Sherlock Fanfic: The Devil's Pet Bait (JWP 2014 #2)
Title: The Devil's Pet Bait
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Posting: At AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, barnyard shenanigans, ACD canon references including title
Warnings: Mention of animal death/surgery
Word Count: 780
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #2: Expand on one of the non-human creatures appearing in or mentioned in the stories . This one is faring a lot better than it did in the original story.
Summary: Seems an awful lot of trouble to go to for a pretty rock.
The Devil's Pet Bait
"What I'd like to know," panted John, "is firstly who steals a bloody huge impossible-to-steal sapphire but then gets cornered in a farmyard and goes 'hey! I'll stick this down a live goose. It'll be safe there.' And secondly, how??"
No one was near enough to hear him as he jogged back down to the bottom of the field to take his position. Sherlock was in hot pursuit of the goose, leaping through the farm's vegetable garden like a demented, black-cloaked gazelle. The farmer and his daughter chased along the sides, shaking sheets and tarpaulins and bellowing to keep the goose on course towards John.
The farmer's elderly toy Pekingese dog had even joined the fray, seeming intent on perhaps reliving some puppyhood dream of being a sheepdog. Currently it was keeping the rest of the flock bemused with its yapping and jumping, although even the smallest bird in the bunch outweighed it three times over.
John had no idea why Sherlock was certain the bird he'd singled out was the one goose out of the flock of dozens that had been fed a 14-carat gemstone lunch the day before. However, he was sure he'd be getting an explanation later of how Sherlock had brilliantly worked it out whether he wanted one or not.
"It's coming your way, John!" Sherlock shouted, jumping a final row of cabbage. Before him raced the goose, wings spread, neck outstretched like an ungainly aeroplane attempting take-off.
John half-crouched to stabilise his footing on the slippery ground near the cow byre. He held his own tarpaulin spread wide and still, prepared to catch the oncoming goose. Just like rugby, but with feathers.
From the direction of the rest of the peke-harrassed flock came a sudden raucous squawking and hissing. John looked up in time to see the entire gaggle of geese stampeding towards him in full cry, pursued by the Peke.
"Jesus!" He leapt at the gem-swallowing goose, grabbing it and bundling it into the tarpaulin before landing face-first in the muck and covering his head with his free arm.
The sensation of dozens upon dozens of strong flippery feet flapping and slapping past and over him was odd indeed. The occasional bite from the aggravated geese flowing past and over him was less odd and much more painful. Despite the muck he was glad he was face-down, hiding his softer bits from the depredation of geese. He clung to his bundle of tarpaulin-wrapped goose and waited out the avian tsunami with a tight-lipped grimace, face turned to the side to breathe. In time the feathery flood slowed and the peke scampered past, providing an all clear.
John rolled over and sat up, still clutching the struggling tarpaulin full of goose. He was coated in entirely and regrettably namable filth. The sting and ache of several goose bites began throbbing.
Sherlock jogged up, stopping short of the muck. Except for a bit of garden dirt on his shoes he was frustratingly immaculate.
"John?"
John shoved the hissing, thrashing tarpaulin toward his flatmate. "Here's your bloody goose. It better be the right one because I am not doing that again for less than a twenty-carat ruby."
Sherlock smirked. "Oh, it's the right one, I-"
"No." John levered himself up out of the muck with a noisome sssplurk. "No. Geniusing later. Showering now." He headed in the direction of the farmhouse, shaking off clumps of brown grue.
"Yes of course, you'll need to scrub up before you can do the surgery."
John stopped and turned slowly back towards Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Before I can do what?"
"Surgery. These geese are prize egg-layers or something." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I had to promise the farmer the goose would not be killed to retrieve the item."
"So how do you suggest we get it out then?" asked John, dreading he already knew the answer.
"The sapphire, being in essence a stone, will be caught in its crop." Sherlock gestured at his throat. "We need to get the gem out of the goose so you'll need to-"
"Sherlock, I'm not James Herriot!"
Sherlock's face scrunched up. "Who?"
John sighed and tried scooping the worst of the muck off his face. "I'm not a veterinarian. I don't know goose anatomy and I'd probably kill the bloody thing!"
"Shhh! The farmer will hear you."
"Good. Bring in a real vet, and get a real vet to do the surgery."
Sherlock waved a hand. "The farmer says he's done impacted crop surgery himself before on his geese, it can't be that difficult for an actual surgeon to puzzle out. And the fewer people who know the gem currently on display isn't the true gem, the better."
John opened his mouth, dripped for a second, then shook his head and headed to the farmhouse. "Fine. But you're in charge of the anesthesia."
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Posting: At AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, barnyard shenanigans, ACD canon references including title
Warnings: Mention of animal death/surgery
Word Count: 780
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #2: Expand on one of the non-human creatures appearing in or mentioned in the stories . This one is faring a lot better than it did in the original story.
Summary: Seems an awful lot of trouble to go to for a pretty rock.
The Devil's Pet Bait
"What I'd like to know," panted John, "is firstly who steals a bloody huge impossible-to-steal sapphire but then gets cornered in a farmyard and goes 'hey! I'll stick this down a live goose. It'll be safe there.' And secondly, how??"
No one was near enough to hear him as he jogged back down to the bottom of the field to take his position. Sherlock was in hot pursuit of the goose, leaping through the farm's vegetable garden like a demented, black-cloaked gazelle. The farmer and his daughter chased along the sides, shaking sheets and tarpaulins and bellowing to keep the goose on course towards John.
The farmer's elderly toy Pekingese dog had even joined the fray, seeming intent on perhaps reliving some puppyhood dream of being a sheepdog. Currently it was keeping the rest of the flock bemused with its yapping and jumping, although even the smallest bird in the bunch outweighed it three times over.
John had no idea why Sherlock was certain the bird he'd singled out was the one goose out of the flock of dozens that had been fed a 14-carat gemstone lunch the day before. However, he was sure he'd be getting an explanation later of how Sherlock had brilliantly worked it out whether he wanted one or not.
"It's coming your way, John!" Sherlock shouted, jumping a final row of cabbage. Before him raced the goose, wings spread, neck outstretched like an ungainly aeroplane attempting take-off.
John half-crouched to stabilise his footing on the slippery ground near the cow byre. He held his own tarpaulin spread wide and still, prepared to catch the oncoming goose. Just like rugby, but with feathers.
From the direction of the rest of the peke-harrassed flock came a sudden raucous squawking and hissing. John looked up in time to see the entire gaggle of geese stampeding towards him in full cry, pursued by the Peke.
"Jesus!" He leapt at the gem-swallowing goose, grabbing it and bundling it into the tarpaulin before landing face-first in the muck and covering his head with his free arm.
The sensation of dozens upon dozens of strong flippery feet flapping and slapping past and over him was odd indeed. The occasional bite from the aggravated geese flowing past and over him was less odd and much more painful. Despite the muck he was glad he was face-down, hiding his softer bits from the depredation of geese. He clung to his bundle of tarpaulin-wrapped goose and waited out the avian tsunami with a tight-lipped grimace, face turned to the side to breathe. In time the feathery flood slowed and the peke scampered past, providing an all clear.
John rolled over and sat up, still clutching the struggling tarpaulin full of goose. He was coated in entirely and regrettably namable filth. The sting and ache of several goose bites began throbbing.
Sherlock jogged up, stopping short of the muck. Except for a bit of garden dirt on his shoes he was frustratingly immaculate.
"John?"
John shoved the hissing, thrashing tarpaulin toward his flatmate. "Here's your bloody goose. It better be the right one because I am not doing that again for less than a twenty-carat ruby."
Sherlock smirked. "Oh, it's the right one, I-"
"No." John levered himself up out of the muck with a noisome sssplurk. "No. Geniusing later. Showering now." He headed in the direction of the farmhouse, shaking off clumps of brown grue.
"Yes of course, you'll need to scrub up before you can do the surgery."
John stopped and turned slowly back towards Sherlock. "I'm sorry. Before I can do what?"
"Surgery. These geese are prize egg-layers or something." Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I had to promise the farmer the goose would not be killed to retrieve the item."
"So how do you suggest we get it out then?" asked John, dreading he already knew the answer.
"The sapphire, being in essence a stone, will be caught in its crop." Sherlock gestured at his throat. "We need to get the gem out of the goose so you'll need to-"
"Sherlock, I'm not James Herriot!"
Sherlock's face scrunched up. "Who?"
John sighed and tried scooping the worst of the muck off his face. "I'm not a veterinarian. I don't know goose anatomy and I'd probably kill the bloody thing!"
"Shhh! The farmer will hear you."
"Good. Bring in a real vet, and get a real vet to do the surgery."
Sherlock waved a hand. "The farmer says he's done impacted crop surgery himself before on his geese, it can't be that difficult for an actual surgeon to puzzle out. And the fewer people who know the gem currently on display isn't the true gem, the better."
John opened his mouth, dripped for a second, then shook his head and headed to the farmhouse. "Fine. But you're in charge of the anesthesia."
-.-.-
(that's it)