what have i done.
so I'm pretty certain anyone who comes here and reads this will be coming over from the sherlockbbc_fic prompt part xv, and I fucking love the metafic there SO MUCH that I wrote my own fic of a fic about fictional characters writing fics and drawing fanarts of their Victorian selves.
Yeah. Deal.
John used to hate those posers who sat in coffee shops, typing away on their laptops.
They always looked so fake, so false and so ridiculous. 'Look at me, everyone, I'm so busy and important and I'm always typing away, writing something really important here in this coffee shop, look at me go.' He used to smirk (not sneer, not really his thing) at them as he passed by, Criterion cup in hand, and wonder what on earth possessed them to make such a show of themselves in public.
But now he knows they weren't trying to impress. They weren't writers or poets or busybodies wanting someone to ask them what they were writing so that they could launch into a spiel about their latest masterpiece. They were thirty-something year old connoisseurs of Victorian porn, somewhat nervously waiting to meet the fanartist they'd been chatting (flirting? if you can believe everything you read on LJ) with for weeks, wondering whether this was all a big mistake, and so they'd decided to whip out their safety nets - their laptops - just to stop them from vomiting with anticipation.
Or perhaps they were, in actual fact, all tossers and John was the exception that proved the rule.
Every time the door of the Criterion opened, John looked up, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible, but somehow managing to look like a startled kitten. He didn't even know what he was looking for, the mysterious bastard hadn't given him any real clues as to what he looked like. He just said 'You'll know' and signed off. He groaned softly to himself, and his fingers hovered over his well-worn keyboard, staring at the unpublished journal entry that simply read 'what am i doing what am i doing what am i doing' over and over and over again. Swallowing another gulp of coffee, he tried to calm himself down. Why was this so ridiculous? So he was breaking one of his guidelines. This was different, this was. . . this was consulting_detective. 'Christ, John, you don't even know his name yet.' he thought to himself, and the nerves set in again (although he had, mentally and embarrassingly, began to refer to the man as 'Sherlock', but he'd never admit to it if asked). In any case, consulting_detective was different from all of the rest of the comm. He was a friend, a close friend now, and to be honest John wanted to actually see him and some of his drawings IRL, and, god willing, consulting_detective might even let him keep one of the rough sketches. He'd get it framed, and then hide it somewhere where no one but him could ever see it.
Pulling a face (the sort you might pull if you'd just lost out on an award that was rightfully yours), John tried to get a hold of himself. He was building this up too much. There was a big difference between UST on the internet and actual compatibility in real life. Internet dating? No thank you. Alright for some, but definitely not for him. He knew a little something about the kind of people you might find on the other side of a screen name, and he generally did not want those people in his life, let alone in his bed.
That is, until he heard a horribly familiar, kink-inducing, baritone voice behind him.
"jumperfucker, I presume?"
Yeah. Deal.
John used to hate those posers who sat in coffee shops, typing away on their laptops.
They always looked so fake, so false and so ridiculous. 'Look at me, everyone, I'm so busy and important and I'm always typing away, writing something really important here in this coffee shop, look at me go.' He used to smirk (not sneer, not really his thing) at them as he passed by, Criterion cup in hand, and wonder what on earth possessed them to make such a show of themselves in public.
But now he knows they weren't trying to impress. They weren't writers or poets or busybodies wanting someone to ask them what they were writing so that they could launch into a spiel about their latest masterpiece. They were thirty-something year old connoisseurs of Victorian porn, somewhat nervously waiting to meet the fanartist they'd been chatting (flirting? if you can believe everything you read on LJ) with for weeks, wondering whether this was all a big mistake, and so they'd decided to whip out their safety nets - their laptops - just to stop them from vomiting with anticipation.
Or perhaps they were, in actual fact, all tossers and John was the exception that proved the rule.
Every time the door of the Criterion opened, John looked up, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible, but somehow managing to look like a startled kitten. He didn't even know what he was looking for, the mysterious bastard hadn't given him any real clues as to what he looked like. He just said 'You'll know' and signed off. He groaned softly to himself, and his fingers hovered over his well-worn keyboard, staring at the unpublished journal entry that simply read 'what am i doing what am i doing what am i doing' over and over and over again. Swallowing another gulp of coffee, he tried to calm himself down. Why was this so ridiculous? So he was breaking one of his guidelines. This was different, this was. . . this was consulting_detective. 'Christ, John, you don't even know his name yet.' he thought to himself, and the nerves set in again (although he had, mentally and embarrassingly, began to refer to the man as 'Sherlock', but he'd never admit to it if asked). In any case, consulting_detective was different from all of the rest of the comm. He was a friend, a close friend now, and to be honest John wanted to actually see him and some of his drawings IRL, and, god willing, consulting_detective might even let him keep one of the rough sketches. He'd get it framed, and then hide it somewhere where no one but him could ever see it.
Pulling a face (the sort you might pull if you'd just lost out on an award that was rightfully yours), John tried to get a hold of himself. He was building this up too much. There was a big difference between UST on the internet and actual compatibility in real life. Internet dating? No thank you. Alright for some, but definitely not for him. He knew a little something about the kind of people you might find on the other side of a screen name, and he generally did not want those people in his life, let alone in his bed.
That is, until he heard a horribly familiar, kink-inducing, baritone voice behind him.
"jumperfucker, I presume?"