Sherlock's Adventures in Wonderland, 2/6
Dec. 17th, 2010 08:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Sherlock's Adventures in Wonderland
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sherlock Through the Looking Glass. It can be literal, with Sherlock ending up in Wonderland and utterly annoyed by the fact that nothing makes sense, or you could take it in some creepy abstract philosophical sense, like he takes drugs and hallucinates.
Prologue
Chapter 1/6
The streets of London were mostly deserted. A few stragglers appeared here and there, but when Sherlock approached them to ask if they had seen John go past, they ran away as if he had said something unwittingly offensive. Put out, he sat on a park bench and looked up at the sky, or where the sky should have been. Nothing was above him. It was a great tumultuous fog, flowing and pushing each other away like clouds boiling in a kettle. Even though he could not see any hint of where the sun should have been shining through, occasionally ripping the grey mass, the city was lit with an eerie light, shifting shadows darting behind trees and along puddles of water from a rain that apparently fell earlier.
Soft wrinkled ghosts of newspapers were pushed along by missing wind. He scooped one up as it nudged against his shoe and read it. The panels of text were in English, but every time he tried to read them, they made no sense. The words were randomly pulled out of a dictionary and thrown together without any regard to grammatical convention or niceties, nor were all the words even real or in use anymore. Frustrated, he turned to the back, which was laid out like an obituary column. The pictures smiled at him in grainy black and white, oily ink seeping onto his fingertips, but they were all of people who had died centuries before, no use to anyone now.
When finally he released it back onto the ground, it fled down the streets and hit the front of a black car that Sherlock recognised as his brother’s. He jumped up and ran to it, flagging it down, gratified when the car rolled to a slow stop in front of him and waited.
Inside, his brother lounged against the seats, idly smoking a hookah pipe. Purple-blue smoke bloomed in curling wisps, making Sherlock cough.
“Mycroft,” he greeted him. Mycroft raised one eyebrow and blew another puff of smoke out through his mouth.
“What’s going on? I followed John out and haven’t been able to find him since. And nothing about this makes sense! Where is everyone? Where are all the people?”
Mycroft ignored him, focusing on his hookah with an obsessive intensity, fiddling with the gauges and watching the water inside slosh gently against the ornate glass bottle it was caged in.
“Mycroft, answer me,” Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft sleepily leaned against the back of his posh leather seats, one hand still curled around the mouthpiece of the hookah pipe. He stared at Sherlock for a long time in silence, then finally answered in a lazy voice, “Answer what?”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Sherlock gritted out. He was beginning to feel his brother did this on purpose, but with lack of anyone else who was inclined to talk to him, his irritating older sibling was the last resort. He had tried a phone box earlier, only to find that the cord had been severed. Each of the several others he encountered had apparently suffered the same fate at the hands of some bored vandal.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Mycroft said with a yawn. “I hardly know you, anyway.”
Nonplussed, Sherlock shook his head. “What do you mean by that? We grew up together.”
“Not at all. I grew up with a younger sibling who was quite precocious. He used to spend his time outside all day, studying the intricacies of nature and her rules, then run inside with excitement to show me. I taught him how to deduce a crying woman from a tear stain. I wonder what’s happened to him.”
“He’s right here,” Sherlock said, embarrassed by the sentimental nostalgia. Mycroft was never this maudlin. “I grew up.”
“Grew up? You look quite small to me,” Mycroft looked him up and down with a sneer. “Quite small indeed.”
“Well, then, how about you?” Sherlock shot back, feeling very put out at Mycroft’s cryptic answers and refusal to explain what was going on. His brother had always preferred the subtle touch to the theatrical flair. “You grew up as well.”
“Not at all,” Mycroft denied without heat. “I remained the same, and will remain so forever.”
“Wrapped up in your government job, ruling the world?” Sherlock said nastily. “Even you can’t keep that up forever, Mycroft.”
Mycroft took another long breath of his hookah, the water gurgling unhappily inside. He let it all out with a polite, delicate cough. “I doubt it very much.”
Sherlock had enough of the conversation and opened the door, fully intending to hurl himself outside and try to find someone who could help him. The streets felt cold, but clearer than the smoke-filled interior of the car. He took a bracing breath, one foot hitting the pavement.
“Come back,” Mycroft called from inside. The smoke and darkness hid his face, his voice reaching out from somewhere within. Sherlock hesitated. “I have something important to tell you.”
“What?” Sherlock said. “What is it?”
“Temper,” Mycroft reprimanded him languidly. “Keep your temper, Whoever-You-Might-Be.”
“Sherlock,” Sherlock said, pushing down a rising panic that fluttered with hollow birds’-wings inside the barred prison of his ribcage. He repeated it, “I’m Sherlock. I am Sherlock Holmes.”
Mycroft quirked a smile at him, as if he knew a secret that Sherlock did not, but refused to tell him. “You say you are Sherlock.”
“I am!” Sherlock protested vehemently around the metallic anger welling up in the corners of his mouth. He swallowed, the saliva tasting like copper and nickel in his stomach. “I am your brother, Sherlock.”
“Then prove it,” Mycroft said. “Deduce where I have been this morning.”
Sherlock’s eyes roved over his brother’s form, the tailored suit hanging from his shoulders, the polished shoes of his feet. There was a missing cufflink on his left sleeve and a splash of mud on the hem of his trouser leg. His tie was slightly askew. Sherlock picked up his umbrella, which was damp with moisture.
“You were outside,” Sherlock deduced. “While it was raining. Judging by the cufflink, it wasn’t a formal meeting. The mud suggests you walked somewhere, so you didn’t want your car to be seen. Perhaps a tryst?”
“Incorrect,” Mycroft said with a touch of glee.
“Not all of it,” Sherlock protested. “Your umbrella is definitely wet, so at the very least, you must have been outside."
“No, all of it, I’m afraid. Perhaps I put my umbrella outside and let it get wet without ever stepping foot out myself.”
“That makes no sense,” Sherlock glared at his brother petulantly. He crossed his arms in front of him, feeling a bit like a twelve-year-old. “None of this makes any sense! I’m beginning to think this is all a colossal joke being played at my expense.”
“Wrong again,” Mycroft said, going back to his hookah. He seemed to forget Sherlock was there entirely. Sherlock waited for him to say something, then huffed and opened the door. Before he could walk away, a hand thrust out, umbrella held inside.
“One will make you grow, the other will make you shrink,” Mycroft’s voice drifted to him. Sherlock took the umbrella, closed tight, and examined it. It was an ordinary black umbrella. Perhaps a bit old-fashioned, but nothing ultimately unusual about it.
“One of what?” Sherlock asked, feeling on the verge of breaking down completely and throwing a tantrum. His brother often affected him like that. The temperature had dropped outside and the air had stilled, suggesting that it would rain soon.
“One side, of course,” Mycroft’s voice said reasonably. “Do try to keep up, Sherlock.”
With that parting remark, the door slammed and the car drove off, leaving Sherlock standing bewildered in the middle of the street, holding an umbrella loosely in one hand and the other clutching the edges of his coat together, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck as the cold snuck in and seeped through to his bones.
Chapter 3/6
Chapter 4/6
Chapter 5/6
Chapter 6/6
Author:
tripatchRating: R
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sherlock Through the Looking Glass. It can be literal, with Sherlock ending up in Wonderland and utterly annoyed by the fact that nothing makes sense, or you could take it in some creepy abstract philosophical sense, like he takes drugs and hallucinates.
Prologue
Chapter 1/6
The streets of London were mostly deserted. A few stragglers appeared here and there, but when Sherlock approached them to ask if they had seen John go past, they ran away as if he had said something unwittingly offensive. Put out, he sat on a park bench and looked up at the sky, or where the sky should have been. Nothing was above him. It was a great tumultuous fog, flowing and pushing each other away like clouds boiling in a kettle. Even though he could not see any hint of where the sun should have been shining through, occasionally ripping the grey mass, the city was lit with an eerie light, shifting shadows darting behind trees and along puddles of water from a rain that apparently fell earlier.
Soft wrinkled ghosts of newspapers were pushed along by missing wind. He scooped one up as it nudged against his shoe and read it. The panels of text were in English, but every time he tried to read them, they made no sense. The words were randomly pulled out of a dictionary and thrown together without any regard to grammatical convention or niceties, nor were all the words even real or in use anymore. Frustrated, he turned to the back, which was laid out like an obituary column. The pictures smiled at him in grainy black and white, oily ink seeping onto his fingertips, but they were all of people who had died centuries before, no use to anyone now.
When finally he released it back onto the ground, it fled down the streets and hit the front of a black car that Sherlock recognised as his brother’s. He jumped up and ran to it, flagging it down, gratified when the car rolled to a slow stop in front of him and waited.
Inside, his brother lounged against the seats, idly smoking a hookah pipe. Purple-blue smoke bloomed in curling wisps, making Sherlock cough.
“Mycroft,” he greeted him. Mycroft raised one eyebrow and blew another puff of smoke out through his mouth.
“What’s going on? I followed John out and haven’t been able to find him since. And nothing about this makes sense! Where is everyone? Where are all the people?”
Mycroft ignored him, focusing on his hookah with an obsessive intensity, fiddling with the gauges and watching the water inside slosh gently against the ornate glass bottle it was caged in.
“Mycroft, answer me,” Sherlock demanded.
Mycroft sleepily leaned against the back of his posh leather seats, one hand still curled around the mouthpiece of the hookah pipe. He stared at Sherlock for a long time in silence, then finally answered in a lazy voice, “Answer what?”
“Tell me what’s going on,” Sherlock gritted out. He was beginning to feel his brother did this on purpose, but with lack of anyone else who was inclined to talk to him, his irritating older sibling was the last resort. He had tried a phone box earlier, only to find that the cord had been severed. Each of the several others he encountered had apparently suffered the same fate at the hands of some bored vandal.
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Mycroft said with a yawn. “I hardly know you, anyway.”
Nonplussed, Sherlock shook his head. “What do you mean by that? We grew up together.”
“Not at all. I grew up with a younger sibling who was quite precocious. He used to spend his time outside all day, studying the intricacies of nature and her rules, then run inside with excitement to show me. I taught him how to deduce a crying woman from a tear stain. I wonder what’s happened to him.”
“He’s right here,” Sherlock said, embarrassed by the sentimental nostalgia. Mycroft was never this maudlin. “I grew up.”
“Grew up? You look quite small to me,” Mycroft looked him up and down with a sneer. “Quite small indeed.”
“Well, then, how about you?” Sherlock shot back, feeling very put out at Mycroft’s cryptic answers and refusal to explain what was going on. His brother had always preferred the subtle touch to the theatrical flair. “You grew up as well.”
“Not at all,” Mycroft denied without heat. “I remained the same, and will remain so forever.”
“Wrapped up in your government job, ruling the world?” Sherlock said nastily. “Even you can’t keep that up forever, Mycroft.”
Mycroft took another long breath of his hookah, the water gurgling unhappily inside. He let it all out with a polite, delicate cough. “I doubt it very much.”
Sherlock had enough of the conversation and opened the door, fully intending to hurl himself outside and try to find someone who could help him. The streets felt cold, but clearer than the smoke-filled interior of the car. He took a bracing breath, one foot hitting the pavement.
“Come back,” Mycroft called from inside. The smoke and darkness hid his face, his voice reaching out from somewhere within. Sherlock hesitated. “I have something important to tell you.”
“What?” Sherlock said. “What is it?”
“Temper,” Mycroft reprimanded him languidly. “Keep your temper, Whoever-You-Might-Be.”
“Sherlock,” Sherlock said, pushing down a rising panic that fluttered with hollow birds’-wings inside the barred prison of his ribcage. He repeated it, “I’m Sherlock. I am Sherlock Holmes.”
Mycroft quirked a smile at him, as if he knew a secret that Sherlock did not, but refused to tell him. “You say you are Sherlock.”
“I am!” Sherlock protested vehemently around the metallic anger welling up in the corners of his mouth. He swallowed, the saliva tasting like copper and nickel in his stomach. “I am your brother, Sherlock.”
“Then prove it,” Mycroft said. “Deduce where I have been this morning.”
Sherlock’s eyes roved over his brother’s form, the tailored suit hanging from his shoulders, the polished shoes of his feet. There was a missing cufflink on his left sleeve and a splash of mud on the hem of his trouser leg. His tie was slightly askew. Sherlock picked up his umbrella, which was damp with moisture.
“You were outside,” Sherlock deduced. “While it was raining. Judging by the cufflink, it wasn’t a formal meeting. The mud suggests you walked somewhere, so you didn’t want your car to be seen. Perhaps a tryst?”
“Incorrect,” Mycroft said with a touch of glee.
“Not all of it,” Sherlock protested. “Your umbrella is definitely wet, so at the very least, you must have been outside."
“No, all of it, I’m afraid. Perhaps I put my umbrella outside and let it get wet without ever stepping foot out myself.”
“That makes no sense,” Sherlock glared at his brother petulantly. He crossed his arms in front of him, feeling a bit like a twelve-year-old. “None of this makes any sense! I’m beginning to think this is all a colossal joke being played at my expense.”
“Wrong again,” Mycroft said, going back to his hookah. He seemed to forget Sherlock was there entirely. Sherlock waited for him to say something, then huffed and opened the door. Before he could walk away, a hand thrust out, umbrella held inside.
“One will make you grow, the other will make you shrink,” Mycroft’s voice drifted to him. Sherlock took the umbrella, closed tight, and examined it. It was an ordinary black umbrella. Perhaps a bit old-fashioned, but nothing ultimately unusual about it.
“One of what?” Sherlock asked, feeling on the verge of breaking down completely and throwing a tantrum. His brother often affected him like that. The temperature had dropped outside and the air had stilled, suggesting that it would rain soon.
“One side, of course,” Mycroft’s voice said reasonably. “Do try to keep up, Sherlock.”
With that parting remark, the door slammed and the car drove off, leaving Sherlock standing bewildered in the middle of the street, holding an umbrella loosely in one hand and the other clutching the edges of his coat together, pulling his scarf tighter around his neck as the cold snuck in and seeped through to his bones.
Chapter 3/6
Chapter 4/6
Chapter 5/6
Chapter 6/6
