Not So Silent Night, 3/4
Dec. 18th, 2010 11:37 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, 2/4
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories
The plan was set into motion on December 24 at 1800 hours. Sherlock had been banished from the flat, sent on a mission to find a shop open to buy something other than sweets to eat. Though the man had complained, John had wrapped his scarf around him, shoved his arm into one sleeve, and unceremoniously pushed him out the door before he could do so much as protest indignantly. He hunched his shoulders from the cold and bitterness of defeat, making his way through the streets and sneering at anyone who dared to send a friendly smile his way.
Not long before he reached Tesco’s, a black car pulled up to the curb and waited for him. He stopped short, debating whether the warmth of the interior was worth talking to his brother. Just as he had decided that nothing was really worth talking to Mycroft, the door had opened and his brother’s assistant poked her head outside.
“He’s not here,” she told him. “Is it really worth walking in this weather when you could ride in the car?”
The reasonableness of that statement convinced Sherlock and he ducked inside, basking in the warmed air circulating the roomy backseat. The assistant, Anthea she was calling herself these days, smiled at him briefly before tapping furiously at her phone. Though he would never go so far as to say that he pouted, the slouch of his posture certainly indicated he had a good sulk going on. After a moment, he straightened suddenly, peering in vain out the windows.
“Where are we going? We should have turned left back there.”
“We’re not going to the shop. Or Baker Street,” Anthea said without looking up.
“I noticed,” Sherlock bit out. “I asked where we were going.”
“Your brother requested I drop you off at St. Bernadette’s.”
An alarm bell, most emphatically not silver, began clanging in Sherlock’s mind. “No.”
“Yes,” she said, almost apologetically.
Sherlock made a frantic attempt to open the door, telling himself that it was preferable to fling himself into traffic rather than suffer through the hellish fate his brother and that traitor of a flatmate of his had decided to consign him to. The doors were locked, foiling his attempt and keeping him a prisoner in the luxurious interior. Anthea shot him a sympathetic, and patently false, smile.
As soon as the car had stopped and the doors opened, Sherlock hurled himself outside intent on making an escape, but a hand grabbed him by the upper arm as soon as he left the car, hauling him unwillingly into the small Catholic school.
“Come along, then,” John said cheerfully, towing him inside to a mass of people finding their seats. The stage was lit up with a traditionally horrible fake set, blankets supposedly simulating snow decorating the panels and awkwardly cut-out trees set up like some kind of demented two-dimensional forest. “You’re going to sit down and enjoy this.”
“I assure you, I won’t,” Sherlock said feelingly. “You should just let me go home now. I might even forgive you.”
“I don’t care,” John said. “Now sit and watch the show.”
The next hour was plagued by Sherlock’s loud commentary on the children’s acting abilities, the shoddy sets, and intermittent suggestions that whoever had staged this monstrosity be blindfolded, put against a wall, and shot. John, for his part, sank slowly lower into his seat with each passing minute, trying in vain to hide his face behind his hand and wondering why he had ever thought this would be a good idea. He didn’t know quite what he was expecting to happen; perhaps a rousing moment when Sherlock would fall silent, watching the ruddy-cheeked children mangle their lines with smiles of blissful ignorance and holiday cheer, and John would look over to see a single tear falling down the curve of Sherlock’s face as he realised the true meaning of Christmas. Clearly too many sappy, maudlin Christmas specials on the telly growing up. This was more Watership Down than It’s a Wonderful Life.
They eventually had to leave early; their fellow audiences’ irritated mutterings growing in strength until it was either make a hasty retreat or face a coup d’état from the mothers who resented their darlings’ performance being eviscerated by the equivalent of an extremely cranky, petty theatre critic.
Safely outside, John hailed a cab, getting inside and determinedly looking out the window. If he saw Sherlock’s smug face now, he was sure that he would punch the man squarely in the jaw.
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, 2/4
Pageants and Pyrrhic Victories
The plan was set into motion on December 24 at 1800 hours. Sherlock had been banished from the flat, sent on a mission to find a shop open to buy something other than sweets to eat. Though the man had complained, John had wrapped his scarf around him, shoved his arm into one sleeve, and unceremoniously pushed him out the door before he could do so much as protest indignantly. He hunched his shoulders from the cold and bitterness of defeat, making his way through the streets and sneering at anyone who dared to send a friendly smile his way.
Not long before he reached Tesco’s, a black car pulled up to the curb and waited for him. He stopped short, debating whether the warmth of the interior was worth talking to his brother. Just as he had decided that nothing was really worth talking to Mycroft, the door had opened and his brother’s assistant poked her head outside.
“He’s not here,” she told him. “Is it really worth walking in this weather when you could ride in the car?”
The reasonableness of that statement convinced Sherlock and he ducked inside, basking in the warmed air circulating the roomy backseat. The assistant, Anthea she was calling herself these days, smiled at him briefly before tapping furiously at her phone. Though he would never go so far as to say that he pouted, the slouch of his posture certainly indicated he had a good sulk going on. After a moment, he straightened suddenly, peering in vain out the windows.
“Where are we going? We should have turned left back there.”
“We’re not going to the shop. Or Baker Street,” Anthea said without looking up.
“I noticed,” Sherlock bit out. “I asked where we were going.”
“Your brother requested I drop you off at St. Bernadette’s.”
An alarm bell, most emphatically not silver, began clanging in Sherlock’s mind. “No.”
“Yes,” she said, almost apologetically.
Sherlock made a frantic attempt to open the door, telling himself that it was preferable to fling himself into traffic rather than suffer through the hellish fate his brother and that traitor of a flatmate of his had decided to consign him to. The doors were locked, foiling his attempt and keeping him a prisoner in the luxurious interior. Anthea shot him a sympathetic, and patently false, smile.
As soon as the car had stopped and the doors opened, Sherlock hurled himself outside intent on making an escape, but a hand grabbed him by the upper arm as soon as he left the car, hauling him unwillingly into the small Catholic school.
“Come along, then,” John said cheerfully, towing him inside to a mass of people finding their seats. The stage was lit up with a traditionally horrible fake set, blankets supposedly simulating snow decorating the panels and awkwardly cut-out trees set up like some kind of demented two-dimensional forest. “You’re going to sit down and enjoy this.”
“I assure you, I won’t,” Sherlock said feelingly. “You should just let me go home now. I might even forgive you.”
“I don’t care,” John said. “Now sit and watch the show.”
The next hour was plagued by Sherlock’s loud commentary on the children’s acting abilities, the shoddy sets, and intermittent suggestions that whoever had staged this monstrosity be blindfolded, put against a wall, and shot. John, for his part, sank slowly lower into his seat with each passing minute, trying in vain to hide his face behind his hand and wondering why he had ever thought this would be a good idea. He didn’t know quite what he was expecting to happen; perhaps a rousing moment when Sherlock would fall silent, watching the ruddy-cheeked children mangle their lines with smiles of blissful ignorance and holiday cheer, and John would look over to see a single tear falling down the curve of Sherlock’s face as he realised the true meaning of Christmas. Clearly too many sappy, maudlin Christmas specials on the telly growing up. This was more Watership Down than It’s a Wonderful Life.
They eventually had to leave early; their fellow audiences’ irritated mutterings growing in strength until it was either make a hasty retreat or face a coup d’état from the mothers who resented their darlings’ performance being eviscerated by the equivalent of an extremely cranky, petty theatre critic.
Safely outside, John hailed a cab, getting inside and determinedly looking out the window. If he saw Sherlock’s smug face now, he was sure that he would punch the man squarely in the jaw.
Arbitration and Angelic Intervention, 4/4
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-18 10:29 pm (UTC)My God, John! What have you been smoking?? This is Sherlock we are taking about.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-19 06:41 pm (UTC)