the weave of his jumper under his right.

But mostly Sherlock was kissing John, because that was something new and different and unique and, somehow, impossibly perfect.

Part Two

More Notes: The titles of these two parts I borrowed from something Hank Green said in a video on YouTube. The video can be found here, the part I'm talking about starts at around the two minute mark: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj0eXvMpnak

Fic: Violin (BBC!Sherlock)

2012-02-29T20:22:13Z

Title: Violin
Rating: G
Summary: When Sherlock can't take being in the flat anymore, he takes his violin and disappears for a few hours.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson. Johnlock if you want, or no pairing if you don't.
Spoilers: None, unless the fact that Sherlock plays the violin is a spoiler.

It’s cold, which isn’t really a surprise for London in December.

He pulls out his violin and tests the strings, tuning them gently to account for the cold. Once he’s finished, he draws his bow across, and the music starts.

He leans his chin on the violin, listening to the sounds ringing through the crisp twilight air of London. Shoppers and tourists pass him, but he pays them no mind, not allowing his mind to focus on anything but the notes and melodies rising to the invisible stars.

A few coins drop into the case next to him, and he lifts his eyes to acknowledge the person who gave them. The woman smiles coyly and then walks on. He watches her go and small facts about her life (single mother, young son, two cats, secretary) flit through his head unbidden. He just sees and knows, even when he’s not concentrating.

He ends the song and starts another. He has seen other musicians out on the street with electric violins and amplifiers and distortion pedals, but none of those ever sound quite as good as the real thing, as good as the real wood vibrating with the sound, sending echoes out to the people (banker, a young couple [both students], librarian, cashier) listening, watching. Couples pause as they walk past on their way to whatever restaurant or show or concert, just to hear a few lines before walking on.

This isn’t something he does often. It’s something he does when the walls of his flat are closing in, when his own breathing feels too loud in a room that’s too small. It happens when he’s beyond boredom, beyond the mind-melting tediousness that is everyday life and he wants something wholly different.

He finishes a piece with a small flourish and carefully retunes his violin as he smiles slightly at the smattering of applause. More people have dropped coins into his case, and he makes sure he looks each person in the eye as they do. (Teacher, policewoman, grocer, nurse.)

He tunes his violin again, adjusting the pegs just slightly, and then plays “Carol of the Bells.” This one’s a bit tricky, but he can do more with it, drawing out the phrases or repeating the chorus as he likes. He spots one or two people with camera phones and carefully doesn’t look up at them, keeping his eyes on his fingers or on the people dropping coins in his case.

Twice he gets “skimmed,” but he doesn’t really mind (another student and an out of work construction worker). The money doesn’t matter to him anyway; he’s just out here for some air and happened to bring his violin. The people don’t get much.

He moves on to another, slower piece. The crowd disperses a bit, people going on their way to wherever they were heading (home, the shops, a lover’s) when he hears footsteps come up on his right. (John. He knows John’s stride, his footsteps, doesn’t even have to look.)

“So this is where you disappeared to,” a voice says when he puts down the violin.

“Hello, John.”

“It’s bloody freezing.”

“I know.” He loosens his bow and crouches to stow it in its compartment. He gathered the coins from the bottom of the case. “Here, hang on to these.” He settles his violin into the case, wipes it down gently, makes sure everything’s in its proper place, and closes the case, flipping the latches closed. Sherlock stands.

John takes the coins, counting them. Steady, dependable John (who’s just come out to shop for presents).

“Jeez, Sherlock, you’ve got nearly £30 here. You got this just from playing on the street for a couple of hours?” John says, counting the coins again. Sherlock puts his scarf on and pulls on his gloves, noticing the chill for the first time since he got his violin out.

“I thought we might go to dinner,” Sherlock says, smiling down at John. John smiles back at Sherlock.

“That sounds good,” John replies. “It’s a good thing I’ve already got your Christmas present, then, isn’t it?”

***

Christmas morning, Sherlock opens his gifts from John.

A tin of rosin (the same kind he always uses) and a brand new (higher quality) bow.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, examining the bow. He smiles at John, but he’s already planning what to play first, both to try out the bow and to please John.

Fic: Headache (BBC!Sherlock)

2012-02-15T02:49:53Z

Title: Headache
Rating: G
Summary: Sherlock's got a headache, so he texts Mycroft.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mycroft Holmes. No pairings apply
Spoilers: None.
Notes: It's Valentine's Day. Have some fluff!

Sherlock's head felt like it was about to split in two. He knew this feeling, although it hadn't happened quite this badly in more than a year. He had sequestered himself in his room with the lights off and the shades drawn so that not even the smallest bit of light from the abominably cheerful sun (why did it actually have to be sunny, today of all days?) outside could get in. John was trying to be quiet, but Sherlock felt like every sound was multiplied ten, an hundred, a thousand times until even the sound of his own breathing made it feel as if someone was using his head for a timpani drum.

John had asked three times over the past two hours if there was anything he could do. Sherlock sent him away each time, knowing that nothing John could do would do any good at all.

Finally, after John's fourth try, Sherlock texted Mycroft. Even the small light from his phone sent daggers through his brain.

Headache. Help.
SH

Half of an eternity of an hour later, he heard footsteps outside of his door. The small tap of Mycroft's umbrella being propped against the wall made Sherlock flinch.

"You should have called me straight away," Mycroft said softly as he entered.

"Thought it would stop," Sherlock mumbled, trying to be both nearly silent but still audible. He heard the slip of fabric on fabric as Mycroft removed his tie, the slight rustle of a jacket being removed, the soft slick of laces and the thud of shoes taken off. Mycroft padded around the bed so he was behind Sherlock, and the bed dipped as he climbed in.

Warm, dry hands rested against Sherlock's neck just where the base of his skull ended. Mycroft rubbed slow, gentle circles there, softly at first and then applying more pressure as the muscles relaxed.

Sherlock turned over so he was under Mycroft's arm with his head resting just under Mycroft's heart. The slow, muffled thudding was relaxing, as was the hand slowly massaging the muscles in his neck.

Slowly, as the pain faded and the tension hard muscles relaxed, Sherlock fell asleep.

Mycroft knew the instant Sherlock's headache had gone. The crease in his brother's brow had smoothed itself out. Sherlock looked ten years younger when he slept, and the memory of the nights they had spent like this as children came rushing back. Sherlock, prickly and misunderstood, had had these headaches all his life. And Mycroft had been the one who, when Sherlock was eleven, had figured out how to make them stop.

Mycroft pressed a light kiss to Sherlock's forehead and extracted himself carefully. Moving silently (a skill he'd perfected out of necessity) he put on his tie, jacket, and shoes before he let himself out of Sherlock's room.

"Is he all right?" John asked when he saw Mycroft emerge.

"He'll be fine when he wakes up," Mycroft replied. "He's had headaches like this since adolescence. He hasn't had one in several months, though, or at least he hasn't told me if he has."

"I've never seen him like that," John said. "What'd you give him?"

"The only thing I've found that works," Mycroft replied. "A bit of peace."

Unique Out of Millions (fanfic, BBC!Sherlock/Doctor Who Crossover) (2/2)

2012-02-06T07:06:09Z

Title: Unique Out of Millions (2/2)
Rating: PG for action and swearing
Summary: Moriarty's gotten his hands on a Vortex Manipulator. The Doctor and River need a bit of help.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty, the Doctor (11th), River Song. Doctor/River implied.
Spoilers: Through 2.2 for Sherlock (slight for 2.3, but you won't notice unless you haven't seen it), through the 2011 Christmas Special for Doctor Who.
Notes: Split into two posts because LJ thinks it's too large for just one. Link to Part One.

Once they had all eaten (John had to bully Sherlock into actually consuming food), River and Sherlock both wandered off on their own.

"Is it okay for Sherlock to be wandering around?” John asked, following the Doctor back to the main console platform. He wondered idly what else Sherlock would be able to tell him about the Doctor.

“He’ll be fine, the TARDIS will keep him safe,” the Doctor replied. “This is one of the safest places in the universe.” The Doctor fiddled with something, and then looked up at John. “You should rest, you look just about done in.”

“Can’t,” John said. “The bomb.” He waved his hand at the door. “Can’t sleep just now.” It was true, he was still jittering with nerves and leftover adrenaline.

“Ah,” the Doctor said. “Well, sit down, at least.”

John sat in one of the chairs and waited for the Doctor to speak again. He examined the TARDIS, still amazed. When the Doctor didn’t speak, John decided to ask the question he’d wanted to know.

“How long have you known Sherlock?” John asked the Doctor.

“Well, I’ve known him for about fifty years,” the Doctor replied. “He’s known me for, umm, four years? Five? I think that’s right. It’s a bit hard to keep track of the timelines.”

“So you really do travel in time?” John asked.

“You’ve seen it for yourself, Dr. Watson. You were just in New London, two thousand years after your time, in a galaxy several thousand light-years away from your home.”

“Yeah, I’m still trying to process that.” The Doctor smiled.

“How’d you meet him, then? A soldier and a consulting detective. Bit of a strange pair.” The Doctor actually looked at John when he asked, expecting an interesting answer.

John smiled faintly. “We met in the morgue,” he said.

“And he won you over from the first syllable out of his mouth.”

“I thought he must have read up on me at first, talked to Stamford, something. But he’s not a good enough actor for that,” John said thoughtfully. “He got one thing wrong in his initial deduction, too, so there’s that. And I managed to surprise him.”

“Not often that happens,” the Doctor said. He was as still as John had ever seen him in their brief acquaintance. “I think you still do.”

“Do what?”

“Surprise him,” the Doctor said, looking up at John from a console. “You stayed, didn’t you? Even after the skull on the mantle, the head in the fridge…”

“The fingers in the toaster, the dead pig in the sink…” John added. “I did stay. He’s my friend.”

“No man left behind?”

John started to say, “Yes,” but something in the Doctor’s face stopped him and made him reconsider the hasty answer.

“Yes, but that’s not all it is,” John said slowly. The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “It’s not like that either, people always assume we’re gay. No, he’s my friend, Doctor. There’s no one else in the world quite like Sherlock Holmes, and sometimes he needs protecting from that.” John stopped, thought about what he’d just said, and continued, “And if you tell anyone I said that, I will drop you into a black hole, see if I don’t.”

The Doctor smiled. “Genius is lonely, John, believe me I know. More so than Sherlock, but then I’m the very last of my kind out of a whole planet.”

John watched the Doctor pace slowly around the console, flipping a switch here, turning a knob there. He saw weariness in how the Doctor moved and wondered how many others saw it. River did, he thought, but others didn’t. It was like the tightly controlled anger Sherlock always hid when Anderson or Donovan insulted him to his face, right before he cut them down. His revenge was quick and somewhat satisfying, but John knew (or figured, at least) that it had to hurt at some level. The Doctor may claim to be the last of his kind, but Sherlock was unique out of millions.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Doctor?” John asked, pushing himself to his feet.

“Hmm?” the Doctor replied, distracted.

“Doctor, tea,” John said, walking up to stand just behind the Doctor’s elbow. “The TARDIS will run herself for a bit, won’t she?”

“She’s a good old girl,” the Doctor said absently, looking at the centre column.

“Tea,” John prompted when the Doctor was silent for a few more seconds.

“Yeah,” the Doctor said, and led the way to the kitchen.

John forced the Doctor to sit and puttered around the kitchen, making tea for the two of them.

“You’re good for him, you know,” the Doctor said, apropos of nothing.

“Good for Sherlock?” John asked, bringing the Doctor’s tea to him.

The Doctor nodded and sipped. “When I met him the first time, he wasn’t very nice.”

“Still isn’t,” John pointed out. The Doctor chuckled.

“No, I suppose not. But he’s better, I think, than he was.”

“Yeah, I actually got him to agree with Lestrade last week,” John said with a small chuckle. “Although he sulked about it for the next day and a half and then left toes in the butter dish.” John fell silent, thinking. The Doctor let him. “He told me, not long ago, that I was his only friend. That I was his ‘conductor of light,’ whatever that means.”

The Doctor nodded. “John, I travel the universe, but I travel with people a lot. Humans. The bright ones, the clever ones, and some that aren’t particularly either. But the one thing that they all have in common is that they wanted the adventure, wanted to go clattering around the universe with a madman in a box. They wanted to see what the universe had to offer to them, and I was willing to take them along.” He stopped, considering his next words carefully. “Sherlock is much the same, I think, only able to be truly himself, truly, really and truly brilliant, when there’s someone there with him who accepts him.”

“But his brother—”

“Is his brother, and not you,” the Doctor said. “He may understand Sherlock’s deductions, be able to follow his mental leaps, but I’ve met Mycroft Holmes, and you are as different as two humans can be.”

“You have River,” John protested.

“I know,” the Doctor replied with a small, secret smile. “But Sherlock hasn’t got anyone else. And I don’t have River all the time. I offered Sherlock the chance to travel with me once, you know? And he turned me down. He lives for detective work, and that big brilliant brain of his would be so dull without it.”

John nodded, not sure what to say. He had a million questions, wanted to know the particulars of the case the Doctor and Sherlock had worked on together, wanted to know the Doctor’s past, where he had gotten the TARDIS. But there was something about the Doctor that kept him from asking. He kept quiet, so he and the Doctor finished their tea in silence.

John took the Doctor’s empty cup and the Doctor looked up at him, startled.

“Genius needs comfort too, Doctor,” John said quietly, putting the cups in the sink.

“Maybe I’ll take you with me, when this is all said and done,” the Doctor said as John was drying the cups and putting them away.

John considered, just for a moment, and shook his head.

“Someone’s got to look out for Sherlock, or he’s going to get himself killed sooner rather than later,” John replied. He caught the Doctor’s expression before it got shuttered away, a quick glimpse of surprise and sadness.

“Then maybe I’ll come back for you some day, John Watson,” the Doctor said with a grin. “Now, go get some rest.”

“JOHN!” they heard Sherlock call.

John sighed. “Yes?”

“Ah, there you are. Is your phone working yet?” Sherlock asked, bounding up to the console platform.

“Still no service,” John replied, looking at his mobile.

“Let me see,” the Doctor said, flicking open his sonic screwdriver. He took John’s phone and pointed his sonic screwdriver at it for a moment before handing the phone back to John.

“Full service,” John said, surprised. Sherlock held out his phone and the Doctor worked on his as well.

“I thought I fixed your phone the last time I met you,” the Doctor said as he handed Sherlock’s phone back.

“You did,” Sherlock replied. “That one ended up in the Thames during a case.”

“His last one fell five stories into a skip and shattered,” John said. “And the one before that got run over by a lorry.”

“Well, try not to lose that one,” the Doctor said. “You’ve got full service anywhere in the universe. And my number.”

“Your number?” John repeated.

“This is a phone box,” the Doctor said. “With a proper phone and everything.”

“Good luck getting him to actually answer, though,” River said. “Tea time’s over. The TARDIS has picked up something.”

The four of them raced back to the main console room, everything else forgotten.

“He’s back in London,” River said, looking at the monitor. “Why is he back there?”

“It’s a place he knows,” Sherlock replied, looking over River’s shoulder. John wasn’t sure if Sherlock actually understood what was on the monitor because he didn’t, but Sherlock continued to study it. “He knows he’s being followed, but not by whom.” Sherlock turned on his heels, thinking. “That museum, Doctor. I’m assuming it told when I died?”

“Museums usually do,” the Doctor replied, his voice wary. “Why?”

“I’m assuming Moriarty knows the date, time, and how, because he was in the museum,” Sherlock said, sitting down in the nearest chair. He pressed his fingers together as if in prayer and stared at nothing.

“He could have gone for something else,” River suggested.

“Oh,” Sherlock said quietly, and everyone’s attention immediately snapped to him. “Oh. He went to see if he was the one who beat me. If he won.” Sherlock got up and yanked the monitor down to his eye level. “You said he’s in London?”

“Yes,” the Doctor said.

“Where? Exactly, tell me exactly where,” Sherlock said, pulling out his phone and typing furiously.

“Hyde Park,” the Doctor said, pulling the monitor toward him and tapping a few keys on the keyboard. “He hasn’t moved.”

Sherlock’s phone beeped with an incoming text message alert. Sherlock, who had been pacing around the console, went very still when he read the message.

“It’s him,” he said to John.

“Why would he contact you?” the Doctor asked, setting coordinates on the TARDIS.

“He likes to taunt,” John said when Sherlock didn’t reply. “What’s the message, Sherlock?”

“‘Lovely day for a walk in the park,’” Sherlock replied, reading out the message. “‘Come fly a kite. Or two.’”

“Oh, no,” River said, jerking the phone out of Sherlock’s hand and reading the message for herself.

“What?” John asked.

“A kite isn’t a children’s toy, not in the time we just came from,” River said, handing the phone back to Sherlock.

“Then what is it?” John asked.

“It’s an aerial assault weapon,” she replied. “It’s capable of levelling five city blocks, or the small ones are. It’s essentially a centralized carpet bomb.”

Sherlock’s phone beeped again. He looked down at it and read out the message. “‘You’re not even here. You’re going to miss the fireworks.’” Sherlock looked at the phone, studying the words. John could see the thoughts swirling in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Why would he go to the future just to get a bomb?” John asked, still watching Sherlock. “If he’s got all of time and space at his feet, why come back here?”

“Me,” Sherlock said. “He wants me.”

“What is his fascination with you?” River asked.

“I expect we’ll find out soon,” Sherlock said. “Doctor, I’d rather not let him know that we’re travelling with you.”

“You don’t want him to know we can follow him,” John said, catching on.

“Exactly. If Moriarty thinks he has one up on us...” Sherlock started

“...he’ll be overconfident,” John finished.

“They really are perfect together,” River said to the Doctor. John pulled his gun from his waistband and checked the clip, chamber, and safety.

“Oi! What’d you bring that for?” the Doctor said.

“Do you really think I’d go after Moriarty without it?” John asked. “The last time I met him he tried to blow me up.”

“With what?” the Doctor asked.

“A bomb. Strapped to my chest,” John replied flatly, double checking that the safety was on before he put the gun back. “After he’d strapped bombs to three other people, one of them a blind old woman who he actually did blow up. He used me to get to Sherlock.” They all stumbled as the TARDIS landed.

“Sorry,” River said. “Got a little distracted.”

Sherlock swung his coat on. “Where are we?”

“Your front hall,” the Doctor said.

“Mrs. Hudson’s not going to like that,” John said, stepping out of the front door into his own hallway. Sherlock brushed past him, heading for his desk.

“She won’t notice,” the Doctor replied, pointing his sonic screwdriver at the TARDIS, which vanished.

“It’s evening,” John said, peering out of the windows. “It was morning when we left.”

“Yes, well, it’s about seven hours later than it was when we left,” the Doctor replied.

“You said Hyde Park?” Sherlock asked, pulling out his phone again.

“Who are you texting now?” John asked.

“Mycroft. If this goes badly, he needs to know what’s happening,” Sherlock replied.

“It must be dire if you’re willingly talking to your brother,” John said, the joke falling somewhat flat.

“Maybe he’ll actually be able to do something,” Sherlock grumbled. “Do we know where the bomb is?”

“No,” River said, typing on her hand held device. “He may not even have one, we could be wrong.”

“He’s got something,” Sherlock muttered. “Keep looking for that. John, we need to catch a cab.”

“I can take you there,” River said, keying coordinates into her Vortex Manipulator. “It’s less flashy than the TARDIS, but it’ll get you there faster than a cab.”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied.

“I’ll follow in the TARDIS,” the Doctor said.

“I’m ready when you are,” River said.

John and Sherlock put their hands on top of River’s Vortex Manipulator as she pressed the button. John stumbled as they landed in Hyde Park behind a tree. Sherlock was shaking his head slowly, trying to clear it.

“Sorry, it’s a bit rough if you don’t know what you’re getting into,” she said, keeping her voice low.

“Just over there,” Sherlock said, pointing. “Stay here.”

John started to protest, but Sherlock had already taken off, moving silently around the small clearing. John silently cursed Sherlock, but didn’t follow.

“You could have gone anywhere,” Sherlock said, stepping from behind a tree. Moriarty whirled and grinned. “Why here?”

“This is as good as anywhere else,” Moriarty replied. “Big open space, lots of people around.” He spread his arms wide, gesturing at the people barely visible through the trees. Even though night was falling quickly, there were still a lot of people out jogging or walking dogs or just taking a lazy stroll.

“And you’re hoping that will keep me from making a scene?” Sherlock asked, arching an eyebrow.

“No, I’m hoping you’ll make one,” Moriarty said. “So I can make one as well.”

“Your kite bomb?” Sherlock asked. “And time travel. Now that’s cheating.”

“Oh, so you do know about it,” Moriarty said, sounding almost gleeful. “Did big brother tell you?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

Moriarty tilted his head, clearly expecting Sherlock to continue. When Sherlock didn’t, he looked up at the sky and asked, “So how’d you know?” Sherlock continued to look straight at Moriarty.

“I have my ways,” Sherlock said.

“Oh, now, that’s not like you,” Moriarty said, his attention suddenly and completely focused on Sherlock. “You love to show off, explain it to the normal people. So come on, tell me. How’d you figure it out?”

“I see no reason why I should,” Sherlock replied with a smirk. “Just as I see no reason as to why I should tell you why I know that the device on your wrist allows you to travel in time. Vortex Manipulator, I believe, is the name.” Moriarty’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned. “Ah, I see I’ve surprised you.”

“I’d just love to know where you got your information,” Moriarty said, circling Sherlock slowly. Sherlock didn’t move, but let Moriarty circle.

“Does he really have a bomb?” John murmured to River, who had been working with her handheld device the whole time.

“Yes,” River whispered back. “It’s not near us, though.”

“That’s only slightly reassuring,” John replied. “Where is it?”

River showed him her device and pointed out a small, blinking red square on the screen.

“Jesus Christ, it’s on top of the Gherkin,” John said.

“There’s another one on top of Parliament,” River said as another blinking box appeared.

“Where I got my information is irrelevant,” they heard Sherlock say. “My sources have ways, Moriarty.”

“Who’s he trying to be, the next Guy Fawkes?” John muttered.

“Apparently,” River replied. “I’m sending this to the Doctor. He needs to know. Maybe he can disarm them somehow.”

“Good luck landing the TARDIS on top of the Gherkin.”

“Tell me!” Moriarty yelled suddenly. River jumped, but John didn’t. He knew Moriarty’s outbursts, had heard them before. Unfortunately, when River jumped, her foot landed on a stick, which cracked alarmingly loudly in the lull after Moriarty’s yell. “Ah, so there are others here. You might as well come out and play, Dr. Watson!”

John signalled for River to stay put. He pulled his gun out, flicked the safety off, and levelled it at Moriarty as he stepped out from behind the trees.

“Is that how you greet company?” Moriarty said.

“It is when the company’s already tried to blow me up,” John retorted. “So, bombs over the Gherkin and Parliament? You’re about four months late to do a tribute to Guy Fawkes.”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time,” Moriarty said, rocking back and forth on his heels. “How’d you know where they were? Even Sherlock here didn’t know that.”

“I have my ways,” John replied, keeping his gun steady. Sherlock was inching closer to Moriarty, who was watching John. Moriarty may be crazy, but he knew to keep his eye on the man holding a gun on him.

“You’ve got friends in high places,” Moriarty said, realization on his face. “And it’s not your brother dear,” he said over his shoulder to Sherlock.

“Mycroft knows,” Sherlock said, inching closer, his eyes flicking to John, who nodded. John had texted Mycroft as soon as he and River had figured out where the bombs were.

“But he didn’t tell you,” Moriarty said in a sing-song voice. “No, you know someone else. Someone else is giving you information. I’m almost disappointed, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lunged for Moriarty, grabbing him around the waist. Moriarty struck out with his right arm, which Sherlock grabbed and then flipped open the cover on Moriarty’s Vortex Manipulator. Before John could get a better shot, both Moriarty and Sherlock winked out of existence with a crackle of electricity and a puff of smoke.

“Where did they go?” John demanded, whirling around to face River and lowering his gun.

“Sherlock activated the Vortex Manipulator somehow,” River said, typing furiously.

“I know that!” John shouted. “Where the hell are they?”

“I don’t know!” River replied. “I’m trying to find out. Just give me a minute!”

John’s phone beeped. He yanked it from his pocket with his free hand and read the message.

“Sherlock’s all right!” he called. “He managed to send me GPS coordinates. Will those help you at all?”

“Yes,” River said, keying the coordinates into her Vortex Manipulator. John’s phone beeped again.

“He says he’s still in our time, but it’s about one in the morning where he is,” John said. The phone beeped again. “He’s running from Moriarty.”

“He’s in Utah. Why is it always Utah?” River said.

“I’m not going to ask,” John said.

“Spoilers,” River replied absently. She held her device up to her ear like a phone. “Doctor, you need to finish what you’re doing, Sherlock and Moriarty have transported themselves halfway around the world.” She paused. “I’ve sent you the coordinates, now hurry up.”

“That thing is a phone?” John asked.

“Phone, scanner, computer, tracker, it can do nearly anything,” River said. She grinned at him. “You’ve got so much to look forward to.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Let’s get going before they kill each other,” John said, typing out a quick response on his phone before putting it back in his pocket. River held out her arm. John placed his hand over her Vortex Manipulator. He didn’t stumble when he landed this time.

“Where the hell are we?” he said. Their surroundings were nearly completely flat and the ground glowed strangely in the moonlight. There were more stars in the sky than John had seen since coming back to London. He turned in a slow circle, his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of movement.

“Over there,” River said, pointing with one hand and thrusting a torch toward John with her other hand. John checked his safety was off before dashing towards the brawling figures.

His foot came down on something hard that wasn’t a rock. He looked down, saw that it was Moriarty’s Vortex Manipulator, and picked it up so he could shove it in his pocket. A grunt of pain made him look back up towards the two shadowy figures that were brawling nearly silently on the strange ground.

“Halt!” John called in his best Captain voice, pointing both the torch and the gun at the two figures. The figure on top, Sherlock, spared him a glance and caught a blow across his cheek for his trouble. Sherlock responded with a head butt that John knew must have hurt, but Sherlock didn’t even look dazed.

“Oh, very good,” Moriarty said, his voice a little slurred as he finally fell still beneath Sherlock. “Very well done. Too bad there are bombs set to go off if I don’t return in,” he paused to check his watch, “two minutes.”

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” a voice said out of the darkness. River whirled with her torch to find the speaker. John kept his on Sherlock and Moriarty. The Doctor strolled out of the darkness. “I found all three of your bombs and disarmed them. They’re now somewhere in the middle of the sun. There may be some interesting solar flares for a day or two, but no harm done.”

“You,” Moriarty said when he saw the Doctor. He looked from the Doctor to River. “Both of you. You were in the museum. I blew you up.”

“You tried,” the Doctor said. “It was a very good try, too, but I’ve had better.”

“Who are you?” Moriarty demanded.

“I’m the Doctor, and this is River Song,” the Doctor said.

“Hello,” River said with a small wave and a smug smile. Moriarty’s eyes locked on River’s Vortex Manipulator, and realization dawned in his eyes.

“I should have killed you both when I had the chance,” Moriarty said, struggling against Sherlock’s hold. “Would have been easy, even fun, right there in the Sherlock Holmes Museum.”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock spat, adjusting his hold, bringing his superior height and weight to bear. “I ought to just leave you here to rot.”

“But then you’ll never know how I did it,” Moriarty taunted.

“You got the Vortex Manipulator from the galactic black market after making a contact somewhere in your underworld,” the Doctor said. “Once you figured out how it worked, you went around and messed about a bit, generally just showing off. I hate a show off, unless it’s me. Then, after you got bored with that, you decided you’d mess around in the time stream, which alerted River, who alerted me, and I got these two.” He motioned to Sherlock and John. “They helped me track you down and now you’re in Utah without a Vortex Manipulator and without a way to get home.” He stopped, and studied Moriarty for a moment. “You could have been so wonderful.”

“Very good,” Moriarty said. “But I still know something he doesn’t.” He used his head to motion to Sherlock, since it was the only part of his body he could move easily.

“When I’m supposed to die?” Sherlock asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Please, I don’t care about that. And your placement of the bombs was sloppy at best. Even if they’d gone off, at this time of night those places are deserted. Lots of property damage, yes, but minimal loss of life.”

“Sherlock,” John said, his tone clipped.

“Yes, John, I’m aware. Not good. Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” Sherlock replied.

“No, it’s better than knowing when you’re going to die, Sherlock,” Moriarty said, and then lifted his head to whisper something into Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock jerked back in surprise, but didn’t let go. The silence stretched between the five of them before Sherlock said, “Doctor, we need to get back. Lestrade will be needing me.”

“What are we going to do about him?” John asked, motioning to Moriarty with his torch.

“Leave him,” Sherlock said, pulling and hand back and hitting Moriarty square across the jaw. Moriarty went limp. “We have to leave him here.”

“We can’t do that!” John protested as Sherlock got up. “He’s a maniac! He’ll come back and kill us.”

“Sherlock’s right,” the Doctor said quietly. “There’s a fixed point in time coming up, and you three, all three, of you have to be there.”

“Leave him here. He’ll find his way back,” Sherlock said, crouching down and patting Moriarty’s pockets. He extracted a cell phone, a wallet, and a set of keys. When he saw the other three watching him, he said, “Just because he has to live does not mean I have to make it easy for him.”

“Remind me to stay on your good side,” River said.

“Doctor, we need to go back to this morning,” Sherlock said. “I told Lestrade we’d be there.”

“You can’t cross your own timeline! What if you end up meeting yourself?” the Doctor said.

“We’ll just be sure to be out of the flat all day,” Sherlock replied. “I’m sure we can manage that.”

“Oh, all right,” the Doctor said. “Come on, it’s cold. I’ve never liked the salt flats.”

“Is that where we are?” John said as they started walking.

“Bonneville Salt Flats,” Sherlock said

“One of the strangest places in the universe,” the Doctor added.

While they were in the TARDIS, the Doctor got a phone call, something about aliens and 19th century France.

“You could come with me,” he said to Sherlock and John.

“Boring,” Sherlock pronounced. “Take us home.”

“Dr. Watson?” the Doctor asked, but John shook his head, glancing over at Sherlock. The Doctor gave him a small smile and pulled a lever.

“It was good to see you again, Sherlock, and nice to meet you Dr. Watson,” the Doctor said as John and Sherlock exited into their front hallway. “You should be back about five minutes after you left.”

“Good bye, Doctor, River. Come on, John,” Sherlock said.

“Nice to meet you both,” John said, waving. The Doctor and River both nodded at him, and then the Doctor shut the TARDIS door. With an alarming groaning, the TARDIS disappeared.

“Sherlock!” John called as he hurried to catch up. “You could wait, you know, have said thank you for their help.”

“Why? They came to us,” Sherlock replied, holding up his arm to signal a taxi while he texted with his other hand. John sighed and decided the argument wasn’t worth the energy.

They got into the taxi. Sherlock gave an address, and John settled back into the seat, a wave of tiredness washing over him. They rode in silence for a few minutes before John remembered what he had wanted to ask Sherlock.

“What did he say to you?”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, looking up from his phone.

“Moriarty, when he whispered in your ear. What did he say?”

“Nothing important.”

“Sherlock,” John said, trying to put all of his impatience into that one word.

“He told me that he’s going to enjoy watching me fall.”

John fell silent, mulling over what that could mean.

“Just here!” Sherlock called as they approached the crime scene. He paid the cabby as they got out.

“What did he mean, watch you fall?” John asked.

“Not important,” Sherlock said. “Come on, we have to be gone all day. Ah, Lestrade! Where’s the body?”

Unique Out of Millions (fanfic, BBC!Sherlock/Doctor Who Crossover) (1/2)

2012-02-06T07:03:47Z

Title: Unique Out of Millions (1/2)
Rating: PG for action and swearing
Summary: Moriarty's gotten his hands on a Vortex Manipulator. The Doctor and River need a bit of help.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Jim Moriarty, the Doctor (11th), River Song. Doctor/River implied.
Spoilers: Through 2.2 for Sherlock (slight for 2.3, but you won't notice unless you haven't seen it), through the 2011 Christmas Special for Doctor Who.
Notes: Split into two posts because LJ thinks it's too large for just one. Link to Part Two.

Sherlock, hands pressed together in front of his face as if in prayer, examined the man in front of him.

John and Sherlock had come home, flush with victory from solving a case. A valuable artefact was on its way back to Russia, no one had gotten shot at, and, much to John’s relief, a check for a considerable amount was on its way to them as a finder’s fee. That the finding had required two break-ins and a short fistfight was neither here nor there. And it was well before noon. John knew Sherlock would be bored by one o’ clock, but he could deal with that.

And then there was a man in their sitting room, one that neither of them knew. Sherlock had cocked his head, pressed his hands together, and stared.

“Well?” the man asked. “Figured it out yet?” He smiled brilliantly, rocking on the balls of his feet.

John watched Sherlock study the man with the wild hair and the old eyes and the bow tie who was standing in their living room. John had never known Sherlock to take so long to figure someone out. He at least would make smartass quips in the meantime. He didn’t look confused, but his expression was somewhere close. He circled the strange man, who did not even move to keep Sherlock in his sights. The man just looked amused. John heard Sherlock mutter, “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be true.”

“Oh, bloody hell, we’re not drugged again are we?” John exclaimed.

“Hmm, what?” replied Sherlock, distracted. “No, of course not.”

“Then it’s some kind of lingering effect?”

“No, the drugs are gone from your system. Yes, I’m sure,” Sherlock said, cutting off John’s next question.

“Then what—”

“That—that being, for his is not a man, whatever he may look like, is not human,” Sherlock pronounced. “I see him, you see him, we’re not drugged, and the disguise is very good.”

John stared at Sherlock, convinced that the man had finally gone out of his mind. Sherlock huffed with exasperation.

“Just look at him, John! His boots are creased across the top from wear, probably from walking and running. Most likely from running. And tweed, braces, boots and a bow tie. Old clothes on a young man, or at least a person with a young man’s face. The clothes are well enough, but the wear patterns indicated they had been worn by someone else before,” Sherlock said, pointing at each article of clothing in question.

“But Sherlock, that’s—”

“He’s right, you know,” the man—being—said. “I’m not human.”

“I told you,” Sherlock said to John before he turned to the stranger. “Now, what do you want?”

“A woman told me to meet her here on the twenty-second of March at 10:43 in the morning,” the man replied, gazing around the room. “Why do those horns have headphones?”

“A woman told you?” John asked. “And, just by the way, who are you?”

“Oh! I’m the Doctor,” the man replied.

“Doctor who?” John asked. He knew he was asking a lot of questions, but Sherlock wasn’t, and John wanted to know what the hell was going on.

“Never mind that,” the Doctor said as Sherlock said, “That’s his name, John.”

“How do you know that?” John asked Sherlock. He hoped he didn’t look as lost as he felt.

“Because we’ve met before,” Sherlock replied, examining the Doctor again. “You looked different then, Doctor.”

“Yeah, well, still me. I remembered you were a smart one,” the Doctor said. “You though,” he said, turning to John, “you’re new.”

“Doctor John Watson,” John replied.

“A soldier, then?” the Doctor asked, looking him up and down. It wasn’t quite Sherlock all-encompassing gazes, the looks that made him feel like one of Sherlock’s specimens under a microscope, but it was close.

“How’d you know?”

“The way you’re standing, the way you introduced yourself,” the Doctor replied, waving his hand distractedly, indicating that it didn’t matter. “It’s really not important. Now, where is she? She’s late.”

“She who?” Sherlock asked.

“River,” the Doctor replied.

“The Thames?” John asked, feeling more lost by the second.

“What? No. River Song,” the Doctor said. “I usually pick her up from outer space of from mid-air, she liked to fall off, or out of, things. It’s 10:47, where is she?”

“Doctor, will you please sit down?” Sherlock said, indicating the chairs in front of the fireplace.

John and the Doctor both sat, John in his usual chair and the Doctor in Sherlock’s. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in a small smile. John looked frustrated.

“Okay, Doctor, tell me about your case,” Sherlock said. “It’s bound to be interesting, and I’m bored.”

“Well, see, I don’t actually know,” the Doctor replied. “Has anything happened recently, anything out of the ordinary?” John barely stopped himself from scoffing. The Doctor noticed, smiled briefly, and said, “Anything that doesn’t make sense, anyway?”

There was a sudden crackle and a puff of smoke as a woman with light brown curls appeared in the living room.

“Finally!” the Doctor exclaimed. The sound of John’s gun cocking drew everyone’s attention. He stood, his gun pointed at the woman.

River pulled her own blaster at the sound. She pointed it at John and said, “Drop it.”

“Hey! Whoa!” the Doctor said, stopping between them. “Everyone put the guns down. River, you know better. This is Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. Sherlock, Dr. Watson, River Song.”

River and John both hesitated.

“Now,” the Doctor said, his tone brooking no argument. Sherlock watched everything from the desk. He hadn’t even moved.

River shrugged and holstered her blaster. John put his gun on the table, well within easy reach.

“Hello, sweetie,” River said, grinning at the Doctor.

“You’re late,” he replied.

“You’re early,” she said.

“‘Sweetie’?” Sherlock asked, incredulous.

“Long story,” the Doctor replied. “Anyway, we’re all here. Why are we all here?” He turned to River.

“And after we find that out, can someone please explain how she even got here in the first place?” John interjected.

“We’re here because I need help,” River said, and everyone’s attention fixed on her. “I asked the Doctor to come to you two because the person I’ve been running from is someone you two know very well, and you’re the only people who have actually met him and survived.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock breathed. His fingers twitched, the only sign of his eagerness, but John saw it.

“Oh, good, I did get the timelines right,” River said.

“What’s he doing that requires an alien, a time-traveller, a consulting detective, and a military doctor?” Sherlock asked.

“Wait—did you say ‘time-traveller’?” John asked.

“Oh, he is good,” River said, turning to the Doctor.

“I know,” the Doctor replied, grinning.

“Look at her clothes, John, at her gun,” Sherlock said, motioning at River. “You’re a soldier, and I know a good deal about fire arms. That is a type I’ve never seen before.”

“Ah, 21st century, still working with ballistic weaponry,” River said.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock prompted.

“Yes, Jim,” River said. “He’s somehow managed to get himself one of these.” She held up her left wrist, showing them a wide leather arm band.

“And what is that?” Sherlock asked.

“Vortex Manipulator, cheap and dirty time travel,” the Doctor said. “I thought I took that from you.”

“You might’ve, but you haven’t yet,” River said. “Spoilers.”

“And what is Moriarty doing with his…Vortex Manipulator?” Sherlock asked, striding over and grabbing River’s arm. He lifted the flap on the leather band and looked at the small keypad and digital readout inside of it. “It looks like a calculator.” He poked a button and the television clicked on.

River extracted her arm, pushed the button to make the television turn off, and closed the cover. “What any person would do when given the ability to travel in time, even someone as insane as he is.”

“You’re saying that he can travel in time now?” John demanded, crossing his arms over his chest.

“The good doctor’s catching on,” River said. “Jim Moriarty’s got himself a true time machine that also travels through space. He, quite literally, I’m afraid, has all of time and space at his disposal. Now, think about that and then ask what he couldn’t do.”

“And that’s not good for a human in the 21st century,” the Doctor said.

“Temporal causality mathematics haven’t even been invented yet,” River chimed in. John took a few seconds to parse that sentence.

“And he really likes explosions,” John muttered after a moment of silence. Sherlock looked gleeful. John made a mental note to tell him off for that later.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go find him!” the Doctor said.

“But how?” Sherlock asked. “That wristband surely can’t transport all four of us at once. I don’t even know how it works.”

“It could, if you wanted to get really car sick,” the Doctor said, grinning brilliantly. “Fortunately, I’ve got something much better than that old thing.

“Boys and their toys,” River muttered fondly.

“I’m still not convinced you’re not here just pulling my leg,” John said, resolutely not moving from his spot near his chair.

Sherlock’s phone beeped and he checked the text message.

“Lestrade. He wants us to meet him at a crime scene,” he told John, texting as he spoke. “Homicide, locked room.”

“I think Moriarty with a time machine is a little more pressing,” John replied.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, shoving his phone in his coat pocket. “I told him we’d be there.”

“What?” John asked, confused.

“We will. The Doctor said he has a time machine,” Sherlock replied. “He can get us back in time for the case.”

“I can get you back whenever you want to be back,” the Doctor said. “Assuming we don’t collapse the time vortex or need to reboot the universe or something.”

“Does that happen often?” John asked, curious despite of his scepticism.

“More often than I’d like,” the Doctor admitted. “Come on, then.”

Everyone followed him out of the front door and there, just in front of 221B, was the TARDIS.

“We’re going to put four people in a police box from the 1950s?” John said sarcastically.

“No, we’re going to put three humans and one Time Lord into a TARDIS. Keep up, Dr. Watson,” the Doctor said. John looked insulted. The Doctor grinned, snapping his fingers to open the doors. Everyone followed him inside.

“I think I’m ‘keeping up’ quite well, all things con…sid...ered,” John said, trailing off as he stepped inside. “Ah.”

“Yep!” the Doctor said. “You’re doing fairly well.” He jumped onto the console platform. “Welcome aboard. River, all hands on deck.”

River pushed past the other two who had stopped to stare just inside the doors. She joined the Doctor at the console and began flipping switches and pulling levers.

“Close the door, Sherlock,” she said as the TARDIS began to groan. Sherlock pushed the door closed behind him without turning around.

“Well then you lot, come on,” the Doctor said. “We need to lock on to the Vortex Manipulator the Moriarty has. River, can I borrow yours?”

“It’s bigger,” John said.

“That’s obvious,” Sherlock said, but there was no rancour in his voice. “It’s also different.”

“So you believe me now,” the Doctor said, not looking up.

“It’s bigger. On the inside,” John said.

“Explain it to him,” Sherlock said to the Doctor, quickly climbing the stairs up to the console platform.

“Time Lord technology,” the Doctor said.

“Excuse me,” John said, slowly climbing the stairs behind Sherlock. “Time Lord?”

“An alien race,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question, but John thought that Sherlock was trying to wrap his mind around the concept, to find a place to file it away in his mental hard drive. Although, John thought, if Sherlock had already me the Doctor once, maybe he was trying to reconcile what he knew with what he was seeing now.

“Exactly,” the Doctor said. “Keep up. This is the TARDIS, a ship that travels in both time and space. River, how’s it coming?”

“I’m trying to figure out the best point to lock on to him,” she said. “You all haven’t crossed his timeline yet, so we can go in at almost any point.”

“What about before he got the manipulator thing? Or before he was even born?” John suggested.

“It would make sense, to prevent all of this from happening to start with,” Sherlock said.

“I crossed his timeline after he got the manipulator, and you two have already interacted with him now, so you can’t go back. You can’t cross your own timeline.”

“Why not?” John said, looking at the console, studying it.

“It’ll rip the universe apart,” the Doctor said, yanking on another lever.

“Got him,” River said, pulling the screen down.

Sherlock circled the console, his gaze flicking over each switch, knob, and lever. The Doctor and River paid him no mind, but John knew that look. He backed away, bracing himself on the railing as Sherlock reached out and pulled a lever.

The lights immediately dimmed. All of the noise slowly died in a low whine. The only light came from the central column of the TARDIS.

“Oi! What’d you do that for?!” the Doctor demanded, moving from the other side of the console to stand nearly toe-to-toe with Sherlock.

“I want to know exactly what’s going on,” Sherlock said, matching the Doctor glare for glare. They were very nearly the same height, John observed. “I do not like being kept in the dark, Doctor. You will explain what Moriarty is doing and how we are going to find him, or I will pull another lever just to see what will happen.”

“Is he always like this?” River asked John.

“Pretty much, yeah,” John replied, leaning against the railing and crossing his arms. He figured this discussion ought to be interesting.

“As far as I know, as far as anyone knows, Jim Moriarty hasn’t done much,” River said. She hadn’t moved from the monitor. “He’s stolen a few things, blown up a small space dock, but he hasn’t done much in that would impact anything important.”

“Can we track where he’s been?” John asked. “Or when he’s been?”

“Yes,” the Doctor said, still glaring at Sherlock.

“The problem is that he’s jumping around so much and so often that it’s hard to nail down a concrete point in his timeline,” River said.

“But once we establish that, we’ll be able to track him down and hopefully stop him before he’s able to put his plan into action,” the Doctor said, whirling away from Sherlock and turning back to the console.

“It’s his plan I’m worried about,” John said. “He tends to account for everything that could go wrong, and then do it anyway in the worst possible way before running away gloating.”

Sherlock still stood with his hand on the lever, watching the Doctor and River. He glanced back at John, who was still leaning against the railing watching.

“That still doesn’t explain how we’re going to find him,” Sherlock said.

“You’re inside the TARDIS,” the Doctor said to Sherlock, speaking slowly. He stepped up so he was nearly nose-to-nose with Sherlock again and continued, “I can do anything within the laws of physics and several outside of them, including locking on to the signal of one little human with a Vortex Manipulator. So, Sherlock, if you would kindly push that lever back up, I’ll show you exactly how we’re going to find him.” The Doctor stood, staring, waiting for the Sherlock to make a move. Sherlock blinked first, and John smiled as Sherlock took a step back and pushed the lever back up. The lights came on and the TARDIS shuttered back into flight.

“Is there someone else we could notify? At least to keep an eye out for him?” John asked. The Doctor and River turned to look askance at him. “You two can’t be the only time travellers, it stands to reason there would be more who could help.”

“That’s not a bad idea. What about Jack?” River said to the Doctor.

“Jack? Harkness? Really?” the Doctor replied.

“Well, he’s a little more mobile than we are,” River pointed out.

“He’s with Torchwood,” the Doctor said, very nearly spitting out the word.

“Torchwood?” John asked.

“Government organization,” Sherlock replied. “Well, of a sort. Mycroft has a file on them, but even he doesn’t know very much.”

“You went through his files,” John accused him. They’d talked about Sherlock sneaking in to look at other people’s stuff. John had given up on trying to keep Sherlock out of his own things, but outside of their flat it was another matter.

“He had gone through mine, it was only fair.”

“The Jack I know isn’t with Torchwood anymore,” River said.

“When did you meet him and why didn’t you tell me?” the Doctor asked, turning away from the console to face River.

“Spoilers,” River replied with a small smile. The Doctor let out a noise of frustration. “We’re here, by the way,” River said.

“Where is here, exactly?” John asked, and then staggered as the TARDIS landed. “Jesus!”

“Yeah, he’s never been the best pilot,” River said fondly, glancing at the Doctor.

“I did just fine for over seven hundred years before you!” the Doctor said without looking up from the other side of the console.

“My question still stands,” John said, effectively stopping their argument.

Sherlock, looking fed up, strode to the door and turned the latch.

“Don’t!” the Doctor said just as Sherlock pulled the door open.

John flinched at the Doctor’s yell, at the unknown that waited beyond the door. Years of military training said, “Bomb! Enemies! Guns!” were on the other side of that door.

But nothing happened.

“Really, Doctor?” Sherlock said, stepping aside so the other four could see out of the door.

“London?” John asked. A levitating car went past the open doorway. “Ah,” John said faintly. “Not London, then.”

“Well, not your London,” the Doctor said. “It is a London, though.”

“What?” John asked. He was beginning to get seriously tired of asking that particular question. It was getting very old very quickly.

“New London, 4108,” the Doctor replied. “A little over two thousand years in your future, and several million miles away from your London.”

John barely resisted the urge to say, “What?” again.

“Humanity hasn’t changed much,” Sherlock observed from the door. His eyes moved very quickly, taking in and cataloguing his new surroundings. John found it almost comforting to see Sherlock looking at this new world in much the same way he would look for details at a crime scene.

“You lot generally don’t,” the Doctor replied, striding out of the door. The others followed after him, Sherlock and John looking around with open curiosity. River was typing furiously on a handheld touch screen device. John rather thought it looked like the bastard offspring of an iPad and one of those super heavy duty laptops he’d used in the military. “Big old universe, and what do you do? You rebuild London. London, of all cities. Ah, well, most cities have echoes of each other, but I’d imagine you’d be able to find your way from Regent’s Park to New St. Bartholomew’s quite easily.”

“I have no idea where we are,” John said, looking around.

“If we were in my London, I’d say we were on Baker Street,” Sherlock said, looking up and turning in a slow circle, scanning the buildings from rooftop to pavement level.

“Very good,” River said, looking up from her device for the first time. “Doctor, I’m picking up traces of artron energy, and it’s not from us.”

The Doctor looked over River’s shoulder at the screen she held in her hand.

“It’s coming from just ahead,” he said, looking up in surprise.

“Doctor,” River said, pointing at a large sign in front of them.

“Oh, seriously?!” John exclaimed when he’d read the sign. “Sherlock’s got a bloody museum! On a different planet!”

Sherlock just looked confused. “What did I do to have this?” he asked, moving to walk towards it.

“Oh no you don’t,” the Doctor said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and dragging him back. “You’re not going in there.”

“Why not?” Sherlock demanded.

“You can’t know what’s in there,” the Doctor said. “There are details about not just your life in there, but your future. You cannot know, no one is supposed to know that.” Sherlock studied the Doctor’s face as the Doctor opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it.

“Tell me,” Sherlock said. “Tell me what you were about to say.”

The Doctor shifted his weight from foot to foot. “There’s a fixed point coming up,” the Doctor said reluctantly. “A point that cannot change, a point that will change history, a turning point, and you cannot know what that means. Neither of you can.” The Doctor looked at John making sure he was listening to him.

John didn’t find it very hard to believe that someone had made a museum for Sherlock. He just couldn’t quite get over the fact that they had done so more than two thousand years in the future.

“Hang on,” he said, stepping up next to Sherlock. “What do you mean a fixed point?”

“A fixed point is an event that cannot be changed,” River said. “It cannot be altered in any way, and it absolutely must happen. Sometimes these are big things, like civilizations collapsing, but other times they’re small things, at least on a universal scale, but they’re things that matter a great deal in their far-reaching consequences.” She looked at Sherlock, and her look was something that was too uncomfortably near pity for John to take.

“I’m not concerned about knowing when I die,” Sherlock said, looking the Doctor directly in the eye.

“But your friends would be,” the Doctor said softly, kindness in his voice. “So you two will stay here while River and I go inside. Don’t wander off.” He and River turned and walked away.

“‘Don’t wander off,’” Sherlock spat in a fairly decent impression of the Doctor once he and River were out of earshot. Sherlock turned on his heel, his coat swirling out behind him.

“Sherlock,” John said as he hurried to catch up. “Where are you going?”

“Back to the TARDIS,” Sherlock said.

***

“You’re actually trusting those two to not get into trouble?” River asked as the Doctor bluffed their way into the museum using the psychic paper.

The museum was full of glass cases and signs and looked almost exactly like the 221B Baker Street they had left earlier that day. It was also empty of people.

“Sherlock’s fairly bright, he’ll keep John safe,” the Doctor said, peering in a case at a microscope.

“Only you could get away with calling Sherlock Holmes ‘fairly bright’ in a museum dedicated to his genius,” River said.

“Yeah, well, I’ve known him a while,” the Doctor replied.

River opened her mouth to ask another question when the device in her hand beeped. She held it up, letting the scanner get a full sweep.

“He’s close,” she said.

The Doctor took out his sonic screwdriver and shook it open, pointing it around the room.

“He’s been here,” the Doctor said.

River typed frantically on her device, trying to get a lock on exactly where Moriarty had disappeared from.

“No,” the Doctor said slowly, looking at the readout on his screwdriver. He scanned the room again, slowly.

“What is it?” River asked, looking around, trying to see everywhere at once.

“I think you’re looking for me,” a voice said, and a man walked out of the kitchen. “You know, this museum has almost everything correct. I think a head in the fridge would be just the finishing touch.”

“Moriarty,” River said, looking the man up and down. “I thought I knew you.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve seen you before,” Moriarty said. “You, though,” he said, looking at the Doctor, “I don’t know you.” He looked the Doctor up and down.

“I’m the Doctor.”

“Ah,” Moriarty said. “Well, have a nice day.” He patted the Doctor on the shoulder, then turned, twiddled his fingers at them in a wave as he walked away, heading back into the replica of Sherlock’s bedroom.

“We should go,” River said in an undertone to the Doctor. The Doctor looked down at her, and then followed Moriarty. River followed, exasperated.

Moriarty was nowhere to be found.

“Well, can’t say I didn’t see that coming,” the Doctor said, looking around the room. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and scanned the room.

“Anything?” River asked.

“Not a thing,” the Doctor said. “Come on, let’s go find back to the others.”

***

Sherlock picked the lock on the TARDIS to let them back in.

“What are you doing?” John asked as Sherlock leapt over the steps up onto the console platform.

“Investigating,” he replied, leaning over the console. “Everything’s different this time.”

“You said you knew the Doctor from before,” John said.

“I do,” Sherlock replied.

John waited for the other man to continue, but nothing was forthcoming. “And?”

“And nothing, John. He came to me with a case, promised to show me the universe. I wasn’t interested. Well, not in the universe. The case was pretty diverting.”

“You seriously turned down a chance to travel the universe?”

“It’s not interesting to me.” Sherlock was examining the underside of the console, everything from waist height to the floor. “He does like to move around, this one. One, no, two other people besides the Doctor and River have been here recently.”

“What was the case?” John asked.

“Missing person,” Sherlock said. “Did you know Chaucer has abominable table manners?”

“Wait, what? Chaucer?” John said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and bound up a staircase. John gave a resigned sigh and turned to study the console, trying to understand what Sherlock had seen.

“He’s like a child with a toy,” John muttered to himself.

“JOHN!” Sherlock called a few minutes later.

“WHAT?”

“IS YOUR PHONE WORKING?”

John climbed the steps, trying to locate Sherlock.

“We’re in a time machine two thousand years in the future and you want to know if my mobile works?” John asked the empty hallway, pitching his voice so that it would carry.

“I need to text Mycroft,” Sherlock said, emerging from one of the doorways.

“No service,” John replied, wiggling his phone at Sherlock.

“Damn,” Sherlock said and disappeared back into the room.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to go wandering around?” John asked, following Sherlock, who had settled into an armchair, knees pulled up to his chest.

“I got bored,” Sherlock replied as John settled in the chair opposite. The room was scattered with arm chairs and wingback chairs and swivel chairs with wheels. It was also lined with books. “The Doctor travels with people. He’s had two other here recently, a married couple.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Bedroom down the hallway. Mostly empty, but evidence of shared occupancy. Her hairbrush, his comb. Red head, blond. Not sure about the Roman soldier costume, though.” John chuckled. “The husband is, was, a nurse. They had been travelling with the Doctor for a while. Long red hair like she surely has, it gets everywhere.” He leaned forward and plucked a hair off of the arm of John’s chair in illustration. “I expect that she travelled with him longer than he did, which is interesting.”

“SHERLOCK?” they heard the Doctor call. “DR. WATSON?”

“We’re in here,” John called down the hallway.

“What did Moriarty have to say?” Sherlock asked as the Doctor and River walked in.

“How’d you know we talked to him?” the Doctor asked, sitting down in one of the rolling chairs. He rolled over so he was sitting next to Sherlock.

Sherlock leaned over and plucked something off of the Doctor’s jacket and held it up between his forefinger and thumb, both to examine it and so everyone else could see it. “This. And it stands to reason that he would still be there.”

“What is that?” River asked.

“No idea,” Sherlock said, handing her the small black device. “Nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

She examined the small black speck. It sat cupped in the middle of her palm, smaller than her thumbnail.

“Maybe it’s a camera?” John guessed, studying it but not touching the thing.

“Tracking device?” River suggested, handing it to the Doctor, who pointed his sonic screwdriver at it.

The small black speck started beeping.

“Bomb!” the Doctor said, and dashed out of the room. John sprang to his feet and followed the Doctor, shaking off River’s restraining hand without a second thought.

The Doctor sprinted up to the main console and yanked a lever. John stumbled as the TARDIS took flight while he was still clattering down the stairs.

“Door!” the Doctor said, and John raced to open one of the doors before the Doctor got there.

The Doctor threw the small black speck as hard as he could and then slammed the door closed just a second before an explosion rattled the doors.

“John!” Sherlock called as he clattered down the steps. River was just behind him, nearly sprinting to keep up with Sherlock’s longer stride.

“We got rid of it,” John replied, leaning against the doors. His legs went out, and he suddenly found himself crouched on the floor. “I’m fine,” he said, stopping Sherlock only a few feet from him. “We got rid of it, I’m fine.” He started to push himself up, trying to ignore the pain in his leg. He knew it would fade again, like the trembling in his left hand. A large, pale hand appeared in front of him, and he grabbed it with his right hand, thankful for the help but embarrassed that he needed it.

“I told you Moriarty liked explosions,” John said to the Doctor and River, releasing Sherlock’s hand once he had braced himself against the door.

“He must have planted it on you when he patted your shoulder,” River said.

“You just let him walk away?” John asked, tentatively putting weight on his leg. The ache was fading, mercifully. The trembling in his left hand was fading as well. He flexed it subtly; saw Sherlock watching him do it.

“Moriarty vanished,” the Doctor said. “Right out of your bedroom, Sherlock.”

“Yes, how was the museum? Did they get everything right?” Sherlock asked.

“No skull on the mantle,” River said.

“Interesting,” Sherlock replied, sounding like he honestly didn’t care. “Are we going to go find him now?”

“It’s going to take a bit,” the Doctor said. “Why don’t you all go… take a nap or something? Eat? There’s food in the kitchen. Or we could stop off somewhere! I know this great chip shop.”

“I don’t eat on cases,” Sherlock said.

“Sherlock,” John said in his best ‘we’ve talked about this’ voice. Sherlock lifted one eyebrow at John, but John held his gaze. They had talked about it (had had a pretty decent yelling match about it, actually, after one long case where Sherlock had lived off of coffee, tea, and nicotine patches and then actually physically collapsed on the front steps of their flat once the case was over) and John had won that round and had no intentions of letting Sherlock off the hook.

“Fine,” Sherlock mumbled, and John suppressed a smile.

Part Two

Writing

2012-01-16T22:08:06Z

Writing is so strange to me. I mean writing as in stories, not as in just the action of picking up a pen and making marks on a sheet of paper.

With writing there's not an immediate tangible result. You can sit down with a notebook or a laptop and write for hours and come out with sixty words or sixty pages, but the result is intangible, changeable, untouchable.

With the drawing or painting, your work is readily apparent. You have a canvas, a portrait, a result almost as soon as you start. With photography, you have a picture. With dance, a visible, physical change in body posture. With music, an audible production, no matter how much it sounds like a suffocating cat. Each of these produces an immediate reaction for an observer.

With writing, though, you work and you work and you put down those words, one after another, page after page, until all of a sudden, you're holding a whole world. But that world means nothing to anyone else on the planet until they open the first page, be it physically or digitally, and start reading.

2011: A year in review

2012-01-02T03:12:30Z

I keep saying that 2011 was a shittastic year. It really wasn't, though, now that I've thought about it a bit. It was just exhausting

New Year's Eve 2010: Fell on wet pavement (totally sober) and busted my butt. Ow.

January:
-One of my good friends in grad school moved back home after he graduated.
-Started my last semester of grad school.
-Angst about classes because my grad program administration was being stupid.

February:
-Started my internship at the library where I now work.

March:
-Turned 23!
-Car flooded

April:
-Phone interview about cruise ship librarian job (didn't happen, obviously.)
-TORNADO (April 27th)
-Classes ended, internship ended.
-Got my car back
-Depression started, even if I was too stubborn to admit it at the time.

May:
-Graduation postponed until August
-Volunteered at library because of short staffing due to tornado damage
-My job on campus ended because I graduated and was no longer a student
-Became a "temporary full-time" employee at the library after the HR guy finally realized that you can't run a department with two people during summer reading.

June:
-Summer reading program at the library. Talk about jumping in feet first.

July:
-Still summer reading, but it ended at the end of July
-Started preparing to move back home
-Was a bridesmaid at one of best friend's wedding in North Dakota! (I miss her lots.)
-Got offered current job about a week before I was supposed to move out of my apartment.
-Started current job.

August:
-Graduation ceremony!

September-December:
-Survived
-Made new friends
-Played lots of video games
-Read lots of books
-Outlook on life generally got better.

So, yeah, 2011 was a whirlwind year. I rang in 2012 with part of a bottle of wine, some NaNo friends in a chatroom, and just generally relaxing.

I hope your year is a good one! Be safe, be happy, be kind, and do something new.

(BTW, I just saw the new Sherlock Holmes movie, and it BLEW MY MIND.)

Why is the LJ app tropical?

2011-12-13T03:07:11Z

Better question: why does autocorrect turn Lj into Ljubljana?

These are the things I ponder while waiting on the washing machine to finish drowning my clothes so I can bake...errr...dry them. Gotta love laundry mats. My next apartment WILL have a washer and dryer connection. Dammit. And a toilet that doesn't break every other week. The current trick is leaking out of the shut off valve that does into the wall, thus making my bathroom floor a puddle.

I think I've managed to get a hand hold on life for the first time in a long time. I don't feel quite as much like I'm drowning, anyway, so that's something. I've got a roof over my head, a mostly decent job, and a good set of friends.

And I've stopped forgetting how to breathe every time the weather gets bad.

I even finished nanowrimo this year! Yay! I failed miserably last year due to school, but not this year! Now I just have to finish the damn story.

I've also made good headway into Lego Harry Potter Years 5-7. I love the Lego games, they're adorable and fun, even though I frequently get stumped by a game meant for 12 year olds :P

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

2011 has been a very odd year

2011-08-19T12:45:43Z

Things what I have done or have happened to me since January 1, 2011:
-Car flooded
-Survived a massive tornado
-Survived grad school
-The last Harry Potter movie premiered
-Talked my way into a job
-Twice
-Got a design commission
-Got my own insurance

AND IT'S ONLY AUGUST.

So, if 2012 is supposed to be the apocalypse, BRING IT ON.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

kallaneboi @ 2011-08-10T15:37:00

2011-08-10T20:37:26Z

Five days ago, I walked across the stage to formally accept my Master's degree.

One hundred and five days ago, I survived a tornado.

I am officially a children's librarian, and I'm loving it. I get to work with patrons, do really fun programs (I have a PlayDoh one coming up), and read lots of really awesome books and call it "research." I just finished one called Angel Burn by L.A. Weatherly that was really interesting and I can't wait to read the sequel.

For the first time since my freshman year of college, I'm living in the same place for the second year in a row. Not having to move was AMAZING, especially since the heat index was around 110 the weekend I was supposed to move. And I was supposed to be moving back home. With my mother. After five years of being on my own. Uhhhh.... no. So yay, job! Yay, graduation! Yay for having a job doing something I want to do and actually enjoy most of the time!

Umm... yeah, so that's where I am in my life. Hello!

(Find me on tumblr! knottahooker.tumblr.com)

Today was rough

2011-05-19T03:35:52Z

Well, things have been rough for a couple of weeks now. We had the tornado on April 27th and then graduation (even though the ceremony itself is postponed until August) on May 7th. So things have been strange and weird and broken for a couple of weeks, and I'm still working through everything.

I haven't really talked much about how the tornado has affected me. Yes, I've told the story of where I was, how I hid, my reaction upon seeing the tree that fell on the unit next to mine, and how I had no idea the extent of the damage until the next day. But what I'm dealing with now is not feeling safe in my own apartment, felling my mortality, and hearing other people's stories of having trees literally land inches from them as they cowered in the hallway or bathroom. Stories of dogs on leashes flying through the air, kept from blowing away only by their owners straining against the monster to keep the dogs from being sucked away. And it's hard. Every time the wind blows, I hear the tarp on the roof of the unit next to me flap in the wind. It rained last week, before I had my iPhone and working cable and internet and I very nearly had a panic attack, which I have never in my life had. Working in the library with the public, I hear people's stories every day. There hasn't been a day for the past two weeks that the tornado hasn't been discussed or picked apart or some amazing story of survival or a heartbreaking story of loss hasn't come to me.

I've been avoiding most of the news coverage, simply because I cannot handle it right now. Mom doesn't really understand. When I try to talk to her about it, she reassures me that I'm fine, it's okay, everything will be all right. Yes, I am physically fine. Mentally, though, I'm at about 75% of where I normally am, and that fluctuates minute by minute.

One of my coworkers who lost everything came in on Monday. She's as broken as I've ever seen a person, and I can't help her. I think that may be my biggest problem, that this thing that has happened is not something I can fix. I'm a fixer, or at least I try to make things a little more bearable. I offer what I can, but my normal approach is useless, turned into futile flailings by a monster that ate half of my town and many more besides. I'm way out of my depth.

I know the stages of grief, I'm familiar with them. But something on this scale doesn't even register on line of denial-anger-acceptance. You can't help but accept it, it's there, it's in front of you. You see it every day, in the broken trees and houses and windshields and limbs, in the news and on Facebook and Twitter. You hear it on the radio, in conversations in the store, in quiet times when you're alone. You're angry that it's happened, angry at the fucktards out looting and mugging and preying on people by running scams when their victims are just trying to rebuild their lives, angry at God or Thor or Mother Nature or who the fuck ever for letting this happen. But you can't deny it. It's there. It's there when you're trying to figure out where you want to eat with a friend and you have to remember that the restaurant you want is now flat, or when you go to get your oil changed and the garage is a pile of rubble. Trivial things, little things, things you took for granted are now wiped from the map.

So, yeah, that's where I am mentally right now. Coping. Shaky, messy, unstable, but coping. It's not pretty, but it is what it is.
This entry was originally posted at http://kallaneeboi.dreamwidth.org/3376.html.

More Tuscaloosa information

2011-05-05T21:51:25Z

I'm not going to be posting much in the near future because I still have no internet and I have no idea when it will be back. I'll update when I can, though.

The Tuscaloosa Public Library has computers and volunteers in the Story Castle in the children's department that are willing to help with FEMA forms, so if you need help and are in the Tuscaloosa area, stop by! There is also wireless internet open to the public at the library.

Also, Tuscaloosa County Spontaneous Volunteer Management Team will host the Volunteer Reception Center at St. Mathias Episcopal Church at 2310 Skyland Boulevard East in Tuscaloosa from Monday, May 2 – Friday, May 6 from 9:00 a.m. until 5:00 p.m. ALL individuals wishing to volunteer should report here to sign up and find out about volunteer needs available, and some volunteers will be placed immediately. Depending on your skill set, your information may be taken, and you could be contacted once a volunteer need becomes available. CALL FIRST just to be sure they need you to go there or to the McAbee Community Center in town, because I've heard that they're working on moving from the church to the center. The address for the McAbee Center is 3801 Loop Road Tuscaloosa, AL 35404-5040.

Anything and everything you can donate is still needed. Some of the stuff they desperately need I know includes feminine products (pads, tampons), new in the package underwear and socks for adults and children, and toiletries. Baby products. There are donation and distribution sites all over the city and in the surrounding areas.

DONATIONS (MONETARY): Tax deductible donations can be made to United Way of West Alabama from now through August 31 with 100% of donated money going directly to West Alabama tornado relief efforts by visiting www.uwwa.org. You can also give to American Red Cross and or The Salvation Army in Tuscaloosa. Give to the Tuscaloosa Disaster Relief Fund by visiting www.givetuscaloosa.com. To give to students enrolled at the three Tuscaloosa area schools demolished in the storms, go to helptuscaloosaschools.com, and to help children in schools damaged all across Alabama, go to www.PenniesForAlabama.com.

DONATIONS (NON-MONETARY): Items needed: Ready to eat and non-perishable food items, tarps for covering roofs, NEW clothing (especially underwear, socks, and new or VERY gently worn tennis shoes); newborn and baby items including diapers, formula, diaper cream, and baby powder and wipes; clothes hangers, school supplies, sunscreen, wipes, soap, towels, washcloths, hand sanitizer, flash lights, deodorant, and detergent. Donations are being accepted at the following: Old Phifer Warehouse (2505 Greensboro Avenue/access off 24th Street and open 7 a.m. – 6p.m.); United Way of West Alabama (2720 6th Street/Tuscaloosa); Temporary Emergency Services (1705 15th Street); Boy Scouts Black Warrior Council (2700 Jack Warner Pkwy.); Leland Shopping Center (2601 University Blvd.); United Cerebral Palsy of West Alabama (Rice Mine Road); Xperience Salon & Spa (1663 McFarland Boulevard North in Tuscaloosa Galleria). The Delta Kappa Epsilon fraternity on the University of Alabama campus on University Drive is also accepting donations.

Donations for pets: T-Town PAWS, Metro and the Humane Society need pet supplies which can be dropped off at United Way of West Alabama.

More ways to help in Tuscaloosa

2011-05-01T13:07:33Z

This is an email I just received with information regarding the tornadoes and how to help or where to find help.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:

CONTACT:
Rusty Smith
United Way of West Alabama
Phone 205-345-6640
FAX 205-345-6681
rusty@uwwa.org
www.uwwa.org
West Alabama Tornado Assistance and Information

Tuscaloosa, Alabama, April 30, 2011 – Please find below the UPDATED information which needs to be distributed to tornado victims and their families in West Alabama. United Way of West Alabama will be open Sunday, May 1 from 1 p.m. – 5 p.m. West Alabama Food Bank (Northport) has comfort care kits available for pick up and is accepting them for donation. Please keep in mind, you all are the sole source for many victims of the storm to receive the information listed below due to a lack of cable service in the area.

VOLUNTEERS:
Tuscaloosa County Spontaneous Volunteer Management Team will host the Volunteer Reception Center at St. Mathias Episcopal Church at 2310 Skyland Boulevard East in Tuscaloosa on Sunday, May 1 from 2:00 p.m. until 6:00 p.m. ALL individuals wishing to volunteer should report here to sign up and find out about volunteer needs available, and some volunteers will be placed immediately. Depending on your skill set, your information may be taken, and you could be contacted once a volunteer need becomes available.
DONATIONS (MONETARY):
Tax deductible donations can be made to United Way of West Alabama from now through August 31 with 100% of donated money going directly to West Alabama tornado relief efforts by visiting www.uwwa.org/donatenow.html. You can also give to American Red Cross (be sure to specify West Alabama Chapter) or The Salvation Army in Tuscaloosa.
DONATIONS (NON-MONETARY):
GREAT NEED for ready to eat and non-perishable food items, tarps for covering roofs, and clothing (especially underwear, socks, and new or VERY gently worn tennis shoes are desperately needed), newborn and baby items including diapers, formula, diaper cream and wipes. Sunscreen, wipes, soap, towels, washcloths and hand sanitizers would also be appreciated. Donations are being accepted at the following: United Way of West Alabama (2720 6th Street/Tuscaloosa...block from Capitol Park); Temporary Emergency Services (15th Street)…open 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. on Sunday, May 1; Leland Shopping Center (2601 University Blvd.); T-Town PAWS, Metro and the Humane Society need pet supplies which can be dropped off at United Way of West Alabama.
DISABLED TORNADO VICTIMS:
If you or someone you know is disabled and affected by the tornado, please contact Beth Blaylock at 205.292.3167.
FEMA DISASTER REGISTRATION:
Contact 1.800.621.3362 to register with FEMA if you suffered storm damage.
HOUSING/SHELTERS:
Contact 2-1-1, United Way’s Information & Referral Service, for information on low cost housing options in West Alabama. ClassiTIDES.com is publishing daily lists of low cost housing, and they will provide updated books at retail establishments and to United Way of West Alabama each Thursday. People who have lost homes can call 1-800-621-3362 to report the loss.
Shelters available: Belk Activity Center has availability; Temporary Emergency Services has a shower available; G.G. Harden Center in Brookwood has restrooms to freshen up, no showers.
FOOD/WATER/OTHER RESOURCES AVAILABLE:
SuperTarget Store behind University Mall is giving away cases of water, and they will have one bag of ice available on Sunday per individual. Food/Water stations for victims (not volunteers) are located at Leland Shopping Center, Locklear Dodge off Greensboro, Fire College at Bruno’s Supermarket, Skyland Elementary. American Red Cross is at Belk Activity Center and can provide assistance with food and shelter but victims not required to stay there to receive food; Forest Lake Baptist Relief Center providing meals for volunteers; Portable kitchen set up at Rosedale; Impact Nation Church in Alberta (formerly New Testament) is providing clothing, water, flashlights and other items.
MEALS AVAILABLE APRIL 30 through MAY 3 -
*Leland Shopping Center in Alberta City is hosting Pizza Hut April 30 through May 3 who will be making personal pizzas for those affected by the tornado.
*Other food is also available at Leland Shopping Center.
IF YOU OR A GROUP YOU KNOW IS PROVIDING MEALS IN A PARTICULAR AREA, PLEASE CONTACT 2-1-1 TO LET US KNOW & WE WILL POST THE INFORMATION HERE!
CHARGING STATION:
Electrical/cell phone charging stations will be available at Bruno's Supermarket on Saturday, April 30 provided by Tide.
TIDE LOADS OF HOPE:
Tide Loads of Hope will offer clothes washing services at Bruno's Supermarket on Tuesday, May 3.
MISSING PERSONS/SURVIVOR REGISTRATION:
Survivors need to check in with Tuscaloosa Police Department at 205-759-7111. Searching for Missing Persons – check hospitals first (DCH Tuscaloosa 205-759-7111 or DCH Northport 205-333-4500; 205-349-2121 (non-emergency number for Tuscaloosa Police). Also, search safeandwell.communityos.org/cms/index.php.

DEBRIS REMOVAL:
Local contractors who are willing to provide free debris removal should contact 205-248-5800. Also, Samaritian’s Purse is doing free debris removal and putting tarps on people’s homes. This is being coordinated at First Baptist Church and services are all free. The contact number is 205-345-7554.
LEGAL SERVICES:
The University of Alabama School of Law will be providing free legal services to victims of the tornado beginning early next week. Services will include help filling out FEMA paperwork as well as answering legal questions.
HELP FROM OUTSIDE WEST ALABAMA:
While offers of help are greatly appreciated from all who have reached out to the West Alabama community, local law enforcement is asking for individuals from outside West Alabama to not come to the area for approximately 72 hours due to road conditions. Please contact 2-1-1 if you have non-monetary donations for West Alabama for instructions on getting these donations to the area. Also, monetary donations are greatly appreciated at www.uwwa.org/donatenow.html.
For more information about the ways to give and get help, call 2-1-1, United Way’s Information & Referral line, or visit www.uwwa.org.

Ways to help

2011-04-29T17:39:45Z

There were massive tornadoes throughout the Southeast on Wednesday. I was in Tuscaloosa during the storms, and the city is suffering badly. People are without homes or cars and businesses are destroyed. I am fine, my apartment is fine, although the surrounding neighborhoods in my area are unrecognizable. People in the library school have been compiling ways to help:

http://legislativebarbie.blogspot.com/2011/04/tuscaloosa-tornado-relief-efforts.html

http://bama-slis.libguides.com/helpBama

There are others around, including this one to help find people who are missing: http://www.tuscaloosanews.com/article/20110428/MULTIMEDIA/110429675

A simple way to help is to text FOOD to 27722 to donate $10 to the West Alabama Foodbank, which is helping to feed people without food from the tornadoes.

Feel free to PM or email me at ren_shuten at yahoo dot com if you have any other information or if you need something. I'll help however I can.

ETA: There is also an Acts of Kindness fund that's been set up: https://www.ua.edu/advancement/giving/donate/?division=2&account=349

And, although I'm sure some of this is repeat information, more ways to help:
http://alabamapossible.org/2011/04/tornado-relief-how-you-can-help/

People who want to volunteer can go to St. Matthias church at 2310 Skyland Blvd to get on a roster. I know people tend to be leery of churches, but volunteering without a group is hard and it's a way in. What's really needed is water and clothing, but any little bit will help.

ETA 2: More ways to help: http://mashable.com/2011/04/30/seven-ways-to-help-tornado-victims/

ETA 3: OTHER AREAS THAT NEED HELP, LOOK HERE FOR MORE INFORMATION: http://itsbeckykr.tumblr.com/post/5103907728/right-now-i-wish-that-i-could-believe-in-god

Tornadoes

2011-04-28T23:28:04Z

I'm fine! There were lots of tornadoes in my city yesterday. My apartment and car are undamaged, but the apartment next to mine has a tree through its roof and there's a lot of damage in Tuscaloosa. There are many people without power and there are problems with the water, or so I have heard. I'm at my mom's house now. Any donations will be appreciated.

Mischief Managed

2011-04-10T20:56:40Z

Hello! Still there, are you?

Well, I'm sorry I haven't been around. I've been trying to deal with school and interning and job searching. Anyone know of any library jobs out there? Drop me a line!

Graduation is looming on the horizon, and I'm ready for it. I'm terrified beyond words, but I'm ready. A year ago, I was watching my friends get ready for graduation and I was scared witless and shitless. I'm still scared, but I feel prepared. I've got a good support network, although no job, and I'm ready to jump in with both feet. And I figured I may as well take this attitude with it, because it's going to come whether I'm prepared or not.

I also have plans to get a tattoo to commemorate graduating college. It's something I've been mulling over for a few months now, and I'm still enamored with the idea. It will encapsulate my love of Harry Potter and the last step in my schooling all in one fell swoop. I grew up with Harry, literally. I was ten when I read the first book and I'm 23 now. I read every book, every word, watched every money, caught hell in junior high for wearing t-shirts proclaiming my nerditude, and here I am, 13 years later, waiting on the last movie to come out. I've laughed and cried with these characters, fictional though they may be.

I'm still hammering out a design for the tattoo in my head and I haven't decided where I want to get it. But I know it's going to be two words.

Just two.

Mischief managed.