Silly Little Comment Fics
Title: Hands
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG
Summary:I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. (Richard Siken)
After he shoots the cabbie, John begins to think of himself as Sherlock's bodyguard. His roommate has a habit of running after a puzzle he understands on an intellectual level without seeming to realize that his puzzle also has a knife or a gun or just really strong fists, and that those things can actually hurt him, so John keeps him safe.
It's strange for a doctor, who once swore to do no harm, to pin a man to a wall and squeeze his throat, cataloging all of the signs- elevated heart rate, shallow breathing- that he is hurting this man rather badly and terrifying him. But this man was going to hurt Sherlock, and the fact that he's just an angry drunk in a bar, not a murderer, doesn't matter any more. John protects Sherlock. That's his job.
Then Sherlock comes home one afternoon sweaty and with his fingers still taped and tells John he's been taking fighting classes. Learning to defend himself, so his roommate doesn't have to, and John knows he should be relieved, but he's never felt more rejected in his life.
His hands were once a healer's tools, but now they've become weapons, and the man he gave up his beliefs to protect no longer has any use for him. When the man from the bar comes in to the clinic with broken fingers, the result of a brawl John thankfully wasn't part of, he doesn't recognize the doctor. But John does, and it's like looking at a stranger's hands as he patches up the drunk, explaining the x rays and cautioning him to avoid fights.
He's not a hypocrite, because those weren't his hands- either hurting this stranger or later healing him. They can't have been. It's all so foreign and wrong and John feels like he doesn't know his own body any more. He spends part of the afternoon discovering he can write his name with his left hand, and his handwriting has always been so messy anyway that it doesn't matter.
It's like his hands are on wrong now. Like he took them off and gave them to Sherlock to defend himself with, and when the detective threw them away, someone brought them back to John but sewed them back onto the wrong wrists.
None of it makes any sense, and when he angrily confronts Sherlock, it's his left fist that gives the other man a black eye. He's never felt comfortable throwing a left hook, but it doesn't feel any stranger than actually attacking Sherlock.
He hands the detective ice for the bruise later, noting dimly that it's his right hand that carefully holds his friend in place to examine the damage, and Sherlock comments that he's never seen John use his left hand so readily before, and asks if he's found himself behaving ambidextrously in other areas of his life lately.
John could tell him about the prescriptions he signed this morning, or even about the man from the bar who came into the clinic, but what comes out is, "They put my hands back on the wrong wrists."
Sherlock looks at him like he's crazy, but John doesn't care. His friend has never worried about his hands before, not when they were saving him or salving him afterwards. Why start now?
Title: Zoe
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: G
Summary: Tony and Gibbs are gone...
Everyone is confused when Gibbs and Tony both show up the same day wearing all black. When they leave a little before two in the afternoon, Ziva and McGee are confused but don't think it's wise to ask any questions. When the two ranking members of the team don't return though, they get curious.
When they go down to see Abby, she's playing a funeral dirge on her speakers as she goes about testing samples for another team. She's wearing a black dress and veil, much more subtle than her usual outfits, and it suddenly occurs to Tim and Ziva that, like Tony and Gibbs, she's dressed for a funeral.
"Is someone dead?" Ziva asks tactlessly.
"If they weren't, we'd be out of a job," Abby says without her usual levity.
Ziva looks startled. "I didn't mean to offend you-"
Tim cuts her off before she can make things worse. "We're wondering where Gibbs and Tony went. They've been gone hours."
Abby makes a high pitched, sad noise, throwing herself into Tim's arms. "They went to say goodbye!" she says, hugging him. "And I wanted to go, but Agent Johnson's team got a case and Gibbs said I had to stay and work!"
Tim pets Abby's hair concernedly, looking at Ziva with wide eyes. "Who are they going to say goodbye to?" Ziva asks gently.
"Zoe's!" Abby wails.
"Who is Zoe?" Ziva asks in confusion.
But Tim suddenly understands. He pulls Abby away from his body until he can see her face. "You're mourning a coffee shop?" he asks incredulously.
"It's our favorite! It's the only place that has caf pow, regular coffee, and lattes and stuff. And it's where Tony and Gibbs went for their first date!" she explains.
Tim and Ziva just stare at each other. "Tony... and Gibbs?" Ziva says, sounding ill.
Abby's hand flies up to cover her mouth. "I didn't mean to.... pretend I didn't say that, please! I'm not supposed to tell anyone."
Tim reassures her. "I'd already figured it out. And I'm sure Ziva can keep a secret." Ziva only nods, still looking shocked and pained, as if she's just had the wind knocked out of her.
"Ziva?" Abby asks worriedly.
"I had always hoped..." she says, trailing off, but the others understand. The flirting is reflexive for Tony, but Ziva meant something by it.
"Oh, Ziva," Abby says, hugging the other woman comfortingly. "Tony would've been a terrible boyfriend, anyway. He doesn't like to talk about things, and he's super hyper sometimes and gets jealous easily. I've never met anyone besides Gibbs who can control him."
"I suppose I should have realized," Ziva admits, privately acknowledging that the clues are all there
"He never meant to lead you on, I'm sure of it! They've more been not admitting it than hiding it, for a long time. Only because the agency has rules against couples working together. But Tony wouldn't have flirted with you if he'd known you liked him," Abby reassures Ziva as best she can, but she's only making it worse.
Feeling foolish for being so emotional, Ziva straightens. "It will be okay. He is still my partner. And my friend." Abby beams at her, and Tim smiles encouragingly.
Wanting to end the awkward moment, Tim pushes on. "We're going to have to find everyone a new caffeine dealer then, aren't we?" he asks.
Abby suddenly rushes to her computer, typing quickly then printing a several page long document, which she hands immediately to Tim. "This is a list off all caf pow sales locations in the area. Go scout them out and see which ones sell coffee. The safety of NCIS is in your hands, Timmy!"
"I hardly see how..." Ziva begins.
"Have you ever seen Gibbs when he hasn't had his coffee?" Abby challenges.
Eyes wide, Ziva takes the list from Tim. "Let's get snapping," she says.
"Cracking," Tim corrects, following her upstairs to get their keys. They're going on a coffee hunt.
Title: Accusations
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG 13
Summary: It's like a high school lunch room.
It's all he said, she said and everyone's angry and shouting, picking sides and hurling accusations without any idea what's really going on. Lestrade thinks it's a lot like dealing with teenagers and wonders if he's allowed to give them all detention.
Then he realizes he'd probably wind up in charge of supervising the detention and decides he doesn't like that idea much after all. "Enough!" he shouts, and everyone freezes.
Donovan immediately falls to the floor. She was lunging at Sherlock, but that girl from the morgue at Barts (Lestrade dimly wonders what she's even doing at the station) grabbed her, only to let go at the detective's command. Sherlock jumped out of the way and is no perched on Anderson's desk, looking rather startled. Watson, for his part, has Anderson by the collar, and it appears he was either shaking him or about to pin him to a wall when they were all frozen by Lestrade's command.
"Now," Lestrade says, "What on earth is going on here?" They all begin to speak at once, so he holds up a hand. "Watson?" he asks, knowing that, generally, the doctor is the least emotional of the bunch.
"Donovan has accused Sherlock of attempting to rape her," Watson says,fingers unconsciously tightening on Anderson's collar until it gives with a rip.
"All rape accusations have to be taken seriously-" Lestrade begins.
"He was in the morgue with me!" The woman from Barts (Lestrade thinks her name might be Megan. Or Molly. She looks like a Molly.)
"He raped you too?" Anderson asks dumbly.
"He was doing an experiment," Molly says haughtily.
"And I was observing him," Watson adds. "There is no way Sherlock snuck out of the lab at Bart's, raped a police officer, and snuck back in with both of us watching him." His mouth quirks up a little. "Molly never took her eyes off of him."
That at least tells Lestrade what her name is. Missing John's joke, the young woman pipes up, "It's true! I was watching him the whole time."
"Sgt. Donovan?" Lestrade asks seriously. Accusing consultants of rape is a crime in and of itself.
"He called me a common whore. Said I could feel free to come over and clean their floors, but he wouldn't be paying me in my usual coin," she accuses from the floor, face still red with rage.
"I do not care what Mr. Holmes said to you. Falsely accusing someone of rape is a serious offense. Sgt. Anderson, had she told you of these accusations?"
"Yes, and I confronted the Freak," Anderson says, looking shellshocked that his lover would do such a thing.
"Making statements accusing others of committing a crime you know they are innocent of to a police officer is a crime, Ms. Donovan," Lestrade says, deliberately dropping her title. "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."
She makes one last, desperate lunge for Sherlock, and John intercepts her, grabbing her by the shoulders and flinging her at Lestrade. "Get her out of here," he says, sounding every bit like a man who has made life or death decisions in a war zone.
Seeing that she's out of control, Lestrade handcuffs Donovan before taking her down to the interrogation rooms to get a statement. He never would have guessed he would one day be hauling one of his own down here, preparing to arrest her. Sally's always said Sherlock would snap one day, but it looks like she's gone first.
Title: Sheriff Gibbs
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: G
Summary: An NCIS wild west AU
A/N: See here for Wild West slang explanations.
The jail was relatively quiet when Mr. Vance, the town lawyer, walked in. He found Deputy DiNozzo sitting at the front desk with his feet up, spitting tobacco at a cup a few feet away. The man tipped his hat back a few inches to look the lawyer in the eye, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him.
Fighting the desire to knock DiNozzo's feet off the desk, Mr. Vance said, "I'm here to talk to your Boss."
"Sheriff isn't in," DiNozzo drawled, overpronouncing the words in a deliberate show of disdain.
"Well where is he?" Vance asked.
"I reckon he's headed over to Miss Abby's for a cuppa," DiNozzo said, spitting again.
"Well I'll just have to find him there, then, won't I?" Vance said, turning and snapping. "Come along, Timothy." DiNozzo hadn't even noticed Vance's young clerk, Timothy McGee, follow the lawyer inside.
"Finding people's our job, Leon," Gibbs called from the doorway. The lawyer turned around, annoyed.
"Well there you are. I'm here to talk to you about Mr. Sanders. His case is going to trial at the county courthouse next week, as I'm sure you know, and they've asked me to do a few preliminary interviews for them."
"Ask away, Leon," Gibbs said, sitting down on top of the desk and matter of a factly knocking Tony's boots off. The younger man gave a wry smile but otherwise didn't react, except to remove his hat and place it on the desk.
"I understand that you shot Mr. Sanders during the apprehension?" Vance said frostily.
"He claims his gun was still holstered when you fired," the timid clerk piped up. Tony rolled his eyes.
"Is that so?" Gibbs asked expressionlessly.
Vance wasn't in the mood for games. "It is. Now, Sheriff, where was the defendant's gun when you shot him?"
Tony suddenly got to his feet. "What're you trying to say, Vance?" he demanded. He would have advanced on the lawyer, but Gibbs stuck an arm out, stopping him. He then whacked his deputy on the back of the head before disregarding him and turning back to the lawyer.
"I never draw first, Leon," Gibbs said, and something feral glittered in his eyes. Something that reminded the lawyer in front of him that Gibbs had fought alongside Chamberlain at Gettsyburg, and that this was not a man he wanted to cross. Gibbs smirked coldly as he added, "I just draw first blood."
"It's not the first shot, but the last one that determines the winner of a duel?" Vance said rhetorically. He believed Gibbs. The man might be quick tempered, but Vance knew he was honest.
"Get your lapdog ready to watch the jail for a few days. You're going to be needed to testify in court," Vance ordered, picking the briefcase he'd come in with back up. He turned and left without another word, Tim trailing mutely behind him.
Bristling at the implied insult in the lawyer's last words, Tony made a face. "What a mud silled flannel mouth. Somebody oughta close it for him," he said in disgust, then yelped when Gibbs whacked him on the head again.
"Pull in your horns," Gibbs said. "If he doesn't ask those questions, you can bet somebody else will."
"He ought to at least give you the benefit of the doubt," Tony sulked.
"You let him do his job and we'll do ours. You hear him telling us to give the criminals benefit of the doubt?" Gibbs scolded. He'd gone from mild, thinking his deputy was just venting, to genuinely annoyed.
Realizing he was pushing his luck, Tony backed down. "Sorry, sorry," he said, holding his hands up placatingly.
"You don't have to like the man and you don't have to agree with him. But you will let him do his job and be civilized when it crosses ours. You hear me?" Gibbs said, getting in his deputy's face.
"Yes, sir," Tony said obediently. Seeing that the young man meant it, at least for the moment, Gibbs settled back into the desk, going over the papers Tony'd left spread out.
"I'll just go check the cells, then," Tony said. Knowing the only prisoner was an old drunk sleeping it off, Gibbs nodded, allowing the boy his escape. Tony took the keys and went into the back, and the jail was quiet once more.
Title: Friends
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock and John have a fight.
Sherlock realizes one morning as he waits for John to wake up that, for the first time in his life, he has a friend. Someone he spends time with, enjoys company, and misses when his flatmate stops speaking to him because he's destroyed another tea kettle experimenting in it.
He's never really spent much time observing someone. Usually, he can tell a person's life story within moments of meeting them. It's rarely useful information, usually deleted immediately. There was a time in college, back when he let his roommate drag him to parties as he was first learning the joys of cocaine, when he used it as a party trick. People would bet on how much he could deduce about them, although many of the girls slapped him afterwards and the men threatened to beat him up.
That's really all deductions are most of the time- a party trick. He doesn't need to know that Anderson and Donovan are sleeping together, or that she cleans his floors. He observes it because it's automatic, and announces it because he enjoys their indignation. These days, he mostly does it to impress John.
Ah, John. The one person Sherlock has never learned to completely understand. Even Mycroft, intelligent as he is, is easy to predict. Annoying, yes, but predictable. John is the only person who regularly surprises him.
Sherlock checks his watch. Only five am. John won't be up for a few hours yet. Hours until Sherlock can talk to him, can even attempt to make up with him. Sherlock still isn't sure what set off the row that had John storming up to his room last night. He simply remarked that the woman who'd been eying John at the restaurant would be a good choice for stress relief, because she was already in a marriage and wouldn't have much time to spend with a lover anyway.
John had walked quietly beside him into the flat, then exploded the second the door was closed. "You don't really know me at all, do you? You, who spends all of your time 'deducing' the lives of those around you." Sherlock remembers painedly that John has never said 'deducing' as anything other than a marvel before. Certainly he's never used the word so disgustedly.
"The great consulting detective, who can unravel a stranger's life at a glance, doesn't know the first bloody thing about his own flatmate. How dare you suggest that I would ever- that I'm the kind of man who would-" John seemed too angry to even put into words what Sherlock had evidently inadvertently accused him of.
Instead, he shook his head angrily. "I'm not doing this. It's a waste of time. Donovan was right. There's no point in trying to connect with you. You don't care the first thing for other people. I don't know why I thought I'd be different." Looking tired and somehow defeated, John had turned and gone upstairs, apparently too angry to even breathe the same air as his flatmate.
So, nine hours later, Sherlock is still sitting quietly in the living room, trying to figure out how to make up with John. He understands what set John off- the implication that he would steal a man's wife. But Sherlock doesn't understand why that's so shameful. The woman is clearly looking for extra martial attention. She's going to ruin the marriage whether John helps her or not. Why shouldn't his friend enjoy himself? Especially when she, unlike the women John normally sees, won't always be dragging him away from Sherlock?
That's the real reason Sherlock pointed her out. He's not against John dating, per se, so much as he is against John not being available when he wants him. As a rule, the type of women John sees want more and more of his time the longer they're together, leaving Sherlock alone.
But John isn't only angry because Sherlock tried to get him laid. It goes much deeper than that- apparently, his flatmate has being convinced that Sherlock is incapable of human connection. The detective knows he furthers the rumor himself by claiming to be a sociopath, but if there were ever proof that it isn't true, John would be the living example.
Sherlock may be able to deduce the what's and where's of people's lives, but he rarely, if ever, concerns himself with the why's. John is the only person he knows he bothers to learns preferences, feelings, and beliefs. He knows what soaps everyone he works with regularly uses, so that he can identify them by smell, but he knows that John uses Imperial Leather because it reminds him of his father.
Suddenly, Sherlock is struck by an idea. John thinks he doesn't know him? Well, he'll just have to make a list of things he does know about his flatmate! He quickly retrieves John’s laptop from the table, curls up with his Union Jack pillow and begins to type.
Things Sherlock Knows About John:
You only drink Earl Grey tea.
You take it with milk.
You use Imperial Leather soap- the smell reminds you of your father.
Your sister is an alcoholic. You love her anyway.
Your mother left when you were young. You don’t talk about her.
You enjoy women, but you still believe in chivalry.
Unlike many, you because a doctor because you genuinely want to help people.
You became a soldier for the same reason.
Eating late at night makes your nightmares worse.
When you’re angry, the limp comes back, just a little. You hope no one notices.
You don’t like seeing Bill, even though he was one of your best friends. It reminds you you could have died. (I rather like him. If you’d died, I would miss you.)
You are even more of an adrenaline junky than I am.
You hated having a blog because you thought not having any exciting stories was proof you were boring, just like everyone else. You aren’t.
You’re going to have terrible laugh lines when you’re older.
When you smile, your eyes don’t twinkle, the way people describe. They shine.
You form your own opinions, about everything. (Thankfully, including me.)
You know enough about psychology to know I’m not a sociopath.
You may not be the most brilliant man in the world, but you really think about things. That’s what makes you unpredictable. You form your own opinions.
You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.
Sherlock closes the laptop, surprised at how upset this exercise has made him. Writing about John has told him more about himself than it’s told him about his flatmate. John would probably have something to say about that.
Sherlock checks the clock. Almost six. Deciding he can’t wait much longer, he decides to make tea before waking John. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood if he at least has some semblance of breakfast.
With that thought in mind, Sherlock puts the water on to boil, and, on second thought, digs around until he finds some bread for toast. He begins toasting somewhat nervously and looks through the cabinets for marmalade. He eventually finds it in the refrigerator next to the butter. Gathering up both, he retrieves a spoon and knife from the cutlery drawer and puts them on the counter, at the ready.
Looking around, it occurs to him that John might want to eat at the table. Luckily, he has no experiments out, but he gathers up his books and notes and takes them into his room, dumping them on his bed. He returns just in time to pull two slightly scorched pieces of toast out of the toaster, almost burning his fingers. Deciding those two will be his, he puts in two more, determined not to look away this time. While he waits, he scrapes some of the carbon off and butters his toast, deciding he’ll have marmalade, like John.
The kettle whistles, startling him into dropping the marmalade, which lands on his foot. Luckily, the jar doesn’t break, but it still makes him yell. He freezes, but noise upstairs indicates that he’s woken John.
A moment later, his flatmate appears. He’s wrapped in a robe and looking rather put out. Sherlock quickly deduces that, while John is still mad at him from last night, concern that his flatmate might be destroying the apartment has driven him out of bed, making him even more annoyed.
“Why are you doing experiments at six am?” John asks grouchily.
“I’m not experimenting,” Sherlock says defensively. “I’m making breakfast.”
“You don’t eat breakfast, unless someone happens to give it to you,” John points out, crossing his arms.
“I thought we could eat together,” Sherlock says hopefully, suddenly remembering the tea and pouring the water into the cups he got out earlier. He opens the tea tin and retrieves two tea bags, dropping one into each cup and trying to ignore John’s clear annoyance.
“I don’t generally wake up until eight,” John points out dryly.
“I made a list of things I know about you,” Sherlock says suddenly.
“Oh? No wonder you’re bored,” John snarks.
“I’m not bored. The list got rather off track, and I started thinking. I’m not a sociopath,” he confesses suddenly.
“I know that,” John tells him.
Deciding John’s toast should be ready, Sherlock turns around to get it. Not because he doesn’t want to face John while he speaks. “I say I am, because it makes things easier. People’s expectations are lower. But you never believed it, did you? You knew better. And I do care what you think of me, whether I want to or not. I don’t like it,” he whines.
“How touching,” John snorts.
Sherlock hands him a plate of toast, which he takes automatically, then gets out the milk and prepares their tea, as if there’s nothing odd about this. John takes the tea as well and follows his flatmate to the table.
“I didn’t mean to imply you would intentionally destroy a marriage,” Sherlock says once they’re seated. John doesn’t appear to be phased by the subject change and only continues eating. “She would have had less time for a relationship than the women you usually see, meaning she would have demanded less of your time. You would stay home more.”
John nearly chokes on his tea. “You want me to date married women... So I stay home more often?”
“You’re altogether superior to the skull, conversationally. And Mrs. Hudson has yet to confiscate you,” Sherlock says, staring at his teacup.
“So you’re what, lonely?” John asks incredulously.
Sherlock scoffs. “Lonely implies I merely desire human company. Were that the case, I would simply go to the station, or the morgue, or visit Mycroft.”
“You miss me!” John crows victoriously.
“I believe I’ve already said that,” Sherlock says defensively.
John sobers. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just... pleased.”
“Because you’ve proved I’m human after all?”
“I’m not trying to win against you, either. It’s just nice when your closest friend wants you around occasionally,” John says casually.
“I do not want you around occasionally. I desire your company constantly,” Sherlock points out, choosing not to comment on the ‘closest friend’ part, uncomfortably aware that the warm feeling in his stomach has nothing to do with his tea. “That’s the problem. I miss you, so I try to make you stay in more. My attempts anger you, and even when you are at the flat you ignore me.”
John sighs. “Sherlock...” he begins. “There are such things as boundaries. Everyone wants to be alone sometimes. When you’re caught up in a puzzle, you don’t know if I’m even here or not! It’s only natural that I would want to spend time by myself occasionally. It does not mean that I don’t like you, or that I’ve suddenly started agreeing with the rest of the world-”
“You said you agreed with Donovan earlier,” Sherlock interjects.
“I was angry,” John counters. “Emotions are rarely logical, Sherlock.”
“Bloody useless things,” he moans.
John, to Sherlock’s surprise and pleasure, laughs. “Well, they’re unavoidable. Even for the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“Very well,” Sherlock sighs, and the two friends finish their breakfast in silence. When they’re done, John will shower, since he’s up already, and then join Sherlock in the living room to watch TV until time to leave for the clinic. Sherlock will try to do the breakfast dishes, for once, and when John leaves, he’ll run to the store for milk. They’re running low, and it’ll make John happy. It’s an experiment in emotions, nothing more.
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG
Summary:I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. (Richard Siken)
After he shoots the cabbie, John begins to think of himself as Sherlock's bodyguard. His roommate has a habit of running after a puzzle he understands on an intellectual level without seeming to realize that his puzzle also has a knife or a gun or just really strong fists, and that those things can actually hurt him, so John keeps him safe.
It's strange for a doctor, who once swore to do no harm, to pin a man to a wall and squeeze his throat, cataloging all of the signs- elevated heart rate, shallow breathing- that he is hurting this man rather badly and terrifying him. But this man was going to hurt Sherlock, and the fact that he's just an angry drunk in a bar, not a murderer, doesn't matter any more. John protects Sherlock. That's his job.
Then Sherlock comes home one afternoon sweaty and with his fingers still taped and tells John he's been taking fighting classes. Learning to defend himself, so his roommate doesn't have to, and John knows he should be relieved, but he's never felt more rejected in his life.
His hands were once a healer's tools, but now they've become weapons, and the man he gave up his beliefs to protect no longer has any use for him. When the man from the bar comes in to the clinic with broken fingers, the result of a brawl John thankfully wasn't part of, he doesn't recognize the doctor. But John does, and it's like looking at a stranger's hands as he patches up the drunk, explaining the x rays and cautioning him to avoid fights.
He's not a hypocrite, because those weren't his hands- either hurting this stranger or later healing him. They can't have been. It's all so foreign and wrong and John feels like he doesn't know his own body any more. He spends part of the afternoon discovering he can write his name with his left hand, and his handwriting has always been so messy anyway that it doesn't matter.
It's like his hands are on wrong now. Like he took them off and gave them to Sherlock to defend himself with, and when the detective threw them away, someone brought them back to John but sewed them back onto the wrong wrists.
None of it makes any sense, and when he angrily confronts Sherlock, it's his left fist that gives the other man a black eye. He's never felt comfortable throwing a left hook, but it doesn't feel any stranger than actually attacking Sherlock.
He hands the detective ice for the bruise later, noting dimly that it's his right hand that carefully holds his friend in place to examine the damage, and Sherlock comments that he's never seen John use his left hand so readily before, and asks if he's found himself behaving ambidextrously in other areas of his life lately.
John could tell him about the prescriptions he signed this morning, or even about the man from the bar who came into the clinic, but what comes out is, "They put my hands back on the wrong wrists."
Sherlock looks at him like he's crazy, but John doesn't care. His friend has never worried about his hands before, not when they were saving him or salving him afterwards. Why start now?
Title: Zoe
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: G
Summary: Tony and Gibbs are gone...
Everyone is confused when Gibbs and Tony both show up the same day wearing all black. When they leave a little before two in the afternoon, Ziva and McGee are confused but don't think it's wise to ask any questions. When the two ranking members of the team don't return though, they get curious.
When they go down to see Abby, she's playing a funeral dirge on her speakers as she goes about testing samples for another team. She's wearing a black dress and veil, much more subtle than her usual outfits, and it suddenly occurs to Tim and Ziva that, like Tony and Gibbs, she's dressed for a funeral.
"Is someone dead?" Ziva asks tactlessly.
"If they weren't, we'd be out of a job," Abby says without her usual levity.
Ziva looks startled. "I didn't mean to offend you-"
Tim cuts her off before she can make things worse. "We're wondering where Gibbs and Tony went. They've been gone hours."
Abby makes a high pitched, sad noise, throwing herself into Tim's arms. "They went to say goodbye!" she says, hugging him. "And I wanted to go, but Agent Johnson's team got a case and Gibbs said I had to stay and work!"
Tim pets Abby's hair concernedly, looking at Ziva with wide eyes. "Who are they going to say goodbye to?" Ziva asks gently.
"Zoe's!" Abby wails.
"Who is Zoe?" Ziva asks in confusion.
But Tim suddenly understands. He pulls Abby away from his body until he can see her face. "You're mourning a coffee shop?" he asks incredulously.
"It's our favorite! It's the only place that has caf pow, regular coffee, and lattes and stuff. And it's where Tony and Gibbs went for their first date!" she explains.
Tim and Ziva just stare at each other. "Tony... and Gibbs?" Ziva says, sounding ill.
Abby's hand flies up to cover her mouth. "I didn't mean to.... pretend I didn't say that, please! I'm not supposed to tell anyone."
Tim reassures her. "I'd already figured it out. And I'm sure Ziva can keep a secret." Ziva only nods, still looking shocked and pained, as if she's just had the wind knocked out of her.
"Ziva?" Abby asks worriedly.
"I had always hoped..." she says, trailing off, but the others understand. The flirting is reflexive for Tony, but Ziva meant something by it.
"Oh, Ziva," Abby says, hugging the other woman comfortingly. "Tony would've been a terrible boyfriend, anyway. He doesn't like to talk about things, and he's super hyper sometimes and gets jealous easily. I've never met anyone besides Gibbs who can control him."
"I suppose I should have realized," Ziva admits, privately acknowledging that the clues are all there
"He never meant to lead you on, I'm sure of it! They've more been not admitting it than hiding it, for a long time. Only because the agency has rules against couples working together. But Tony wouldn't have flirted with you if he'd known you liked him," Abby reassures Ziva as best she can, but she's only making it worse.
Feeling foolish for being so emotional, Ziva straightens. "It will be okay. He is still my partner. And my friend." Abby beams at her, and Tim smiles encouragingly.
Wanting to end the awkward moment, Tim pushes on. "We're going to have to find everyone a new caffeine dealer then, aren't we?" he asks.
Abby suddenly rushes to her computer, typing quickly then printing a several page long document, which she hands immediately to Tim. "This is a list off all caf pow sales locations in the area. Go scout them out and see which ones sell coffee. The safety of NCIS is in your hands, Timmy!"
"I hardly see how..." Ziva begins.
"Have you ever seen Gibbs when he hasn't had his coffee?" Abby challenges.
Eyes wide, Ziva takes the list from Tim. "Let's get snapping," she says.
"Cracking," Tim corrects, following her upstairs to get their keys. They're going on a coffee hunt.
Title: Accusations
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG 13
Summary: It's like a high school lunch room.
It's all he said, she said and everyone's angry and shouting, picking sides and hurling accusations without any idea what's really going on. Lestrade thinks it's a lot like dealing with teenagers and wonders if he's allowed to give them all detention.
Then he realizes he'd probably wind up in charge of supervising the detention and decides he doesn't like that idea much after all. "Enough!" he shouts, and everyone freezes.
Donovan immediately falls to the floor. She was lunging at Sherlock, but that girl from the morgue at Barts (Lestrade dimly wonders what she's even doing at the station) grabbed her, only to let go at the detective's command. Sherlock jumped out of the way and is no perched on Anderson's desk, looking rather startled. Watson, for his part, has Anderson by the collar, and it appears he was either shaking him or about to pin him to a wall when they were all frozen by Lestrade's command.
"Now," Lestrade says, "What on earth is going on here?" They all begin to speak at once, so he holds up a hand. "Watson?" he asks, knowing that, generally, the doctor is the least emotional of the bunch.
"Donovan has accused Sherlock of attempting to rape her," Watson says,fingers unconsciously tightening on Anderson's collar until it gives with a rip.
"All rape accusations have to be taken seriously-" Lestrade begins.
"He was in the morgue with me!" The woman from Barts (Lestrade thinks her name might be Megan. Or Molly. She looks like a Molly.)
"He raped you too?" Anderson asks dumbly.
"He was doing an experiment," Molly says haughtily.
"And I was observing him," Watson adds. "There is no way Sherlock snuck out of the lab at Bart's, raped a police officer, and snuck back in with both of us watching him." His mouth quirks up a little. "Molly never took her eyes off of him."
That at least tells Lestrade what her name is. Missing John's joke, the young woman pipes up, "It's true! I was watching him the whole time."
"Sgt. Donovan?" Lestrade asks seriously. Accusing consultants of rape is a crime in and of itself.
"He called me a common whore. Said I could feel free to come over and clean their floors, but he wouldn't be paying me in my usual coin," she accuses from the floor, face still red with rage.
"I do not care what Mr. Holmes said to you. Falsely accusing someone of rape is a serious offense. Sgt. Anderson, had she told you of these accusations?"
"Yes, and I confronted the Freak," Anderson says, looking shellshocked that his lover would do such a thing.
"Making statements accusing others of committing a crime you know they are innocent of to a police officer is a crime, Ms. Donovan," Lestrade says, deliberately dropping her title. "I'm afraid you'll have to come with me."
She makes one last, desperate lunge for Sherlock, and John intercepts her, grabbing her by the shoulders and flinging her at Lestrade. "Get her out of here," he says, sounding every bit like a man who has made life or death decisions in a war zone.
Seeing that she's out of control, Lestrade handcuffs Donovan before taking her down to the interrogation rooms to get a statement. He never would have guessed he would one day be hauling one of his own down here, preparing to arrest her. Sally's always said Sherlock would snap one day, but it looks like she's gone first.
Title: Sheriff Gibbs
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: G
Summary: An NCIS wild west AU
A/N: See here for Wild West slang explanations.
The jail was relatively quiet when Mr. Vance, the town lawyer, walked in. He found Deputy DiNozzo sitting at the front desk with his feet up, spitting tobacco at a cup a few feet away. The man tipped his hat back a few inches to look the lawyer in the eye, but otherwise didn't acknowledge him.
Fighting the desire to knock DiNozzo's feet off the desk, Mr. Vance said, "I'm here to talk to your Boss."
"Sheriff isn't in," DiNozzo drawled, overpronouncing the words in a deliberate show of disdain.
"Well where is he?" Vance asked.
"I reckon he's headed over to Miss Abby's for a cuppa," DiNozzo said, spitting again.
"Well I'll just have to find him there, then, won't I?" Vance said, turning and snapping. "Come along, Timothy." DiNozzo hadn't even noticed Vance's young clerk, Timothy McGee, follow the lawyer inside.
"Finding people's our job, Leon," Gibbs called from the doorway. The lawyer turned around, annoyed.
"Well there you are. I'm here to talk to you about Mr. Sanders. His case is going to trial at the county courthouse next week, as I'm sure you know, and they've asked me to do a few preliminary interviews for them."
"Ask away, Leon," Gibbs said, sitting down on top of the desk and matter of a factly knocking Tony's boots off. The younger man gave a wry smile but otherwise didn't react, except to remove his hat and place it on the desk.
"I understand that you shot Mr. Sanders during the apprehension?" Vance said frostily.
"He claims his gun was still holstered when you fired," the timid clerk piped up. Tony rolled his eyes.
"Is that so?" Gibbs asked expressionlessly.
Vance wasn't in the mood for games. "It is. Now, Sheriff, where was the defendant's gun when you shot him?"
Tony suddenly got to his feet. "What're you trying to say, Vance?" he demanded. He would have advanced on the lawyer, but Gibbs stuck an arm out, stopping him. He then whacked his deputy on the back of the head before disregarding him and turning back to the lawyer.
"I never draw first, Leon," Gibbs said, and something feral glittered in his eyes. Something that reminded the lawyer in front of him that Gibbs had fought alongside Chamberlain at Gettsyburg, and that this was not a man he wanted to cross. Gibbs smirked coldly as he added, "I just draw first blood."
"It's not the first shot, but the last one that determines the winner of a duel?" Vance said rhetorically. He believed Gibbs. The man might be quick tempered, but Vance knew he was honest.
"Get your lapdog ready to watch the jail for a few days. You're going to be needed to testify in court," Vance ordered, picking the briefcase he'd come in with back up. He turned and left without another word, Tim trailing mutely behind him.
Bristling at the implied insult in the lawyer's last words, Tony made a face. "What a mud silled flannel mouth. Somebody oughta close it for him," he said in disgust, then yelped when Gibbs whacked him on the head again.
"Pull in your horns," Gibbs said. "If he doesn't ask those questions, you can bet somebody else will."
"He ought to at least give you the benefit of the doubt," Tony sulked.
"You let him do his job and we'll do ours. You hear him telling us to give the criminals benefit of the doubt?" Gibbs scolded. He'd gone from mild, thinking his deputy was just venting, to genuinely annoyed.
Realizing he was pushing his luck, Tony backed down. "Sorry, sorry," he said, holding his hands up placatingly.
"You don't have to like the man and you don't have to agree with him. But you will let him do his job and be civilized when it crosses ours. You hear me?" Gibbs said, getting in his deputy's face.
"Yes, sir," Tony said obediently. Seeing that the young man meant it, at least for the moment, Gibbs settled back into the desk, going over the papers Tony'd left spread out.
"I'll just go check the cells, then," Tony said. Knowing the only prisoner was an old drunk sleeping it off, Gibbs nodded, allowing the boy his escape. Tony took the keys and went into the back, and the jail was quiet once more.
Title: Friends
Author: AnotherFnGrl
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock and John have a fight.
Sherlock realizes one morning as he waits for John to wake up that, for the first time in his life, he has a friend. Someone he spends time with, enjoys company, and misses when his flatmate stops speaking to him because he's destroyed another tea kettle experimenting in it.
He's never really spent much time observing someone. Usually, he can tell a person's life story within moments of meeting them. It's rarely useful information, usually deleted immediately. There was a time in college, back when he let his roommate drag him to parties as he was first learning the joys of cocaine, when he used it as a party trick. People would bet on how much he could deduce about them, although many of the girls slapped him afterwards and the men threatened to beat him up.
That's really all deductions are most of the time- a party trick. He doesn't need to know that Anderson and Donovan are sleeping together, or that she cleans his floors. He observes it because it's automatic, and announces it because he enjoys their indignation. These days, he mostly does it to impress John.
Ah, John. The one person Sherlock has never learned to completely understand. Even Mycroft, intelligent as he is, is easy to predict. Annoying, yes, but predictable. John is the only person who regularly surprises him.
Sherlock checks his watch. Only five am. John won't be up for a few hours yet. Hours until Sherlock can talk to him, can even attempt to make up with him. Sherlock still isn't sure what set off the row that had John storming up to his room last night. He simply remarked that the woman who'd been eying John at the restaurant would be a good choice for stress relief, because she was already in a marriage and wouldn't have much time to spend with a lover anyway.
John had walked quietly beside him into the flat, then exploded the second the door was closed. "You don't really know me at all, do you? You, who spends all of your time 'deducing' the lives of those around you." Sherlock remembers painedly that John has never said 'deducing' as anything other than a marvel before. Certainly he's never used the word so disgustedly.
"The great consulting detective, who can unravel a stranger's life at a glance, doesn't know the first bloody thing about his own flatmate. How dare you suggest that I would ever- that I'm the kind of man who would-" John seemed too angry to even put into words what Sherlock had evidently inadvertently accused him of.
Instead, he shook his head angrily. "I'm not doing this. It's a waste of time. Donovan was right. There's no point in trying to connect with you. You don't care the first thing for other people. I don't know why I thought I'd be different." Looking tired and somehow defeated, John had turned and gone upstairs, apparently too angry to even breathe the same air as his flatmate.
So, nine hours later, Sherlock is still sitting quietly in the living room, trying to figure out how to make up with John. He understands what set John off- the implication that he would steal a man's wife. But Sherlock doesn't understand why that's so shameful. The woman is clearly looking for extra martial attention. She's going to ruin the marriage whether John helps her or not. Why shouldn't his friend enjoy himself? Especially when she, unlike the women John normally sees, won't always be dragging him away from Sherlock?
That's the real reason Sherlock pointed her out. He's not against John dating, per se, so much as he is against John not being available when he wants him. As a rule, the type of women John sees want more and more of his time the longer they're together, leaving Sherlock alone.
But John isn't only angry because Sherlock tried to get him laid. It goes much deeper than that- apparently, his flatmate has being convinced that Sherlock is incapable of human connection. The detective knows he furthers the rumor himself by claiming to be a sociopath, but if there were ever proof that it isn't true, John would be the living example.
Sherlock may be able to deduce the what's and where's of people's lives, but he rarely, if ever, concerns himself with the why's. John is the only person he knows he bothers to learns preferences, feelings, and beliefs. He knows what soaps everyone he works with regularly uses, so that he can identify them by smell, but he knows that John uses Imperial Leather because it reminds him of his father.
Suddenly, Sherlock is struck by an idea. John thinks he doesn't know him? Well, he'll just have to make a list of things he does know about his flatmate! He quickly retrieves John’s laptop from the table, curls up with his Union Jack pillow and begins to type.
Things Sherlock Knows About John:
You only drink Earl Grey tea.
You take it with milk.
You use Imperial Leather soap- the smell reminds you of your father.
Your sister is an alcoholic. You love her anyway.
Your mother left when you were young. You don’t talk about her.
You enjoy women, but you still believe in chivalry.
Unlike many, you because a doctor because you genuinely want to help people.
You became a soldier for the same reason.
Eating late at night makes your nightmares worse.
When you’re angry, the limp comes back, just a little. You hope no one notices.
You don’t like seeing Bill, even though he was one of your best friends. It reminds you you could have died. (I rather like him. If you’d died, I would miss you.)
You are even more of an adrenaline junky than I am.
You hated having a blog because you thought not having any exciting stories was proof you were boring, just like everyone else. You aren’t.
You’re going to have terrible laugh lines when you’re older.
When you smile, your eyes don’t twinkle, the way people describe. They shine.
You form your own opinions, about everything. (Thankfully, including me.)
You know enough about psychology to know I’m not a sociopath.
You may not be the most brilliant man in the world, but you really think about things. That’s what makes you unpredictable. You form your own opinions.
You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had.
Sherlock closes the laptop, surprised at how upset this exercise has made him. Writing about John has told him more about himself than it’s told him about his flatmate. John would probably have something to say about that.
Sherlock checks the clock. Almost six. Deciding he can’t wait much longer, he decides to make tea before waking John. Maybe he’ll be in a better mood if he at least has some semblance of breakfast.
With that thought in mind, Sherlock puts the water on to boil, and, on second thought, digs around until he finds some bread for toast. He begins toasting somewhat nervously and looks through the cabinets for marmalade. He eventually finds it in the refrigerator next to the butter. Gathering up both, he retrieves a spoon and knife from the cutlery drawer and puts them on the counter, at the ready.
Looking around, it occurs to him that John might want to eat at the table. Luckily, he has no experiments out, but he gathers up his books and notes and takes them into his room, dumping them on his bed. He returns just in time to pull two slightly scorched pieces of toast out of the toaster, almost burning his fingers. Deciding those two will be his, he puts in two more, determined not to look away this time. While he waits, he scrapes some of the carbon off and butters his toast, deciding he’ll have marmalade, like John.
The kettle whistles, startling him into dropping the marmalade, which lands on his foot. Luckily, the jar doesn’t break, but it still makes him yell. He freezes, but noise upstairs indicates that he’s woken John.
A moment later, his flatmate appears. He’s wrapped in a robe and looking rather put out. Sherlock quickly deduces that, while John is still mad at him from last night, concern that his flatmate might be destroying the apartment has driven him out of bed, making him even more annoyed.
“Why are you doing experiments at six am?” John asks grouchily.
“I’m not experimenting,” Sherlock says defensively. “I’m making breakfast.”
“You don’t eat breakfast, unless someone happens to give it to you,” John points out, crossing his arms.
“I thought we could eat together,” Sherlock says hopefully, suddenly remembering the tea and pouring the water into the cups he got out earlier. He opens the tea tin and retrieves two tea bags, dropping one into each cup and trying to ignore John’s clear annoyance.
“I don’t generally wake up until eight,” John points out dryly.
“I made a list of things I know about you,” Sherlock says suddenly.
“Oh? No wonder you’re bored,” John snarks.
“I’m not bored. The list got rather off track, and I started thinking. I’m not a sociopath,” he confesses suddenly.
“I know that,” John tells him.
Deciding John’s toast should be ready, Sherlock turns around to get it. Not because he doesn’t want to face John while he speaks. “I say I am, because it makes things easier. People’s expectations are lower. But you never believed it, did you? You knew better. And I do care what you think of me, whether I want to or not. I don’t like it,” he whines.
“How touching,” John snorts.
Sherlock hands him a plate of toast, which he takes automatically, then gets out the milk and prepares their tea, as if there’s nothing odd about this. John takes the tea as well and follows his flatmate to the table.
“I didn’t mean to imply you would intentionally destroy a marriage,” Sherlock says once they’re seated. John doesn’t appear to be phased by the subject change and only continues eating. “She would have had less time for a relationship than the women you usually see, meaning she would have demanded less of your time. You would stay home more.”
John nearly chokes on his tea. “You want me to date married women... So I stay home more often?”
“You’re altogether superior to the skull, conversationally. And Mrs. Hudson has yet to confiscate you,” Sherlock says, staring at his teacup.
“So you’re what, lonely?” John asks incredulously.
Sherlock scoffs. “Lonely implies I merely desire human company. Were that the case, I would simply go to the station, or the morgue, or visit Mycroft.”
“You miss me!” John crows victoriously.
“I believe I’ve already said that,” Sherlock says defensively.
John sobers. “It’s alright, Sherlock. I’m not making fun of you. I’m just... pleased.”
“Because you’ve proved I’m human after all?”
“I’m not trying to win against you, either. It’s just nice when your closest friend wants you around occasionally,” John says casually.
“I do not want you around occasionally. I desire your company constantly,” Sherlock points out, choosing not to comment on the ‘closest friend’ part, uncomfortably aware that the warm feeling in his stomach has nothing to do with his tea. “That’s the problem. I miss you, so I try to make you stay in more. My attempts anger you, and even when you are at the flat you ignore me.”
John sighs. “Sherlock...” he begins. “There are such things as boundaries. Everyone wants to be alone sometimes. When you’re caught up in a puzzle, you don’t know if I’m even here or not! It’s only natural that I would want to spend time by myself occasionally. It does not mean that I don’t like you, or that I’ve suddenly started agreeing with the rest of the world-”
“You said you agreed with Donovan earlier,” Sherlock interjects.
“I was angry,” John counters. “Emotions are rarely logical, Sherlock.”
“Bloody useless things,” he moans.
John, to Sherlock’s surprise and pleasure, laughs. “Well, they’re unavoidable. Even for the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“Very well,” Sherlock sighs, and the two friends finish their breakfast in silence. When they’re done, John will shower, since he’s up already, and then join Sherlock in the living room to watch TV until time to leave for the clinic. Sherlock will try to do the breakfast dishes, for once, and when John leaves, he’ll run to the store for milk. They’re running low, and it’ll make John happy. It’s an experiment in emotions, nothing more.