The Flying Detective

So, it's been a while, I know. No excuses (beyond my stupid computer and our muck up). Just been real busy. But, I wanted to let y'all know I'm not quite dead yet. So, have another fun story with a weird prompt. And, Sherlock and John because, why not?

The Flying Detective -- an original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     “An air mattress?”

     “Shut up, Sherlock,” John muttered darkly. “It’s the best Greg could do on short notice, alright? Just go get ready for bed, I’ll blow the damn thing up.”

     Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the inflatable device before spinning out of the room and towards the bathroom. John rolled his eyes, but quickly found the pump and plugged it. Flipping the switch, the room filled with noise as the machine blew air into the mattress. A few minutes later, John switched it off and stored the pump somewhere out of the way.

     “Bloody prat,” the doctor muttered as he stood and stretched, glancing around the DI’s flat. “His fault for nearly killing us with his damn experiments.”

     “Miscalculation, John,” Sherlock snorted, coming back into the stare at their makeshift bed for the evening. “Won’t happen again. Are you sure he doesn’t have anything else?”

     “You’re lucky you’re even getting that!” Greg snapped as he stormed in through the door. “Sorry you’ll have to share, but it really is the best I can do. Don’t trust the couch to hold either of you for long.”

     “No, of course not. It’s nearly dead as is, you should purchase a new one.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose, eyes still fixed on the bed.

     “Yeah, I’ll do that, when I win the lottery next.” The DI rolled his eyes. “I’m off. I’ll probably be back some point tonight, make yourselves at home.” He paused and glared at Sherlock, quickly making a correction. “John, you can make yourself at home. Keep him contained, yeah?”

     John snorted but nodded his agreement. “I’ll do my best, mate.”

     Greg nodded, hesitating only a moment more before darting out the door, leaving the two alone. John groaned and rubbed a hand across his face before muttering something about needing the loo.

     He left Sherlock staring at the mattress, probably trying best how to proceed, but he didn’t care. No, he wanted to get as much of the damn stink off of himself as he could. He’d deal with Sherlock’s irritation at the mattress in a few minutes.

     He looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. God did he look tired. Worse, he looked tired and old. He felt it a bit, then, staring at himself. A man his age should not be running after murders and rapists and other criminals. It was at this point he was more than glad his leg was nothing more than a passing injury, real or not.

     With a grunt, John tore his eyes away from his image and ran through his nightly rituals as quickly as he could. Exhaustion was pulling at him and he wanted to do nothing more than flop down into bed and let it pull him down.

     Returning to the living room, he smirked as he noticed Sherlock had assumed his usual position of mock-prayer on one side of the air mattress. His eyes were closed, hands pressed together right under his lips, legs crossed at the ankles. It seemed the mighty detective could live with sleeping on the air mattress for one night after all.

     John stumbled on his way over the bed, tripping over his own feet, and landed next to the taller man with a loud whump. The sudden impact of John forced the air from the mattress on his side to Sherlock’s, easily launching the other man into the air with a startled squawk. He flailed wildly as he flew, landing on the ground and his backside with a thump.

     “What the hell was that?” Sherlock demanded, sitting up. His hair was in disarray and his cheeks were pink.

     John struggled to hold in his laughter, but couldn’t the longer he stared at Sherlock. “God, you should have seen your face!”

     “John!” Sherlock snapped.

     “I’m sorry,” John said between laughs, wiping away the tears that slipped out. “It was an accident, I swear! Just so tired and I stepped wrong and tripped. I didn’t mean it.”

     “Is it going to be like this every time one of us gets on or off this stupid thing?”

     “No.” At Sherlock’s skeptical look, John sighed. “I promise. I won’t get up and fall back down and if you get back on carefully, I won’t go flying either.”

     “Hardly doubt I could send you off that high,” Sherlock muttered darkly, crawling back onto the air mattress as carefully as he could. “You obviously have me at a disadvantage there.”

     “Oi!” John snorted. “No fat jokes!”

     “Hardly, John, just pointing out that you are, in fact, built differently than I and would find launching me far easier than I would be at attempting to do the same to you.”

     “Might have a better chance if you ate more,” John muttered, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. “G’night, Sherlock.”

     “Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, resuming his previous position. “Goodnight, John.”

Tone is Everything when Speaking

I worked on this one for a long while. In the beginning I wasn't sure if I wanted this to be Sherlock/John or my own characters. Of course, as I started writing, Sherlock simply took over and decided for me. Not that I mind, of course. It's nice to have characters help out now and again.

I'm not fully thrilled with this one as I think it could be a whole lot more, but again, the thought was to put words on a page and move on. Which I did. It turned out well enough, but if I have time during NaNoWriMo, I may go back and edit it a bit. We'll see.

There is a companion piece to this. Two, actually. I haven't decided whether or not I'm going to post them here or not yet. If I don't, I will definitely link them to my deviantArt page. One is in the middle of this and the other is floating around through time and space, but it fits in this AU.

Without further ado, I give you the story inspired by the prompt: Don't sign to me in that tone.

Don't Sign to Me in That Tone -- An original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     His hands flew quickly, signing in an angry tone if his face was anything to go by. Damn it! I nearly had it that time! You should know better than to interrupt me!

     I rolled my eyes and signed back just as quick, speaking aloud as I did so, “Don’t you sign to me in that tone. Be nice, your hair was about to catch fire.”

     To hell with my hair! A scowl settled on his face as he sat back and glared at me.

    “You say that now,” I huffed, “But you love your hair. You’d sulk even more if you’d burnt your damn hair.”

     The tall man snorted and pushed away from the table angrily. He stalked off towards his room and the door slammed shut. I sighed and rolled my eyes, not bothering to walk down the hall and find out how upset he was with me. He’d probably forget to sign and simply make rude gestures instead.

     I cleared the table off and threw away the burnt bits. He’d sulk now, but he’d be fine later and, if I was extremely lucky, I’d get some sort of apology. He really did love his bloody hair, but the experiment was probably just as important. I’d find a way to make it up to him.

     A few hours later, the dark haired man finally decided to grace our living room with his presence. He sat in his chair, legs curled up beneath him as he looked at me, studying me. I didn’t look up from my paper beyond that initial look, waiting for him to make some noise to get my attention. I didn’t have to wait long.

     I… He snorted, frowning. I’m sorry, John. I would have had an awful strop over my hair, thank you for preventing me from setting it aflame.

     “You’re welcome, Sherlock,” I gave my response and raised an eyebrow, on hand on the paper.

     Fine, go back to reading. I’ll entertain myself then.

     “Just don’t set anything else on fire,” I mumbled, returning to my paper.

-

     “Damn it, Sherlock! Stop signing to me in that bloody tone!” I snapped, forgetting to sign this time. He rolled his eyes, pretending he couldn’t understand me, but I knew the idiot could read lips. “Keep it up and I will leave you here! Greg can take you home and he’s horrible at signing.”

     He wrinkled his nose before blowing out a steam of air. Fine. Tell them. He paused for a moment before adding a Please at the end.

     I turned to the DI and outlined what the detective had said, leaving out the insults and ‘obvious’ remarks. Sherlock gave a sort of growl, something he always did when I didn’t repeat what he said exactly as he’d told it to me, but I ignored it.

     Sally opened her mouth and Sherlock made a handful of gestures and I let out a hissed, “Sherlock!” before turning to the sergeant and shaking my head. “Please, don’t, Sally. I’d rather not repeat that.”

     She blinked, turning a shade darker from blushing most likely, and shut her mouth with a click of teeth. A quick look toward Lestrade and she spun, disappearing behind a car, probably to mutter darkly where the tall man couldn’t see her.

     Sherlock spun and took off, signaling the end of our help and I sighed, following closely behind with a shout to the DI. I had to nearly jog to keep up to his long legs and ridiculously billowing coat, but when I caught up he signed a simple thank you which I smiled at.

     He wasn’t so bad, not really.

-

     “Don’t sign to me in that tone, John.”

     That was the first time I had ever heard Sherlock’s voice beyond a handful of grunts, growls, and irritated noises. I had also been wrapped up in semtex at the time, signing back what Moriarty was spouting off in my ear. I’d been so startled that I stopped and stared at him like some idiot.

     “So the great Sherlock Holmes can speak!” Moriarty appeared around the corner, delight rolling off his tongue as he laughed and clapped his hands together. “How interesting!”

     “Don’t be stupid,” Holmes rolled his eyes, gun pointed at the madman, “Talking is boring.”

     “You bloody git!” I hissed, glaring at him, but he didn’t spare me more than a glance. If we survived this, I would strangle him myself for forcing me to put up with him for this long.

     They both continued to ignore me, I assumed because I was no longer useful to either of them at the moment, which gave me time to prepare an attack. Of course my meager attempt was useless and we eventually got away with our lives, all three of us that bastard, and we headed back to Baker Street.

     Once there I simply headed to my room and locked myself in, effectively ignoring my flatmate. I went about doing so for several weeks, during which Sherlock spent his time obsessing over his new puzzle (one Jim Moriarty) or sending Lestrade frustrated texts because I refused to accompany him during his consultations with the Yard. He could just talk to Greg anyway, so why did he need me?

     I ignored his off-handed remarks and piss-poor attempts to explain why he refused to talk since childhood. I found a reason to be out of the flat: work at the surgery or need to get some air, might go see what Mike’s up to today. Hell, I’d put up with Harry if it meant I didn’t have to spend time with that lying bastard. Whatever reason I could come up with, I used, no matter how stupid it seemed.

     It was only after Mycroft interfered with a black car pulling up to the curb and driving me away from the flat that I begin to think that I should probably listen to what Sherlock had to say. Blessfully, the elder Holmes simply insisted that I listen to his brother than explain the whole thing for him. He sent me back with a smile I knew was fake, and I stalked up the stairs and demanded an explanation.

-

     “For the thousandth time, do not sign to me in that tone, you bloody git!” I snapped at the crime scene. I signed rapidly, if you keep up your attitude, I’ll out your damn arse to the entire Yard.

     Sherlock hesitated and stared at me, eyes wide. You would. He decided. His lip raised in annoyance. That would be not good, John, you know that. It would ruin everything.

     “Exactly,” I muttered. But I wouldn’t be the only one putting up with your insults and foul signs.

Lestrade guesses, or knows, haven’t decided yet. Need more data. He doesn’t care though, either way. Likes it when you take charge of me. Interesting. He began wondering if he’d prefer Mycroft more because of how controlling his brother was and I blushed.

     “Oi! Case!” I snapped.

     Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I saw my name and his brother’s a few times. What’s going on?”

     I shook my head as he switched gears and began to outline his deductions. I repeated them back, glad for the change in topic. The DI said nothing as I accepted the switch of conversation and shouted orders to his officers.

     Come along, John! Sherlock signed, The game is on!

-

     Don’t sign it, I smiled, stilling his hands, “Please?”

     He sighed and rolled his eyes. For several long moments, there was silence before Sherlock took a breath and spoke,

     “I do.”

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )

Grey not Gray

So, when I was writing this, I vaguely remembered that I have this GIANT list of writing prompts. Okay, giant is perhaps a bit much, but that hardly matters. It's called 100 Themes Writing Challenge. It's still a huge work in progress, but it's full of fun stuff.

This week's story isn't really based on a "prompt" per say, but rather a fun little ficlet I found on Pinterest (because I find nearly 100% of my prompts there). The link to this can be found here, as a photo, (please, PLEASE, PLEASE let me know if this disappears, I can link it from another source).

The work below, titled "Shades of Grey" has ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with that blasted book series. It was number 34 on the list of 100 (as can be found above), so please don't bother with those sorts of jokes. Besides, this is actually rather sad and a bit depressing. I killed John (sorta).

Shades of Grey - An original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016

     The sky was grey. The clouds were grey. His bloody Belstaff was grey. The man standing next to him was grey, or rather his clothing and hair were grey. The damn stone was grey. It was as if the colour was stolen from the world and it made him sick. He could only pray it didn’t bleed into his mind palace.

     “Lestrade,” he murmured, his deep voice soft with confusion. “What is this?”

     The DI looked over at the tall man huddled in his coat briefly before looking back at the stone in front of them. He sighed and ran a hand through his ever-greying hair. Sherlock now wore the same look that John had when the taller man…

     “He waited every day for you, Sherlock,” Lestrade huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets and shifting his feet uneasily.

     “It,” The consulting detective paused, sounding choked. “It says John Holmes on the stone. Why?”

     Lestrade laughed.

     It sounded dead.

     It felt dead.

     He felt empty.

     “He loved you, Sherlock. He really did.”

     “Why haven’t you changed your name?”

     Lestrade blinked, reeling slightly from the change of topic. “What?”

     Sherlock’s multifaceted gaze flicked over him. “You and my brother,” another strangled sound. “Sentiment, Lestrade. Surely you two have done something about it now.”

     “That doesn’t matter,” Lestrade hissed. “John is what matters right now, you idiot! And he’s gone.”

     “Obvious!”

     The word shattered the silence, yet pulled in more, something worse than silence.

     “Mycroft did this, Sherlock, changed his name as he was…” Lestrade broke off, dropping his gaze to his shoes. “He signed the paperwork, you two are, were legally wed for a bit.”

     Sherlock whimpered.

     Lestrade said nothing.

     “I can’t hear anything,” he muttered after a moment. “The noise in my head is silent and there’s so much damn grey everywhere.”

     The DI had no reply to that. What do you tell the man who clearly couldn’t see that the man in front of him was utterly smitten with him?

     Nothing.

     “I’m, uh,” Lestrade sighed. “I’m going to visit your brother. You’ll, you’ll be alright here?”

     “I’m fine. It’s fine,” Sherlock huffed, waving at hand at the older man. A clear dismissal. “I just… A few moments, alone, yes.”

     He stood, listening as Lestrade was driven away by one of Mycroft’s minions, leaving him in silence and utterly alone as he stared at the name on the stone. Underneath his birthday and day of death was etched a few lines of sentiment.

     John Watson was beloved by many, loved by few, and cared for only one. He saved many lives while he was alive and we’ll miss him when he’s gone. May God bless his soul.

     “John,” Sherlock shuddered, dropping to his knees. “Damn it, John… Why couldn’t you wait a few more days? I was coming home, John, I was coming home…”

     He stayed that way for hours, hand pressed against the name, letting tears flow freely from his cheeks as the world became grey. Who was he without his blogger?

     The sky had no answer, nor did the stone. And, as he had feared, even the walls of his mind palace had become grey to match the world around him.

     “Goodbye, John…”

I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!

(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )