Bathos (John/Sherlock, PG)
Title: Bathos
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1,800 (again. huh.)
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Moriarty
Warnings: Spoilers for The Great Game
Summary: He'd been ready to try being the white knight for once, but instead his damsel had been handed to him on a platter and the dragon was dead.
Notes: BBC 'verse. Because there aren't enough episode tags yet, and I wanted to write something without explosions. Written during office hours and typed down while longing for sleep, so concrit is more than welcome. Some dialogue snippets were taken directly from the series, but they're pretty easy to spot (she says, and wobbles off to bed).
~~~
Bathos
"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"Probably my answer has crossed yours."
~~~
Moriarty kept grinning at Sherlock, seemingly unconcerned by the gun pointed at the explosives lying at his feet.
"Luckily for us," he said cheerfully, "we have a third party present."
Sherlock kept his aim steady. "This has nothing to do with him."
"On the contrary." Moriarty spread his arms wide in a what-can-you-do gesture. "It has everything to do with him. Wouldn't you agree, Dr. Watson?"
"What?" John asked. He was holding himself admirably, but even without looking at him, Sherlock could detect the strain in his voice. No doubt Moriarty could as well.
"You will come with me, Doctor," Moriarty said, his gaze still on Sherlock, "and our good Sherlock here will keep his nose out of my business, take up a new hobby. I hear stargazing is nice." His smile grew even wider, and now he looked at John. "Or I will burn you alive." He tilted his head. "Do we have a deal?"
"No," Sherlock said. His palm was starting to sweat around the gun.
Moriarty laughed. "Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock." He waggled his finger. "Not your decision to make."
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that you'll let him go if I agree?" John demanded.
"I give you my word," Moriarty said solemnly, at the same moment Sherlock said, "Of course he won't."
"Alright," John said.
Sherlock nearly pulled the trigger right then and there. "What?!"
"He's got half a dozen snipers aiming at us, and you want to blow us all up." John sounded tired. "Getting kidnapped again doesn't sound so bad right now."
"John -"
"He's right, you know." John took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. "It's not your decision to make."
"And what if I don't agree to 'keep my nose out of his business'?" Sherlock snapped. His mind was racing, flicking from possibility to possibility. There had to be a way to solve this, he couldn't lose to Moriarty. The mere idea was revolting.
"Then I guess you'll have to bury me," John said sharply. Sherlock's hand tightened on the gun. That was not an option he was prepared to include in his calculations. John walked past him, and Sherlock wanted nothing so much as to pull him back and fold him up and keep him somewhere safe.
Damn John for making him care.
"I'm so glad you could join me, Doctor." Moriarty was beaming at them now; Sherlock really wanted to place a bullet between his eyes. "Shall we be off, then?"
"Glad to," John said dryly. He kept his gaze on the floor, as if looking back at Sherlock would be a hardship. Sherlock wondered if he'd disappointed John again. I said I wasn't a hero, he thought, angry without knowing whom his anger was aimed at. Moriarty. John. Himself.
He didn't say anything as Moriarty gave a cheeky little wave and left again, as John shuffled after him with a sigh. He said nothing as, one by one, the red dots on him disappeared and he let the gun drop to his side, alone and helpless and silent.
~~~
"You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"
~~~
His brother's office was exactly as bland as the last time he'd been there, minus the bowl of chocolates. Politics were so incredibly dull.
"Ah, Sherlock." Mycroft folded his hands on his desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Spare me," Sherlock said, pacing on the plain carpet, "I know you've got me under surveillance."
"Indeed." Mycroft gave him a wry smile. "Tell me, did you get my plans out of that pool before you came here?"
"There wasn't any time for that. I need to know -"
"I needed to know those plans were safe, Sherlock. Instead, you destroyed them. And now you want me to tell you where your new arch-enemy took your Dr. Watson." Mycroft leaned back and smiled coolly. "Tell me, Sherlock. How long do you think I should make you beg?"
Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at him. "John doesn't have time for your games, Mycroft."
"No," Mycroft agreed, "it seems reasonable to assume that by now he is either dead or engaged in the first stages of brainwashing. You, on the other hand, have all the time in the world, now that this consulting detective business of yours is done."
Sherlock froze. The facts were easily examined: Mycroft had always wanted Sherlock to join him in politics. He didn't care any more about people's lives than Sherlock did, had no interest in crime on an interpersonal level, and was perfectly capable of manipulating others to get what he wanted. He was a politician, after all.
How has Moriarty known about Sherlock?
"You didn't," he said, but it was more an irrational plea for reassurance than a statement. No matter what had happened between them, Mycroft was still his brother, and during the past hour, Sherlock had been forced to acknowledge that yes, he did have a heart. It didn't appear to be entirely without damage.
"I didn't," Mycroft said with a slight smirk. "Mummy would have my head if I took away your only friend."
"You are aware that I still have John's gun?" Sherlock asked mildly. There was no telling what John was going through right now; if anyone ever deserved the moniker of psychopath, it was Moriarty. If Mycroft kept this up much longer…
"My dear brother," Mycroft said, and if ever a cat had gotten both the canary and the cream, its expression couldn't have been much different. "The next time I ask you for a favour, you will do it without your childish antics. In return, I will not make you beg."
Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Fine."
"Very well." Mycroft's cell phone gave a bland little ping. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it. "As of this moment, your Dr. Watson is on his way to Baker Street. I'm afraid Mr. Moriarty died in a tragic car accident. Dreadful, you'll agree."
Sherlock found it curiously hard to breathe. "You…"
"I keep telling you, I am concerned about you. When will you finally believe me?"
"When you stop pushing me into politics," Sherlock said absently. John was safe.
John was safe?
"Well, that was anti-climactic," he muttered, feeling oddly cheated. He'd been ready to try being the white knight for once, but instead his damsel had been handed to him on a platter and the dragon was dead.
Mycroft coughed. "I am sure you'll find an outlet for the adrenaline once you get home."
Sherlock threw him a glance. Mycroft looked inordinately pleased with himself; Sherlock would never hear the end of it. He strode to the door, ready to leave the smug git behind, but stopped with his hand on the handle.
"That was, uh…"
"Oh, for god's sake, just go before you strain something," Mycroft said, waving him off.
Sherlock flashed him a brief smile and rushed out the door.
Time to go home.
~~~
That, uh… thing… that you, uh… that you did, that you… that you offered to do, that was, ah… good."
~~~
When Sherlock burst into their flat, John was sitting on the sofa, hands folded in his lap. He looked up as the door banged against the wall, and both of them asked, at the same time, "Are you alright?"
Sherlock glowered. "That was a singularly idiotic thing to do." His heart had skipped a beat at the sight of John, apparently unharmed. So perhaps his blogger could also be classified as his friend, but that didn't mean that his knees had to go wobbly with relief. This overabundance of emotion was becoming rather irksome.
John nodded. "He said that, too."
He. Moriarty. Who was dead. Like John could have been.
"What were you thinking?" Sherlock exploded. "Does your tiny brain even realise what could have happened to you?"
"My tiny brain was preoccupied with what was about to happen to you," John shot back, getting to his feet.
"I was fine!"
"You had several snipers aiming at you and were about to blow us all up!" John yelled, angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him. Sherlock's heart was drumming against his ribcage, trapped, the last remnants of fear burning through him like white fire.
"You could have been -"
"You could have been -"
And then, somehow, they were kissing, their teeth clacking together and John's fingers clutching a fistful of Sherlock's hair in a way that was just short of painful. If he kisses Sarah like that, no wonder he has to sleep on the sofa, Sherlock thought, before he got distracted by the way John's body was pressed up against his own, warm and firm and almost too familiar to feel entirely comfortable. Sherlock's hands had somehow found their way up to grasp John's face between them, tilting it up, and god, the taste.
"This is another bad idea, isn't it?" John panted when they pulled apart for air.
"Doubtless." Sherlock's hands had left John's face - marvellous, he wasn't even telling them to move - in favour of finding out if John's arse was as firm as it always looked like in those jeans. It was. Excellent. "Want to make it a worse one?"
"Yes," John said, and pushed Sherlock onto the sofa.
I didn't know he could do that, Sherlock thought, and then John did something else Sherlock hadn't known he could do, and Sherlock lost track entirely.
~~~
"I'm not his date."
~~~
It had been an awful idea. A very good, very awful idea, and now Sherlock couldn't keep his fingers from drumming on the sheets because he didn't have all the peripheral data, and he hated not knowing what came next. John was easy enough to calculate, but Sarah was an unknown variable, and Sherlock found himself unable to predict which one of them John would pick. If Sherlock offered him something steady, that was.
Was Sherlock offering something steady?
"You're going to give yourself a headache," John murmured sleepily. They had moved on to John's bed by now, but while the wider space had led to another interesting set of awful ideas, the location wasn't any help in finding the final answer to Sherlock's problem.
"I have a doctor right here," Sherlock said absently.
John stayed quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, "You do, actually."
Sherlock waved his hand. "Yes, I know, that's what I just… oh." No more Sarah, then. Well. "Good. That's… that's good."
John coughed, obviously embarrassed. "Good."
"Good," Sherlock repeated, and smiled.
~~~
"I will burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
~~~
End.
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1,800 (again. huh.)
Pairings/Characters: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Moriarty
Warnings: Spoilers for The Great Game
Summary: He'd been ready to try being the white knight for once, but instead his damsel had been handed to him on a platter and the dragon was dead.
Notes: BBC 'verse. Because there aren't enough episode tags yet, and I wanted to write something without explosions. Written during office hours and typed down while longing for sleep, so concrit is more than welcome. Some dialogue snippets were taken directly from the series, but they're pretty easy to spot (she says, and wobbles off to bed).
~~~
Bathos
"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."
"Probably my answer has crossed yours."
~~~
Moriarty kept grinning at Sherlock, seemingly unconcerned by the gun pointed at the explosives lying at his feet.
"Luckily for us," he said cheerfully, "we have a third party present."
Sherlock kept his aim steady. "This has nothing to do with him."
"On the contrary." Moriarty spread his arms wide in a what-can-you-do gesture. "It has everything to do with him. Wouldn't you agree, Dr. Watson?"
"What?" John asked. He was holding himself admirably, but even without looking at him, Sherlock could detect the strain in his voice. No doubt Moriarty could as well.
"You will come with me, Doctor," Moriarty said, his gaze still on Sherlock, "and our good Sherlock here will keep his nose out of my business, take up a new hobby. I hear stargazing is nice." His smile grew even wider, and now he looked at John. "Or I will burn you alive." He tilted his head. "Do we have a deal?"
"No," Sherlock said. His palm was starting to sweat around the gun.
Moriarty laughed. "Ah, ah, ah, Sherlock." He waggled his finger. "Not your decision to make."
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that you'll let him go if I agree?" John demanded.
"I give you my word," Moriarty said solemnly, at the same moment Sherlock said, "Of course he won't."
"Alright," John said.
Sherlock nearly pulled the trigger right then and there. "What?!"
"He's got half a dozen snipers aiming at us, and you want to blow us all up." John sounded tired. "Getting kidnapped again doesn't sound so bad right now."
"John -"
"He's right, you know." John took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. "It's not your decision to make."
"And what if I don't agree to 'keep my nose out of his business'?" Sherlock snapped. His mind was racing, flicking from possibility to possibility. There had to be a way to solve this, he couldn't lose to Moriarty. The mere idea was revolting.
"Then I guess you'll have to bury me," John said sharply. Sherlock's hand tightened on the gun. That was not an option he was prepared to include in his calculations. John walked past him, and Sherlock wanted nothing so much as to pull him back and fold him up and keep him somewhere safe.
Damn John for making him care.
"I'm so glad you could join me, Doctor." Moriarty was beaming at them now; Sherlock really wanted to place a bullet between his eyes. "Shall we be off, then?"
"Glad to," John said dryly. He kept his gaze on the floor, as if looking back at Sherlock would be a hardship. Sherlock wondered if he'd disappointed John again. I said I wasn't a hero, he thought, angry without knowing whom his anger was aimed at. Moriarty. John. Himself.
He didn't say anything as Moriarty gave a cheeky little wave and left again, as John shuffled after him with a sigh. He said nothing as, one by one, the red dots on him disappeared and he let the gun drop to his side, alone and helpless and silent.
~~~
"You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?"
~~~
His brother's office was exactly as bland as the last time he'd been there, minus the bowl of chocolates. Politics were so incredibly dull.
"Ah, Sherlock." Mycroft folded his hands on his desk. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Spare me," Sherlock said, pacing on the plain carpet, "I know you've got me under surveillance."
"Indeed." Mycroft gave him a wry smile. "Tell me, did you get my plans out of that pool before you came here?"
"There wasn't any time for that. I need to know -"
"I needed to know those plans were safe, Sherlock. Instead, you destroyed them. And now you want me to tell you where your new arch-enemy took your Dr. Watson." Mycroft leaned back and smiled coolly. "Tell me, Sherlock. How long do you think I should make you beg?"
Sherlock stopped pacing and glared at him. "John doesn't have time for your games, Mycroft."
"No," Mycroft agreed, "it seems reasonable to assume that by now he is either dead or engaged in the first stages of brainwashing. You, on the other hand, have all the time in the world, now that this consulting detective business of yours is done."
Sherlock froze. The facts were easily examined: Mycroft had always wanted Sherlock to join him in politics. He didn't care any more about people's lives than Sherlock did, had no interest in crime on an interpersonal level, and was perfectly capable of manipulating others to get what he wanted. He was a politician, after all.
How has Moriarty known about Sherlock?
"You didn't," he said, but it was more an irrational plea for reassurance than a statement. No matter what had happened between them, Mycroft was still his brother, and during the past hour, Sherlock had been forced to acknowledge that yes, he did have a heart. It didn't appear to be entirely without damage.
"I didn't," Mycroft said with a slight smirk. "Mummy would have my head if I took away your only friend."
"You are aware that I still have John's gun?" Sherlock asked mildly. There was no telling what John was going through right now; if anyone ever deserved the moniker of psychopath, it was Moriarty. If Mycroft kept this up much longer…
"My dear brother," Mycroft said, and if ever a cat had gotten both the canary and the cream, its expression couldn't have been much different. "The next time I ask you for a favour, you will do it without your childish antics. In return, I will not make you beg."
Sherlock gritted his teeth. "Fine."
"Very well." Mycroft's cell phone gave a bland little ping. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at it. "As of this moment, your Dr. Watson is on his way to Baker Street. I'm afraid Mr. Moriarty died in a tragic car accident. Dreadful, you'll agree."
Sherlock found it curiously hard to breathe. "You…"
"I keep telling you, I am concerned about you. When will you finally believe me?"
"When you stop pushing me into politics," Sherlock said absently. John was safe.
John was safe?
"Well, that was anti-climactic," he muttered, feeling oddly cheated. He'd been ready to try being the white knight for once, but instead his damsel had been handed to him on a platter and the dragon was dead.
Mycroft coughed. "I am sure you'll find an outlet for the adrenaline once you get home."
Sherlock threw him a glance. Mycroft looked inordinately pleased with himself; Sherlock would never hear the end of it. He strode to the door, ready to leave the smug git behind, but stopped with his hand on the handle.
"That was, uh…"
"Oh, for god's sake, just go before you strain something," Mycroft said, waving him off.
Sherlock flashed him a brief smile and rushed out the door.
Time to go home.
~~~
That, uh… thing… that you, uh… that you did, that you… that you offered to do, that was, ah… good."
~~~
When Sherlock burst into their flat, John was sitting on the sofa, hands folded in his lap. He looked up as the door banged against the wall, and both of them asked, at the same time, "Are you alright?"
Sherlock glowered. "That was a singularly idiotic thing to do." His heart had skipped a beat at the sight of John, apparently unharmed. So perhaps his blogger could also be classified as his friend, but that didn't mean that his knees had to go wobbly with relief. This overabundance of emotion was becoming rather irksome.
John nodded. "He said that, too."
He. Moriarty. Who was dead. Like John could have been.
"What were you thinking?" Sherlock exploded. "Does your tiny brain even realise what could have happened to you?"
"My tiny brain was preoccupied with what was about to happen to you," John shot back, getting to his feet.
"I was fine!"
"You had several snipers aiming at you and were about to blow us all up!" John yelled, angrier than Sherlock had ever seen him. Sherlock's heart was drumming against his ribcage, trapped, the last remnants of fear burning through him like white fire.
"You could have been -"
"You could have been -"
And then, somehow, they were kissing, their teeth clacking together and John's fingers clutching a fistful of Sherlock's hair in a way that was just short of painful. If he kisses Sarah like that, no wonder he has to sleep on the sofa, Sherlock thought, before he got distracted by the way John's body was pressed up against his own, warm and firm and almost too familiar to feel entirely comfortable. Sherlock's hands had somehow found their way up to grasp John's face between them, tilting it up, and god, the taste.
"This is another bad idea, isn't it?" John panted when they pulled apart for air.
"Doubtless." Sherlock's hands had left John's face - marvellous, he wasn't even telling them to move - in favour of finding out if John's arse was as firm as it always looked like in those jeans. It was. Excellent. "Want to make it a worse one?"
"Yes," John said, and pushed Sherlock onto the sofa.
I didn't know he could do that, Sherlock thought, and then John did something else Sherlock hadn't known he could do, and Sherlock lost track entirely.
~~~
"I'm not his date."
~~~
It had been an awful idea. A very good, very awful idea, and now Sherlock couldn't keep his fingers from drumming on the sheets because he didn't have all the peripheral data, and he hated not knowing what came next. John was easy enough to calculate, but Sarah was an unknown variable, and Sherlock found himself unable to predict which one of them John would pick. If Sherlock offered him something steady, that was.
Was Sherlock offering something steady?
"You're going to give yourself a headache," John murmured sleepily. They had moved on to John's bed by now, but while the wider space had led to another interesting set of awful ideas, the location wasn't any help in finding the final answer to Sherlock's problem.
"I have a doctor right here," Sherlock said absently.
John stayed quiet for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and said, "You do, actually."
Sherlock waved his hand. "Yes, I know, that's what I just… oh." No more Sarah, then. Well. "Good. That's… that's good."
John coughed, obviously embarrassed. "Good."
"Good," Sherlock repeated, and smiled.
~~~
"I will burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."
"But we both know that's not quite true."
~~~
End.