Sherlock Fanfic: Becalmed (JWP 2014 #4)
Title: Becalmed
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Posting: At AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, writer's block
Warnings: none
Word Count: 342
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #4: Poem Prompt
Words! book-words! what are you?
Words no more, for hearken and see,
My song is there in the open air-and I must sing,
With the banner and pennant a-flapping.
Summary: Sherlock's not the only one who goes a bit odd when there isn't a case.
Becalmed
Rain poured down outside the windows, rippling the daylight. John's shoulders were cramping. He stared down at the laptop screen. Still blank. Dispiritedly, he typed, Week three. Still no cases. Sherlock's Epic Mould Experiment continues to be as fascinating as mould growing ever is. I'm about set to chew my own leg off for something to do. Sherlock would likely approve. Then he deleted it as it was almost identical to what he'd posted last week. The pun-chain in the comments on the topic of mould and rot that had sprung up in that post had been painful and occasionally funny, but not likely to happen again.
"Mould still growing?" John called to Sherlock who had had his face stuck to his microscope three-quarters of his waking time for the past week.
Sherlock hissed and held up a hand, palm out, not detaching himself from the microscope.
Right; "Critical stage, John. No talking." Critical as mould can get.
John sighed and deleted what he'd typed, starting again. Sherlock has taken a vow of silence over mould. Delete, delete, delete. Sherlock has been struck mute by mould. John frowned and shook his head, deleted, resumed staring at the blank screen, knee twitching.
Nothing to write about, no cases, not even any shifts at the clinic. Sherlock's experiment wasn't even the usual sort that threatened fire, flood, or fumigation. John could feel a grim malaise creeping over him, like he had back in the wretched bed-sit he'd been living in before he met Sherlock. Nothing happens to me.
With a disgusted noise John slammed the laptop closed and pushed away from the table in the sitting room.
"Noise! Shh!"
"I'm going out."
Sherlock's head popped up from the microscope. "What? Why, where?"
"Don't know, don't care. Just out." He shrugged out of his cardigan and grabbed his wallet. "Maybe I'll go hunting for muggers in the park."
Sherlock blinked, tilted his head, said "Ah" in a meaningful way and went back to staring at his mould.
Rolling his eyes at whatever meaning Sherlock was ascribing to that fraught, 'Ah', John clattered down the stairs, grabbing his coat on the way past as he fled outside.
-.-.-
(that's it)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Alternate Posting: At AO3
Rating/Content: PG13, writer's block
Warnings: none
Word Count: 342
Disclaimer: Not my world.
Notes: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #4: Poem Prompt
Words! book-words! what are you?
Words no more, for hearken and see,
My song is there in the open air-and I must sing,
With the banner and pennant a-flapping.
Summary: Sherlock's not the only one who goes a bit odd when there isn't a case.
Becalmed
Rain poured down outside the windows, rippling the daylight. John's shoulders were cramping. He stared down at the laptop screen. Still blank. Dispiritedly, he typed, Week three. Still no cases. Sherlock's Epic Mould Experiment continues to be as fascinating as mould growing ever is. I'm about set to chew my own leg off for something to do. Sherlock would likely approve. Then he deleted it as it was almost identical to what he'd posted last week. The pun-chain in the comments on the topic of mould and rot that had sprung up in that post had been painful and occasionally funny, but not likely to happen again.
"Mould still growing?" John called to Sherlock who had had his face stuck to his microscope three-quarters of his waking time for the past week.
Sherlock hissed and held up a hand, palm out, not detaching himself from the microscope.
Right; "Critical stage, John. No talking." Critical as mould can get.
John sighed and deleted what he'd typed, starting again. Sherlock has taken a vow of silence over mould. Delete, delete, delete. Sherlock has been struck mute by mould. John frowned and shook his head, deleted, resumed staring at the blank screen, knee twitching.
Nothing to write about, no cases, not even any shifts at the clinic. Sherlock's experiment wasn't even the usual sort that threatened fire, flood, or fumigation. John could feel a grim malaise creeping over him, like he had back in the wretched bed-sit he'd been living in before he met Sherlock. Nothing happens to me.
With a disgusted noise John slammed the laptop closed and pushed away from the table in the sitting room.
"Noise! Shh!"
"I'm going out."
Sherlock's head popped up from the microscope. "What? Why, where?"
"Don't know, don't care. Just out." He shrugged out of his cardigan and grabbed his wallet. "Maybe I'll go hunting for muggers in the park."
Sherlock blinked, tilted his head, said "Ah" in a meaningful way and went back to staring at his mould.
Rolling his eyes at whatever meaning Sherlock was ascribing to that fraught, 'Ah', John clattered down the stairs, grabbing his coat on the way past as he fled outside.
-.-.-
(that's it)