Fiction: Kryptonite
Title: Kryptonite
Writer: fanbot
Words: 1,545
Warnings: none, no spoilers
Rating: G
John and Sherlock friendship. Written for fun, not for profit. Proofed, but not betaed.
John reveals some hidden talents.
“At last we have found your Kryptonite,” John said.
“I was unaware I had lost anything,” Sherlock sniffled.
“Your one weakness. Who would have thought that the Superman of consulting detectives was allergic to lilacs?”
“Oh. Children’s cartoon. Dull. It’s only when there are great endless fields of them it bothers me.” Sherlock was sprawled dramatically across the sofa with his head tilted back. “I just wish I could end the dripping so I can think.” He pounded the cushion beside him.
“It doesn’t help that you ran full out the whole length of the field. And back.”
“Hum.”
“Let’s see, we have both completely changed clothes and showered. The offending clothes are downstairs to be washed. I have given you an antihistamine which is apparently not working.”
“Thank you, doctor. Unless you can be of help, just let me be.”
“Right then.” John jumped up. “Last resort measures. Get up.”
Sherlock opened one eye. “I just found the right angle to...”
“Doctor’s orders. Up.”
Sherlock dragged himself vertical and watched John grab the box of tissues and sit cross legged on the end of the couch. He put the flag pillow on his lap. “Lie down with your head here.”
Sherlock looked at him levelly and sniffled. “Is this a ploy to get me to sleep? I need to figure out why the librarian burned his brother’s stamp collection.”
“Sherlock, I’m a doctor and I am going to break up the congestion. Now lie down.”
With a sigh, Sherlock stretched out. “Very well, I put myself in your capable hands.”
“Relax.” John rubbed his hands together briskly to warm them up before placing them on Sherlock’s face. He found the ridges above Sherlock’s eyes and followed them with his thumbs. “Tell me if I press too hard.” He moved on to follow the sharp cheek bones, trailing down to under his ears.
Systematically, John traced the sinus passages which were plaguing the great brain. “Why does it matter why he burned the stamps? He’s under arrest for murder.”
“It matters, John. There’s something he’s not telling us.” Sherlock sniffled.
“Is that helping?”
“Yes. You can quit now.”
“If I do not finish, it will only return. Right, sit up and blow your nose, then lie down again.”
Sherlock sighed but did as asked. John turned so his feet were on the floor, did away with the pillow and coaxed Sherlock to lay down with his head on his leg. “Breathe slowly through your mouth.”
“I’m not going to sleep, John.”
“No, I’m making the rest of the pollen generated congestion drain. I’m certain you can be still and think for ten more minutes.”
“Humm,” Sherlock commented, but cooperated.
John continued to systematically run his fingers over his flatmate’s face and watched as he relaxed. It was only eight minutes before Sherlock was sound asleep.
It was five more minutes before John was bored. The remote was on the other end of the coffee table. His laptop was across the room. The only book within reach was a copy of British Birds dating from the 1880’s which Sherlock had plucked off the shelf for some reason. Interesting, but he’d spent an hour looking through it just the day before. His phone was in his pocket, but getting it out would wake Sherlock.
The only other things in reach were Sherlock himself and a box of tissues.
After an hour John nodded off.
“The envelopes!” Sherlock cried and suddenly sat up. John started awake. “He wasn’t destroying the stamps, but the envelopes! How could I be so blind?”
John smiled even as he answered. “But they were empty and had no return addresses.”
“Postmarks, John, postmarks!” Sherlock pulled out his phone and rapidly tapped out a text. “Lestrade should have all the evidence on hand.”
“I don’t see why they are important.”
“Postmarks contain dates, places, and times. The key to the smuggler’s system must be in the postmarks.” He stopped his excited pacing and frowned at he grin John was trying to hide. “You made me fall asleep after I told you not to.”
“That was not my intention, but it was a welcome side effect. Is your head clear now?”
Sherlock gave an experimental sniff. “Yes, completely.” His eyes darted around the room. “No. I see now. To make me fall asleep was not your original your intention. Had it been, you would have moved your laptop within reach or at least the book you are reading. You satisfied your curiosity of British Birds yesterday so that would not occupy you. You had not been asleep longer than a few minutes when I woke up. So what kept you still and busy and why are you grinning like an idiot?”
John tried to look innocent but failed utterly. His laughter bubbled over when Sherlock whirled to the mirror and his hands flew to his head.
As he slept, John had neatly braided Sherlock’s thick hair into many little braids and tied the ends off with twists of tissue.
“John Watson! How dare you?” He started practically tearing at the braids as John fell over on the couch, gasping with laughter.
Sherlock pounced on the laughing man and wrestled his phone out of his pocket. “I didn’t take pictures,” John sputtered.
Sherlock went through his phone anyway.
John pulled himself together. “Come here, Sherlock. I’ll undo it. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Sherlock frowned but sat down on the chair facing him. “Your sister?” he asked after a few minutes.
“What? How I know how to braid? No. I had a flatmate at uni who played a Viking for the tourists on weekends. He was a great big fellow with long red hair. He made good money letting people take their picture with him at one of those tourist traps on the coast. He paid me to help braid. Forgive me?”
Sherlock studied his companion’s smile that would not completely leave his lips. “I suppose. But you did not wake me up.”
“A short nap cleared your head and gave you the answer after all. That can’t be too bad. Be still, I am almost done.”
“How can I trust you after this?”
John blinked and met Sherlock’s pale eyes. “I… It was a joke Sherlock. Friends play jokes on one another all the time.”
“Do they? Childish,” Sherlock said coldly.
John swallowed. “Come on. I… I was bored.”
Sherlock’s eyes thawed and a smile quirked at his lips. “I trust you with my life, John. I will forgive you some small trespasses.”
“Oh, Oh good.” He unwound a last braid and Sherlock stood up.
“That does not mean I will not retaliate at some point in the future.”
John felt a flush of fear when he thought just what Sherlock might come up with, and how he would react when it dawned on him that John took pictures with his own phone and had e-mailed them to Mycroft.
Writer: fanbot
Words: 1,545
Warnings: none, no spoilers
Rating: G
John and Sherlock friendship. Written for fun, not for profit. Proofed, but not betaed.
John reveals some hidden talents.
“At last we have found your Kryptonite,” John said.
“I was unaware I had lost anything,” Sherlock sniffled.
“Your one weakness. Who would have thought that the Superman of consulting detectives was allergic to lilacs?”
“Oh. Children’s cartoon. Dull. It’s only when there are great endless fields of them it bothers me.” Sherlock was sprawled dramatically across the sofa with his head tilted back. “I just wish I could end the dripping so I can think.” He pounded the cushion beside him.
“It doesn’t help that you ran full out the whole length of the field. And back.”
“Hum.”
“Let’s see, we have both completely changed clothes and showered. The offending clothes are downstairs to be washed. I have given you an antihistamine which is apparently not working.”
“Thank you, doctor. Unless you can be of help, just let me be.”
“Right then.” John jumped up. “Last resort measures. Get up.”
Sherlock opened one eye. “I just found the right angle to...”
“Doctor’s orders. Up.”
Sherlock dragged himself vertical and watched John grab the box of tissues and sit cross legged on the end of the couch. He put the flag pillow on his lap. “Lie down with your head here.”
Sherlock looked at him levelly and sniffled. “Is this a ploy to get me to sleep? I need to figure out why the librarian burned his brother’s stamp collection.”
“Sherlock, I’m a doctor and I am going to break up the congestion. Now lie down.”
With a sigh, Sherlock stretched out. “Very well, I put myself in your capable hands.”
“Relax.” John rubbed his hands together briskly to warm them up before placing them on Sherlock’s face. He found the ridges above Sherlock’s eyes and followed them with his thumbs. “Tell me if I press too hard.” He moved on to follow the sharp cheek bones, trailing down to under his ears.
Systematically, John traced the sinus passages which were plaguing the great brain. “Why does it matter why he burned the stamps? He’s under arrest for murder.”
“It matters, John. There’s something he’s not telling us.” Sherlock sniffled.
“Is that helping?”
“Yes. You can quit now.”
“If I do not finish, it will only return. Right, sit up and blow your nose, then lie down again.”
Sherlock sighed but did as asked. John turned so his feet were on the floor, did away with the pillow and coaxed Sherlock to lay down with his head on his leg. “Breathe slowly through your mouth.”
“I’m not going to sleep, John.”
“No, I’m making the rest of the pollen generated congestion drain. I’m certain you can be still and think for ten more minutes.”
“Humm,” Sherlock commented, but cooperated.
John continued to systematically run his fingers over his flatmate’s face and watched as he relaxed. It was only eight minutes before Sherlock was sound asleep.
It was five more minutes before John was bored. The remote was on the other end of the coffee table. His laptop was across the room. The only book within reach was a copy of British Birds dating from the 1880’s which Sherlock had plucked off the shelf for some reason. Interesting, but he’d spent an hour looking through it just the day before. His phone was in his pocket, but getting it out would wake Sherlock.
The only other things in reach were Sherlock himself and a box of tissues.
After an hour John nodded off.
“The envelopes!” Sherlock cried and suddenly sat up. John started awake. “He wasn’t destroying the stamps, but the envelopes! How could I be so blind?”
John smiled even as he answered. “But they were empty and had no return addresses.”
“Postmarks, John, postmarks!” Sherlock pulled out his phone and rapidly tapped out a text. “Lestrade should have all the evidence on hand.”
“I don’t see why they are important.”
“Postmarks contain dates, places, and times. The key to the smuggler’s system must be in the postmarks.” He stopped his excited pacing and frowned at he grin John was trying to hide. “You made me fall asleep after I told you not to.”
“That was not my intention, but it was a welcome side effect. Is your head clear now?”
Sherlock gave an experimental sniff. “Yes, completely.” His eyes darted around the room. “No. I see now. To make me fall asleep was not your original your intention. Had it been, you would have moved your laptop within reach or at least the book you are reading. You satisfied your curiosity of British Birds yesterday so that would not occupy you. You had not been asleep longer than a few minutes when I woke up. So what kept you still and busy and why are you grinning like an idiot?”
John tried to look innocent but failed utterly. His laughter bubbled over when Sherlock whirled to the mirror and his hands flew to his head.
As he slept, John had neatly braided Sherlock’s thick hair into many little braids and tied the ends off with twists of tissue.
“John Watson! How dare you?” He started practically tearing at the braids as John fell over on the couch, gasping with laughter.
Sherlock pounced on the laughing man and wrestled his phone out of his pocket. “I didn’t take pictures,” John sputtered.
Sherlock went through his phone anyway.
John pulled himself together. “Come here, Sherlock. I’ll undo it. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Sherlock frowned but sat down on the chair facing him. “Your sister?” he asked after a few minutes.
“What? How I know how to braid? No. I had a flatmate at uni who played a Viking for the tourists on weekends. He was a great big fellow with long red hair. He made good money letting people take their picture with him at one of those tourist traps on the coast. He paid me to help braid. Forgive me?”
Sherlock studied his companion’s smile that would not completely leave his lips. “I suppose. But you did not wake me up.”
“A short nap cleared your head and gave you the answer after all. That can’t be too bad. Be still, I am almost done.”
“How can I trust you after this?”
John blinked and met Sherlock’s pale eyes. “I… It was a joke Sherlock. Friends play jokes on one another all the time.”
“Do they? Childish,” Sherlock said coldly.
John swallowed. “Come on. I… I was bored.”
Sherlock’s eyes thawed and a smile quirked at his lips. “I trust you with my life, John. I will forgive you some small trespasses.”
“Oh, Oh good.” He unwound a last braid and Sherlock stood up.
“That does not mean I will not retaliate at some point in the future.”
John felt a flush of fear when he thought just what Sherlock might come up with, and how he would react when it dawned on him that John took pictures with his own phone and had e-mailed them to Mycroft.