Not So Silent Night, 2/4
Dec. 18th, 2010 11:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Not So Silent Night
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Originally from a kinkmeme prompt, John is actually one of those Chrismas nutcases who likes to bury their house in so much lights that it can be seen from space. He tries to get Sherlock into the Christmas spirit. This might be harder than he thought.
A/N: Thanks to the wonderfulerrantcomment and musical_lottie for beta'ing and Britpicking respectively. Thank you both so much!
Decorations and War Declarations, 1/4
Special Tinsel and Tactics
Over the next week, a passive-aggressive war for cheerfulness and gaiety had commenced, both sides staking their claims and defending them with rabid territoriality. John would come home from work to find all the reindeer-shaped biscuits had the crosshairs of a rifle painted on their flanks in food dye—or at least, he sincerely hoped it was food dye—and the gingerbread men had been unceremoniously decapitated by vicious bites from the enemy’s teeth. Though John was at a disadvantage, having a steady job which claimed his time and attention, he recruited Mrs Hudson to the cause, who was only too eager to help.
Sherlock would leave the flat on a case, only to come home to find the lights had multiplied, procreating madly around the room in retaliation. A hideous swag rested on the mantelpiece, and guerrillas from the opposing camp had hung tinsel around his room and replaced his comfortable duvet cover with one featuring a heavily commercialised Father Christmas. His pillowcases now greeted him with, “Ho ho ho!” as he walked in.
The days when they were both in proved a battle of wills more than strategy. John would hum Christmas songs under his breath. Sherlock would pull out his violin and raise the bow threateningly. John would begin singing. Sherlock would create hideous screeching noises that would make alley cats wince as he viciously sawed the bow across the strings. John’s voice would raise to overcome the noise, belting out carols with the robust ardour of an opera singer. Even Mrs Hudson had surrendered under the din that regularly emanated from the thin walls of their flat.
Sherlock scored a minor victory on Wednesday. He had taken to loudly deducing the contents of all the presents John bought, some of them within earshot of the recipients. The final straw had come when John had arrived home from work to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged under the tree, holding a soggy package in his hands. The tag was to Sarah and John didn’t need to be a consulting detective to realize that the crystal snow-globe he had bought her hadn’t withstood Sherlock’s vigorous shaking. The rest of the presents had disappeared into the airing cupboard, along with an assortment of gifts for Sherlock, all increasingly more obscure in the hopes that he wouldn’t be able to guess the objects inside before opening them.
One particularly cold day found them both sitting in the living room, glaring balefully at each other from above their laptops. John was typing furiously, bombarding Sherlock’s website forum with singing animations of elves, “Season’s Greetings!” written brightly in alternating red and green fonts, and cutting and pasting inspirational festive sayings from greeting cards. Sherlock had hacked into John’s blog, replacing every one of his entries with “Bah humbug” and a discourse on how A Christmas Carol was clearly the product of a deranged mind and an allegory for the mental illness which pervaded people in December that the naïve termed “Christmas spirit”. There was a particularly savage bit which unfavourably compared the use of “spirits” as ghosts to alcoholic spirits in a literary analysis that would make any self-respecting Dickens scholar pale.
“Er, hello?”
DI Lestrade poked his head into the flat and stared in shock. Every available space was covered in Christmas paraphernalia. An animatronic St. Nicholas waved and bent slightly at the waist to the left of the door, nearly giving him a heart attack as it boomed, “Merrrrry Christmas” in a slurred, soulless voice. The scientific instruments and accoutrements still hung from the boughs of the tree, the gruesome skull having sensibly disappeared somewhere unknown to man or Sherlock. Every type of Christmas-based sweet was spread out in a buffet in the kitchen, with even John tiring of the sugar after eating nothing else for the past week.
“Hello, Greg,” John said without taking his eyes off of Sherlock.
“What happened in here?” Lestrade said, picking his way gingerly over the debris littering the floor.
“John has been attacked by a sudden bout of mental illness,” Sherlock said by way of explanation.
“Actually, I was merely trying to explain the meaning of Christmas to Sherlock,” John growled.
“Bloody hell. You do that with fibre-optics and terrifying animatronics, do you?” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “Whatever happened to peace on earth and goodwill to man? Look at you, you’ve turned this into a ruddy war, all commercialisation and petty vindictiveness.”
They both stared at him until he shifted uncomfortably.
“What?” he asked nervously.
“I’m sorry, was that supposed to suddenly make me realise my mistakes and send me into thralls of teary sentimentalism?” Sherlock asked dryly.
“I’m atheist, myself,” John shrugged.
Lestrade sighed. “I’m leaving now. Just came by to drop these off.”
He produced a series of packages from his messenger bag, each wrapped in more tape than paper. John accepted them, glaring at Sherlock before disappearing to squirrel them away wherever he was hiding them from his flatmate’s irrepressible curiosity. Lestrade stared at them both for a second before shaking his head and leaving. He flinched when the statue began moving again as he walked past. Bloody hell.
“I don’t know why you bothered hiding them,” Sherlock announced, still tapping away on his laptop. John looked up with alarm, quickly logging on to see what new changes had been made to his blog. “It’s obvious that Lestrade bought me a new scarf and you a—“
“Don’t tell me!” John yelled. “Don’t even think it!”
Sherlock leaned forward, smiling triumphantly. “New jumper, he bought you a new jumper, John.”
John felt his face flush a dull red, anger boiling inside him. This was absolutely the last straw. He grabbed his laptop and retreated to his room to contemplate his next move.
Clearly, a new plan of attack was called for.
John stared at his mobile, knowing that what he was about to do would be nigh on unforgivable in Sherlock’s eyes. It would be crossing the line from skirmishes to a full battle, calling in the artillery when the enemy battalion was fighting with bows and arrows.
It was time to call in Mycroft.
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories, 3/4
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention, 4/4
Author:
tripatchRating: G
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Originally from a kinkmeme prompt, John is actually one of those Chrismas nutcases who likes to bury their house in so much lights that it can be seen from space. He tries to get Sherlock into the Christmas spirit. This might be harder than he thought.
A/N: Thanks to the wonderful
errantcomment and musical_lottie for beta'ing and Britpicking respectively. Thank you both so much!Decorations and War Declarations, 1/4
Special Tinsel and Tactics
Over the next week, a passive-aggressive war for cheerfulness and gaiety had commenced, both sides staking their claims and defending them with rabid territoriality. John would come home from work to find all the reindeer-shaped biscuits had the crosshairs of a rifle painted on their flanks in food dye—or at least, he sincerely hoped it was food dye—and the gingerbread men had been unceremoniously decapitated by vicious bites from the enemy’s teeth. Though John was at a disadvantage, having a steady job which claimed his time and attention, he recruited Mrs Hudson to the cause, who was only too eager to help.
Sherlock would leave the flat on a case, only to come home to find the lights had multiplied, procreating madly around the room in retaliation. A hideous swag rested on the mantelpiece, and guerrillas from the opposing camp had hung tinsel around his room and replaced his comfortable duvet cover with one featuring a heavily commercialised Father Christmas. His pillowcases now greeted him with, “Ho ho ho!” as he walked in.
The days when they were both in proved a battle of wills more than strategy. John would hum Christmas songs under his breath. Sherlock would pull out his violin and raise the bow threateningly. John would begin singing. Sherlock would create hideous screeching noises that would make alley cats wince as he viciously sawed the bow across the strings. John’s voice would raise to overcome the noise, belting out carols with the robust ardour of an opera singer. Even Mrs Hudson had surrendered under the din that regularly emanated from the thin walls of their flat.
Sherlock scored a minor victory on Wednesday. He had taken to loudly deducing the contents of all the presents John bought, some of them within earshot of the recipients. The final straw had come when John had arrived home from work to find Sherlock sitting cross-legged under the tree, holding a soggy package in his hands. The tag was to Sarah and John didn’t need to be a consulting detective to realize that the crystal snow-globe he had bought her hadn’t withstood Sherlock’s vigorous shaking. The rest of the presents had disappeared into the airing cupboard, along with an assortment of gifts for Sherlock, all increasingly more obscure in the hopes that he wouldn’t be able to guess the objects inside before opening them.
One particularly cold day found them both sitting in the living room, glaring balefully at each other from above their laptops. John was typing furiously, bombarding Sherlock’s website forum with singing animations of elves, “Season’s Greetings!” written brightly in alternating red and green fonts, and cutting and pasting inspirational festive sayings from greeting cards. Sherlock had hacked into John’s blog, replacing every one of his entries with “Bah humbug” and a discourse on how A Christmas Carol was clearly the product of a deranged mind and an allegory for the mental illness which pervaded people in December that the naïve termed “Christmas spirit”. There was a particularly savage bit which unfavourably compared the use of “spirits” as ghosts to alcoholic spirits in a literary analysis that would make any self-respecting Dickens scholar pale.
“Er, hello?”
DI Lestrade poked his head into the flat and stared in shock. Every available space was covered in Christmas paraphernalia. An animatronic St. Nicholas waved and bent slightly at the waist to the left of the door, nearly giving him a heart attack as it boomed, “Merrrrry Christmas” in a slurred, soulless voice. The scientific instruments and accoutrements still hung from the boughs of the tree, the gruesome skull having sensibly disappeared somewhere unknown to man or Sherlock. Every type of Christmas-based sweet was spread out in a buffet in the kitchen, with even John tiring of the sugar after eating nothing else for the past week.
“Hello, Greg,” John said without taking his eyes off of Sherlock.
“What happened in here?” Lestrade said, picking his way gingerly over the debris littering the floor.
“John has been attacked by a sudden bout of mental illness,” Sherlock said by way of explanation.
“Actually, I was merely trying to explain the meaning of Christmas to Sherlock,” John growled.
“Bloody hell. You do that with fibre-optics and terrifying animatronics, do you?” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “Whatever happened to peace on earth and goodwill to man? Look at you, you’ve turned this into a ruddy war, all commercialisation and petty vindictiveness.”
They both stared at him until he shifted uncomfortably.
“What?” he asked nervously.
“I’m sorry, was that supposed to suddenly make me realise my mistakes and send me into thralls of teary sentimentalism?” Sherlock asked dryly.
“I’m atheist, myself,” John shrugged.
Lestrade sighed. “I’m leaving now. Just came by to drop these off.”
He produced a series of packages from his messenger bag, each wrapped in more tape than paper. John accepted them, glaring at Sherlock before disappearing to squirrel them away wherever he was hiding them from his flatmate’s irrepressible curiosity. Lestrade stared at them both for a second before shaking his head and leaving. He flinched when the statue began moving again as he walked past. Bloody hell.
“I don’t know why you bothered hiding them,” Sherlock announced, still tapping away on his laptop. John looked up with alarm, quickly logging on to see what new changes had been made to his blog. “It’s obvious that Lestrade bought me a new scarf and you a—“
“Don’t tell me!” John yelled. “Don’t even think it!”
Sherlock leaned forward, smiling triumphantly. “New jumper, he bought you a new jumper, John.”
John felt his face flush a dull red, anger boiling inside him. This was absolutely the last straw. He grabbed his laptop and retreated to his room to contemplate his next move.
Clearly, a new plan of attack was called for.
John stared at his mobile, knowing that what he was about to do would be nigh on unforgivable in Sherlock’s eyes. It would be crossing the line from skirmishes to a full battle, calling in the artillery when the enemy battalion was fighting with bows and arrows.
It was time to call in Mycroft.
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories, 3/4
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention, 4/4
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-19 06:36 pm (UTC)This phrase alone slays me.
And to imagine an an animatronic St. Nick had tears in my eyes.