Never-to-be-finished fic snippets
Jan. 12th, 2014 06:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
goseawardSince I'm not going to write it now, have a bit of AU John&Mycroft college roommate hijinx:
Morning slams into him like a particularly tooth-jarring rugby tackle, and John groans and squeezes his eyes shut like that will keep out the sun.
"You should drink more water," a warm baritone says from somewhere above John's head.
"Oh God," John says, stomach rebelling.
"Possibly not right at this moment," the voice concedes. "Really, while you're drinking the alcohol. It's dehydration that--"
John groans. "Causes the hangover, yes, thank you."
There's a pause. "You should tell me if you're going to vomit. I like these shoes."
Cracking one eye, John leans over the side of the sofa to see hideous blue-and-white gingerbread brogues vanishing swiftly around the edge of the upholstery. "Not vomiting," John says. He grabs the glass of water he left under the coffee table and sits up, which almost makes him reconsider that statement. There's a kid perched on the back of the sofa--looks secondary school age, curly dark hair running wild, underfed in a white shirt and black trousers that might or might not be a school uniform. "Who're you?"
"Sherlock Holmes," the kid says, as though he has every expectation of the name being recognized. To be fair, John does--the last name at least.
"You're Mike's brother?"
"His name is Mycroft," Sherlock says with a sneer.
"Oh. I thought Michael."
"Well, you wouldn't think Mycroft, would you. Is he really going by Mike?"
"Yes," John says. Mycroft and Sherlock. God. "Sorry, I didn't know to expect a visitor..."
"It was rather sudden," Sherlock says. "Father was concerned about my drug use." He casts a jaded eye over the room, littered with plastic cups half-filled with liquids in various concentrations of alcohol. "So he sent me here. A wise choice, I think."
"Your drug use?" John says.
Morning slams into him like a particularly tooth-jarring rugby tackle, and John groans and squeezes his eyes shut like that will keep out the sun.
"You should drink more water," a warm baritone says from somewhere above John's head.
"Oh God," John says, stomach rebelling.
"Possibly not right at this moment," the voice concedes. "Really, while you're drinking the alcohol. It's dehydration that--"
John groans. "Causes the hangover, yes, thank you."
There's a pause. "You should tell me if you're going to vomit. I like these shoes."
Cracking one eye, John leans over the side of the sofa to see hideous blue-and-white gingerbread brogues vanishing swiftly around the edge of the upholstery. "Not vomiting," John says. He grabs the glass of water he left under the coffee table and sits up, which almost makes him reconsider that statement. There's a kid perched on the back of the sofa--looks secondary school age, curly dark hair running wild, underfed in a white shirt and black trousers that might or might not be a school uniform. "Who're you?"
"Sherlock Holmes," the kid says, as though he has every expectation of the name being recognized. To be fair, John does--the last name at least.
"You're Mike's brother?"
"His name is Mycroft," Sherlock says with a sneer.
"Oh. I thought Michael."
"Well, you wouldn't think Mycroft, would you. Is he really going by Mike?"
"Yes," John says. Mycroft and Sherlock. God. "Sorry, I didn't know to expect a visitor..."
"It was rather sudden," Sherlock says. "Father was concerned about my drug use." He casts a jaded eye over the room, littered with plastic cups half-filled with liquids in various concentrations of alcohol. "So he sent me here. A wise choice, I think."
"Your drug use?" John says.