1 Crack(ish) fic (Sherlock (BBC) & Stargate: Atlantis)
So, apparently when I'm supposed to be working on Atlantis Big Bang is when I suddenly discover I have to write cracky ideas about Sherlock Holmes and John Sheppard's hair getting it on. That's right, their hair.
Fascinating - Stargate: Atlantis & Sherlock (BBC) - John Sheppard/Sherlock Holmes - Words: 2,614
Summary: When John Sheppard and Sherlock Holmes go back to Sherlock's apartment one night, the result isn't something either of them expected.
Content Notes: None. PG.
On AO3: Fascinating
On DW: Fascinating
It's not that John Sheppard is lost, as he wanders the streets of London with a somewhat glazed expression, but it's more that he doesn't know exactly what to do with himself. He could go sit in a pub, he supposes, or walk through a museum or two with the blank overwhelmed expression that tourists who are seeing too much habitually wear. When it comes down to it, after the countless alien planets and space ships he's been on, London doesn't register much with him other than another city that's a little odd and foreign, despite being on Earth. At least no one here is going to ask him to participate in some strange ritual involving gourds and nudity to secure a trade negotiation, or, if they do, Earth has gotten stranger in the years he's been away.
He wonders again why he's here, why he agreed to do more than surf and lounge on a beach during their month of leave, but remembers that he agreed to accompany Rodney to a big physics conference. And John had come because Rodney was his team, and Rodney had asked, and John wasn't letting anyone on his team go anywhere without backup. While the topics had been engaging, John hadn't particularly been interested in sticking around for the social parts of the event now that Rodney had his feet under him, and he had ducked out into the city all the while checking he had his cell phone so Rodney could reach him if he ran into trouble. John would be lying if he said he didn't expect trouble; he always expected trouble, more so on Earth than when they were off-world.
John isn't lost, he can find a station for the underground train easily enough and get back to the college he'd wandered off from, but he doesn't know exactly where he is either. The streets are long and narrow, two and three story buildings obscuring his view beyond the roads that he's following lazily and without direction. There are more people than he's used to, brushing against him occasionally and the sound of their voices echoing almost harshly in his ears; Atlantis has conditioned him to living daily with less than five hundred people, and the population of even the most populous planets in the Pegasus galaxy didn't come close to the sheer mass of people in London.
"Oh!"
John hears the voice just before the collision, the man's hands coming up to grasp John's shoulders to prevent them both from stumbling on the uneven paving stones. "Sorry," John says quickly, his own hands on the man's upper arms as he tries to untangle himself. He freezes when his eyes meet the man's sharp blue eyes, eyes that are examining him with the type of scrutiny that John usually only sees when Rodney is trying to disarm a bomb before it explodes in two minutes.
"Interesting," the man says, leaning in closer and not letting go of John's shoulders. "American born and raised, southern midwest, but well traveled. Very well traveled."
John smiles in a way that he hopes is disarming, it's the smile he pulls out when the village leader is dragging him back to the town square to participate in whatever ceremony is traditional for visitors to their culture, and carefully shrugs his shoulders free. "Something like that," he admits, a little perplexed that the stranger knows so much from just one word.
"Very interesting," the man repeats. He's let John take a step back but is looking over every inch of John like he's a mystery of some kind. A minute later he jerks his head to examine the sky and then his watch. "There will be a downpour in three minutes and fifteen seconds. Unless you have other accommodations that are very local, an umbrella - which you don't - or a desire to get soaked through, I recommend that you come with me."
The man stares expectantly, bouncing briefly on the balls of his feet like staying in one place for these few minutes is intolerable, his expression still focused and curious. "I don't even know your name," John finally says. It has taken him more than thirty minutes to get to, wherever he is, and the man is correct that he doesn't have an umbrella nor much of a desire to get drenched.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man supplies. "Follow me."
When the man turns and starts down the street with a determined stride, John should feel relieved and rush in the opposite direction. Instead, he follows Sherlock, which makes John's top ten list of strange names he's heard both on and off Earth, somehow compelled by the man's sheer force of personality. The man probably isn't a serial killer, and if he is, John's gone up against the Wraith, Replicators and things he doesn't even have names for but should have killed him ten times over. He can handle one wiry, manic serial killer.
"I'm John. John Sheppard," John says as he hurries to catch up with Sherlock.
Sherlock looks at him again, still keeping his quick pace. "Interesting," he says again, sounding absolutely thrilled.
*****
They step inside the front door of 222B Baker Street just as it starts to pour, sheets of rain coming down from the sky as Sherlock pushes the door closed.
Sherlock reveals his watch and nods. "Right on time. If they will persist in placing the weather forecast in the paper they could at least be more accurate."
John glances at the paper that's on a little side table by the base of the staircase, noting that it has a bright round sun over today's date, but follows Sherlock up the narrow staircase into a somewhat disastrous apartment. It reminds him a little of Rodney's lab on Atlantis; the paraphernalia is all different but the scattered reference materials and halfway finished projects and experiments have the same ring of genius and eclecticism that John has gotten used to being surrounded by. He notices several bullet holes in the wall, some peculiar graffiti, a skull, and a union jack pillow and decides that it's still too soon to make the call on whether or not Sherlock is a serial killer.
There's a man sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal in front of him and a newspaper spread out over the pile of books that was competing for space. He looks up, his mouth open to say something but his expression changes when he sees John. "Who's this then?"
Sherlock smiles, an odd smile that doesn't quite indicate pleasure. "John Watson, this is John Sheppard," he says.
John stares as the other John gets to his feet, wondering exactly what he's gotten himself into.
"Right," the other John says, pressing the palms of his hands down against his pants. "Right. I'll just be going out. Maybe down to the pub. Out." He stares at John for another moment before sending an indecipherable look at Sherlock and disappearing out the door.
They stand in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of other John's feet on the staircase.
"He'll be back," Sherlock said, his attention on the door for a moment longer before returning his focus to John.
When John just raises an eyebrow, Sherlock smiles again, this smile fuller and stretching over his thin cheek bones.
"He didn't take his umbrella," Sherlock explains, walking to John again and watching him with the same intensity as he had on the street.
John doesn't say anything, just watches Sherlock watching him. Sherlock's expression is carefully blank other than air of concentration, but his eyes say everything that the rest of him isn't. John doesn't think he's ever been this noticed before, that anyone has ever approached him with as much curiosity and interest as Sherlock is showing right now.
"Military, naturally. Seen action, but not..." Sherlock trails off, mostly talking to himself. "Air force? Mid level officer?" he asks suddenly, his voice louder.
"Yes," John says, the chain of his dog tags burning suddenly against his neck like Sherlock has suddenly seen through his shirt to read the information imprinted there.
Sherlock nods and steps closer, taking one of John's hands in both of his and examining it carefully. He turns it from side to side and traces his finger tips along the calluses that John has from the P-90 he carries off-world and the Beretta that's usually in his thigh holster. There are scars on his hands, some from childhood that are barely visible and some more recent from pieces of rock or knives or digging out pieces of Ancient machinery blindly with his fingernails. Sherlock examines each of these scars on his right hand before releasing it and starting the same process with John's left hand.
"So?" John asks, feeling suddenly ineffectual and like all the air has knocked out of him. He doesn't want to leave, not yet, not before he and Sherlock have done whatever it is they're going to do, but he is a little uncomfortable at not having a script to follow.
Sherlock releases John's left hand and takes the opportunity to reach up for the buttons on John's plaid shirt, the one that Rodney had called hideous and an offense to eyes everywhere, but John had ignored him because Rodney's attire made him look like a college professor from the 80's. When John makes no move to protest Sherlock's exploration, Sherlock unbuttons the shirt and brings it back down over John's shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.
"Fascinating," Sherlock says, again mostly to himself.
It's not something that John's ever had anyone say when someone was looking at his chest or taking off his clothes before, not unless that counted doctors who were staring at a swollen and multicolored bug bite or patch of allergic reaction to some plant he'd brushed against while off-world. John takes a moment to crane his head down and look at his own chest as best he can without a mirror, taking in the silver of his dog tags, the somewhat awkward amount of hair and the varied scars found there as well. In some ways, John's body is like a map of where he's been, where he's almost died and where he's had to fight for his own life and the lives those under his protection. When he looks at Sherlock, who is still examining him with his eyes, John thinks he sees some understanding of this, that John's scars aren't just where pieces of skin have healed over.
Eventually Sherlock touches, his long, thin fingers cautious but firm as he explores John's chest. He takes a long time at John's feeding scar, where Todd had slowly drained the life out of him for what had seemed like excruciating hours and years. John just swallows when his mouth goes uncomfortably dry and waits.
After Sherlock has been around John's back, his eyes and then his hands making the same careful exploration as he'd made on John's chest and arms, Sherlock reappears in John's range of vision. "I'm told it's polite to offer company tea. Would you care for some tea?"
"No, thank you," John says, having already discovered that British tea is nothing like the Athosian tea he's acquired a taste for.
Sherlock nods, the motion sudden and unpracticed, and he extends a long hand toward the couch, his eyebrows raising into the mess of curls that have fallen over his forehead.
John runs a hand through his own hair, feeling the places where his cowlicks have made everything stand up more than usual in the humidity of London, Sherlock's unkempt hair a funhouse reflection of John's own. He walks over to the couch, his skin feeling over-sensitized and at the same time a little chilled now that Sherlock isn't touching him.
Following easily, Sherlock steps up and over the coffee table and lands neatly on the couch next to John. A moment passes and Sherlock resumes his careful explorations once more, his fingers moving gently over John's face and neck. John slouches down on the couch, kicking his feet out and letting his head roll back while Sherlock traces the scars that the Iratus bug had left behind on his neck and shoulder.
John's eyes slip shut and he feels his body going lax at Sherlock's touch. He shouldn't fall asleep, not when he doesn't know Sherlock and doesn't really know where he is. If he was off-world he could wake up in any number of dire predicaments, or not wake up at all. But Sherlock's persistent yet oddly gentle hands have temporarily turned off all the warning systems John has, and John finds his breathing slowing and his head sinking down against the back of the couch all the while Sherlock's hands trace just under his collar bone.
*****
John isn't sure what wakes him, maybe it's the fact that the couch really isn't wide enough for two adult men to sleep together on it, or the fact that Sherlock's eyes have closed and his face is lax in sleep only inches away from John's own. His mind clears as he blinks and hears the odd squeaking noise again. That's what woke him up. He shifts as carefully as he can; he's warm, mostly comfortable, and Sherlock is sprawled half on top of him, and he thinks that maybe Sherlock doesn't get much sleep. John can't remember the last time he's fallen asleep so easily either.
The muffled squeaking noise appears again just as John is about to close his eyes, this time closer to his head, and he wonders if there are mice in Sherlock's apartment. It's enough of a mess, like a graduate student really, that it seems like a fair possibility. John tips his head up, hoping that there isn't a giant mouse sitting next to him, but what he sees doesn't fit with any mouse or rat he's ever saw. In fact, it looks almost like a tribble from Star Trek, just hairy instead of furry, and small enough to fit in John's hand.
John does shift then, regardless of whether or not it will wake Sherlock up, and manages to twist his head around to get a good look. There are three of them, two darker brown that is just about exactly John's hair color and one slightly lighter brown tribble, for lack of a better name, with just a hint of red. He figures it's a bad thing that his first thought, after he contemplates how many unexpectedly practical applications Star Trek has had in his life, is that Rodney is never going to let John live down the fact that his hair has somehow managed to breed by itself. His second thought is that he should probably call the SGC and get the Daedalus to beam the tribbles away before Sherlock wakes up.
"Fascinating," Sherlock says from next to John.
John looks down and finds Sherlock's eyes wide open and staring at the three tribbles and then over to John with profound interest. John shrugs, his bare shoulder brushing against Sherlock's rumpled shirt as he tries to come up with a reasonable explanation.
"You are a very interesting man," Sherlock says before he returns his attention to the tribbles.
"We live in interesting times," John finally offers, watching as Sherlock carefully prods one of the darker tribbles with the same curiosity he'd shown John's body only hours earlier. John puts his head back down on the couch cushion, trying to figure out how he was going to explain to the SGC that his hair got more action in London than he did.
Fascinating - Stargate: Atlantis & Sherlock (BBC) - John Sheppard/Sherlock Holmes - Words: 2,614
Summary: When John Sheppard and Sherlock Holmes go back to Sherlock's apartment one night, the result isn't something either of them expected.
Content Notes: None. PG.
On AO3: Fascinating
On DW: Fascinating
It's not that John Sheppard is lost, as he wanders the streets of London with a somewhat glazed expression, but it's more that he doesn't know exactly what to do with himself. He could go sit in a pub, he supposes, or walk through a museum or two with the blank overwhelmed expression that tourists who are seeing too much habitually wear. When it comes down to it, after the countless alien planets and space ships he's been on, London doesn't register much with him other than another city that's a little odd and foreign, despite being on Earth. At least no one here is going to ask him to participate in some strange ritual involving gourds and nudity to secure a trade negotiation, or, if they do, Earth has gotten stranger in the years he's been away.
He wonders again why he's here, why he agreed to do more than surf and lounge on a beach during their month of leave, but remembers that he agreed to accompany Rodney to a big physics conference. And John had come because Rodney was his team, and Rodney had asked, and John wasn't letting anyone on his team go anywhere without backup. While the topics had been engaging, John hadn't particularly been interested in sticking around for the social parts of the event now that Rodney had his feet under him, and he had ducked out into the city all the while checking he had his cell phone so Rodney could reach him if he ran into trouble. John would be lying if he said he didn't expect trouble; he always expected trouble, more so on Earth than when they were off-world.
John isn't lost, he can find a station for the underground train easily enough and get back to the college he'd wandered off from, but he doesn't know exactly where he is either. The streets are long and narrow, two and three story buildings obscuring his view beyond the roads that he's following lazily and without direction. There are more people than he's used to, brushing against him occasionally and the sound of their voices echoing almost harshly in his ears; Atlantis has conditioned him to living daily with less than five hundred people, and the population of even the most populous planets in the Pegasus galaxy didn't come close to the sheer mass of people in London.
"Oh!"
John hears the voice just before the collision, the man's hands coming up to grasp John's shoulders to prevent them both from stumbling on the uneven paving stones. "Sorry," John says quickly, his own hands on the man's upper arms as he tries to untangle himself. He freezes when his eyes meet the man's sharp blue eyes, eyes that are examining him with the type of scrutiny that John usually only sees when Rodney is trying to disarm a bomb before it explodes in two minutes.
"Interesting," the man says, leaning in closer and not letting go of John's shoulders. "American born and raised, southern midwest, but well traveled. Very well traveled."
John smiles in a way that he hopes is disarming, it's the smile he pulls out when the village leader is dragging him back to the town square to participate in whatever ceremony is traditional for visitors to their culture, and carefully shrugs his shoulders free. "Something like that," he admits, a little perplexed that the stranger knows so much from just one word.
"Very interesting," the man repeats. He's let John take a step back but is looking over every inch of John like he's a mystery of some kind. A minute later he jerks his head to examine the sky and then his watch. "There will be a downpour in three minutes and fifteen seconds. Unless you have other accommodations that are very local, an umbrella - which you don't - or a desire to get soaked through, I recommend that you come with me."
The man stares expectantly, bouncing briefly on the balls of his feet like staying in one place for these few minutes is intolerable, his expression still focused and curious. "I don't even know your name," John finally says. It has taken him more than thirty minutes to get to, wherever he is, and the man is correct that he doesn't have an umbrella nor much of a desire to get drenched.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man supplies. "Follow me."
When the man turns and starts down the street with a determined stride, John should feel relieved and rush in the opposite direction. Instead, he follows Sherlock, which makes John's top ten list of strange names he's heard both on and off Earth, somehow compelled by the man's sheer force of personality. The man probably isn't a serial killer, and if he is, John's gone up against the Wraith, Replicators and things he doesn't even have names for but should have killed him ten times over. He can handle one wiry, manic serial killer.
"I'm John. John Sheppard," John says as he hurries to catch up with Sherlock.
Sherlock looks at him again, still keeping his quick pace. "Interesting," he says again, sounding absolutely thrilled.
*****
They step inside the front door of 222B Baker Street just as it starts to pour, sheets of rain coming down from the sky as Sherlock pushes the door closed.
Sherlock reveals his watch and nods. "Right on time. If they will persist in placing the weather forecast in the paper they could at least be more accurate."
John glances at the paper that's on a little side table by the base of the staircase, noting that it has a bright round sun over today's date, but follows Sherlock up the narrow staircase into a somewhat disastrous apartment. It reminds him a little of Rodney's lab on Atlantis; the paraphernalia is all different but the scattered reference materials and halfway finished projects and experiments have the same ring of genius and eclecticism that John has gotten used to being surrounded by. He notices several bullet holes in the wall, some peculiar graffiti, a skull, and a union jack pillow and decides that it's still too soon to make the call on whether or not Sherlock is a serial killer.
There's a man sitting at the kitchen table, a bowl of cereal in front of him and a newspaper spread out over the pile of books that was competing for space. He looks up, his mouth open to say something but his expression changes when he sees John. "Who's this then?"
Sherlock smiles, an odd smile that doesn't quite indicate pleasure. "John Watson, this is John Sheppard," he says.
John stares as the other John gets to his feet, wondering exactly what he's gotten himself into.
"Right," the other John says, pressing the palms of his hands down against his pants. "Right. I'll just be going out. Maybe down to the pub. Out." He stares at John for another moment before sending an indecipherable look at Sherlock and disappearing out the door.
They stand in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of other John's feet on the staircase.
"He'll be back," Sherlock said, his attention on the door for a moment longer before returning his focus to John.
When John just raises an eyebrow, Sherlock smiles again, this smile fuller and stretching over his thin cheek bones.
"He didn't take his umbrella," Sherlock explains, walking to John again and watching him with the same intensity as he had on the street.
John doesn't say anything, just watches Sherlock watching him. Sherlock's expression is carefully blank other than air of concentration, but his eyes say everything that the rest of him isn't. John doesn't think he's ever been this noticed before, that anyone has ever approached him with as much curiosity and interest as Sherlock is showing right now.
"Military, naturally. Seen action, but not..." Sherlock trails off, mostly talking to himself. "Air force? Mid level officer?" he asks suddenly, his voice louder.
"Yes," John says, the chain of his dog tags burning suddenly against his neck like Sherlock has suddenly seen through his shirt to read the information imprinted there.
Sherlock nods and steps closer, taking one of John's hands in both of his and examining it carefully. He turns it from side to side and traces his finger tips along the calluses that John has from the P-90 he carries off-world and the Beretta that's usually in his thigh holster. There are scars on his hands, some from childhood that are barely visible and some more recent from pieces of rock or knives or digging out pieces of Ancient machinery blindly with his fingernails. Sherlock examines each of these scars on his right hand before releasing it and starting the same process with John's left hand.
"So?" John asks, feeling suddenly ineffectual and like all the air has knocked out of him. He doesn't want to leave, not yet, not before he and Sherlock have done whatever it is they're going to do, but he is a little uncomfortable at not having a script to follow.
Sherlock releases John's left hand and takes the opportunity to reach up for the buttons on John's plaid shirt, the one that Rodney had called hideous and an offense to eyes everywhere, but John had ignored him because Rodney's attire made him look like a college professor from the 80's. When John makes no move to protest Sherlock's exploration, Sherlock unbuttons the shirt and brings it back down over John's shoulders and lets it fall to the floor.
"Fascinating," Sherlock says, again mostly to himself.
It's not something that John's ever had anyone say when someone was looking at his chest or taking off his clothes before, not unless that counted doctors who were staring at a swollen and multicolored bug bite or patch of allergic reaction to some plant he'd brushed against while off-world. John takes a moment to crane his head down and look at his own chest as best he can without a mirror, taking in the silver of his dog tags, the somewhat awkward amount of hair and the varied scars found there as well. In some ways, John's body is like a map of where he's been, where he's almost died and where he's had to fight for his own life and the lives those under his protection. When he looks at Sherlock, who is still examining him with his eyes, John thinks he sees some understanding of this, that John's scars aren't just where pieces of skin have healed over.
Eventually Sherlock touches, his long, thin fingers cautious but firm as he explores John's chest. He takes a long time at John's feeding scar, where Todd had slowly drained the life out of him for what had seemed like excruciating hours and years. John just swallows when his mouth goes uncomfortably dry and waits.
After Sherlock has been around John's back, his eyes and then his hands making the same careful exploration as he'd made on John's chest and arms, Sherlock reappears in John's range of vision. "I'm told it's polite to offer company tea. Would you care for some tea?"
"No, thank you," John says, having already discovered that British tea is nothing like the Athosian tea he's acquired a taste for.
Sherlock nods, the motion sudden and unpracticed, and he extends a long hand toward the couch, his eyebrows raising into the mess of curls that have fallen over his forehead.
John runs a hand through his own hair, feeling the places where his cowlicks have made everything stand up more than usual in the humidity of London, Sherlock's unkempt hair a funhouse reflection of John's own. He walks over to the couch, his skin feeling over-sensitized and at the same time a little chilled now that Sherlock isn't touching him.
Following easily, Sherlock steps up and over the coffee table and lands neatly on the couch next to John. A moment passes and Sherlock resumes his careful explorations once more, his fingers moving gently over John's face and neck. John slouches down on the couch, kicking his feet out and letting his head roll back while Sherlock traces the scars that the Iratus bug had left behind on his neck and shoulder.
John's eyes slip shut and he feels his body going lax at Sherlock's touch. He shouldn't fall asleep, not when he doesn't know Sherlock and doesn't really know where he is. If he was off-world he could wake up in any number of dire predicaments, or not wake up at all. But Sherlock's persistent yet oddly gentle hands have temporarily turned off all the warning systems John has, and John finds his breathing slowing and his head sinking down against the back of the couch all the while Sherlock's hands trace just under his collar bone.
*****
John isn't sure what wakes him, maybe it's the fact that the couch really isn't wide enough for two adult men to sleep together on it, or the fact that Sherlock's eyes have closed and his face is lax in sleep only inches away from John's own. His mind clears as he blinks and hears the odd squeaking noise again. That's what woke him up. He shifts as carefully as he can; he's warm, mostly comfortable, and Sherlock is sprawled half on top of him, and he thinks that maybe Sherlock doesn't get much sleep. John can't remember the last time he's fallen asleep so easily either.
The muffled squeaking noise appears again just as John is about to close his eyes, this time closer to his head, and he wonders if there are mice in Sherlock's apartment. It's enough of a mess, like a graduate student really, that it seems like a fair possibility. John tips his head up, hoping that there isn't a giant mouse sitting next to him, but what he sees doesn't fit with any mouse or rat he's ever saw. In fact, it looks almost like a tribble from Star Trek, just hairy instead of furry, and small enough to fit in John's hand.
John does shift then, regardless of whether or not it will wake Sherlock up, and manages to twist his head around to get a good look. There are three of them, two darker brown that is just about exactly John's hair color and one slightly lighter brown tribble, for lack of a better name, with just a hint of red. He figures it's a bad thing that his first thought, after he contemplates how many unexpectedly practical applications Star Trek has had in his life, is that Rodney is never going to let John live down the fact that his hair has somehow managed to breed by itself. His second thought is that he should probably call the SGC and get the Daedalus to beam the tribbles away before Sherlock wakes up.
"Fascinating," Sherlock says from next to John.
John looks down and finds Sherlock's eyes wide open and staring at the three tribbles and then over to John with profound interest. John shrugs, his bare shoulder brushing against Sherlock's rumpled shirt as he tries to come up with a reasonable explanation.
"You are a very interesting man," Sherlock says before he returns his attention to the tribbles.
"We live in interesting times," John finally offers, watching as Sherlock carefully prods one of the darker tribbles with the same curiosity he'd shown John's body only hours earlier. John puts his head back down on the couch cushion, trying to figure out how he was going to explain to the SGC that his hair got more action in London than he did.