seriousfic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
seriousfic) wrote2010-10-14 12:48 pm
seriousfic) wrote2010-10-14 12:48 pm
Sherlock fic: The Case of the Modified Manuscript (gen)
Dear internet, before you link Metafandom to an angry post about me, know that if I had friends, a lot of them would be black.
Title: The Case of the Modified Manuscript
Fandom: Sherlock BBS
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,474
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John
Summary: What could make John change his story?
John usually came into the flat like he was expecting to come under fire. Which was absurd, in Sherlock's eyes. It had only happened once. Statistically meaningless.
This time, however, he came in with a spring in his step, looking for all the world like the wacky neighbor in a sitcom. "Guess what?" he demanded breathlessly.
Sherlock didn't look up from his work. "Doctors have found a small piece of shrapnel lodged in your brain. They've scheduled a surgery and as soon as it's removed, you'll be back to your hitherto unseen intelligence."
John stopped mid-cocky-stride. "That was a spectacularly insulting thing to say."
"Yes, I thought it up that time you botched the Helsinki case and called me a ninny, but you never gave me an opening, so I saved it until just now."
"You could've just not said it. Ever."
"But it was spectacularly insulting."
"Do you want to know the good news or not?"
Sherlock looked briefly confused. "Did I ever say I did?"
"Right." John waved his hands at Sherlock like he was shooing away the urge to divulge anything to him ever. "I'll be watching the telly."
That night, John woke up to see Sherlock standing at the foot of his bed. He threw his alarm clock at Sherlock before realizing who it was. That was his story and he was sticking to it.
"What's the good news?" Sherlock asked (the clock had missed him).
"Why do you care?"
"I have room for it now."
The disturbing thing was, that made sense.
Although he was very comfortable, John sat up, figuring it was the most dignified way to be talking to a fully-dressed man while you were in bed wearing Dalek pajamas (they'd been a gag gift that had turned out to be inordinately comfy). "I have a literary agent. Don't ask when, just accept it. She's turning my journals about our work into a manuscript and she's managed to get me a book deal. She says it's not just the cases, it's my narrative voice."
Sherlock made a hmm noise, signaling he was adding something to his disturbingly large mental file on John Watson.
"So the publishers asked if I had any other writing, I said I had a few ideas, they said type up a synopsis and let us see. I'm branching out into fiction!"
"You write nonfiction now?"
"Yes. I write us doing things that have actually happened."
Sherlock quoted from memory, for some reason giving John a Cockney accent. "Sherlock turned to me, his eyes blazing with knowledge. 'Whoever the police have as prime suspect, his hair is different than the killer's.'" He returned to his usual stentorian tone. "I said 'different from the killer's.' Why would I make such a common grammatical error?"
"That's just the way people talk? Don't you think you should take it up with my editor instead?"
"I intend to. I've already written a strongly-worded letter on the topic. It's around here somewhere. Make sure to send it."
"Yeah," said John, who wouldn't.
Sherlock left, and twenty minutes later poked his head in the door to say "Congratulations."
That morning at breakfast, Sherlock ate nothing, became inordinately fascinated by the scrambled eggs John had left in the pan, then finally sat down in the kitchen nook and asked "What's your book about?"
"I was thinking historical fantasy," John replied ably. "I've always been fascinated by the Crusades. I mean, all of history is relevant to the present day, but the issues that were being grappled with back then are still so much at the forefront of…"
Sherlock was back to examining the scrambled eggs. John stared at him. "These came from Yorkshire," he said finally.
John sighed. "I'm having a friend over for lunch. I'm going to be bouncing ideas off her. She's a Muslim, so don't suddenly decide she's a terrorist or anything."
"John, that would be absurdly offensive."
"Yes, it would."
"As a woman, she's much more likely to be a thief of some sort. You should check for stolen goods, not a suicide vest."
Sherlock strolled off before John could figure out how to respond to that. After an hour of measuring maggot lengths in correspondence to the ethnicity of the carrion being eaten while memorizing the differing pitches in Bulgarian slut-rock, he returned to the kitchen to see if John had any interesting food he could appropriate from the icebox and bumped into the man himself on the way back from the bathroom, judging by his toweled-yet-wet hands and his fly being undone.
"John, when's your friend getting here?"
"She is here," John said, pointing into the dining room.
A woman leaned into view of the doorway and waved. Sherlock raised his hand and tried tilting four times. That seemed to be the right number. He lowered it.
"John, you should let her know right away that I may need you if someone is murdered, or if we run out of tea."
John quickly ran through that fantasy he had of disciplining Sherlock with a keen jab to the ear each time he treated John like a maid, but for that to work, he probably would've had to it from the get-go, so he just nodded and resolved to let the next bugger who took a swing at Sherlock get in a few punches before being pulled off him.
"Sorry about him," John said, sitting back down. "He thinks he's Doctor Who."
"He seems nice enough."
"So does poison ivy, right up until it gives you a rash."
"Right. Well, I'm feeling very literary, why don't you run your story by me?"
"Sure!" John sat down at the table with her and spread out his notes. "So it's set in a fictionalized version of the Second Crusades, much like George R.R. Martin used the War of the Roses. One of Saladin's generals is looking for a djinn so he can wish for victory—"
"Are you planning to use Islamic djinn, or a Western pop culture take on them?"
"Huh? Oh, I was thinking of doing a twist on them, tying them into the theme and all that."
"So you're using fake djinn, not real ones."
John looked askew for Sherlock. Maybe this was a logic puzzle. "I guess you could say that."
"Alright. Continue."
"So that's the bad guy. The hero is Rashne, he's very devout, training to be a cleric, but he doesn't believe violence solves anything—"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"…excuse me?"
"You just said devout Muslims believe violence solves problems."
"No, I didn't!"
"Yes, you did."
"Look, I think I would've remembered if I'd… done hate speech!"
Farah stood up. "Mr. Watson, I think it's obvious that your work is going to perpetuate Muslim stereotypes, not concern itself with an accurate depiction of Islam. As such, you'll hardly be needing me."
"You don't even know what it's about!"
"I don't need to know something's plot to know it's offensive. Good day!" She walked, slamming the door on her way out.
"No one likes being accused of shoplifting," said Sherlock sagely. "It's not a very noble crime."
John gnashed his teeth. "I ask for some friendly assistance, she calls me a racist. Good luck killing Jack Bauer!" he added, to the door. "That's what I should've said. Am I post-racial enough to get away with that? My cousin is Jewish…"
"Who's Jack Bauer?" Sherlock asked.
Struck by an idea, John rushed to the window. He leaned out and shouted "Good luck with positive representation in the media!"
Farah gave him the finger.
"So I take it ebony and ivory aren't in perfect harmony?" Sherlock said.
"She thinks my as-yet-unwritten portrayal of Muslims is unrealistic."
"You portrayed Muslims as humorless and easily angered?"
"Don't go there! What are you, American?"
Sherlock acquiesced by busying himself with a nicotine patch. "So now that you've lost the lucrative Muslim audience, what next?"
"I suppose I'll just turn everyone into space aliens, write it that way."
"Watson, please." Sherlock jack-knifed himself into a high-backed chair. "What would you know about writing creatures with intellects vastly superior to humanity, evolved beyond the need for crude emotions, and completely unfamiliar with human customs?"
John stared at Sherlock.
***
"Congratulations on the Hugo Award, Mr. Watson!" the reporter enthused.
"Thank you, thank you. We're all winners here tonight."
"But if there's one thing my Twitter followers want to know, it's this. With the interstellar conflict in your book so clearly based on the Crusades, why not simply set the story in the Middle Ages? After all, genre fiction can always use more Muslim characters."
Watson thought fast. "Because I disapprove of Islam's stance on homosexuality?"
"Are you saying you and Sherlock Holmes are gay lovers?"
"…did you just skip over asking me if I was gay?"
Title: The Case of the Modified Manuscript
Fandom: Sherlock BBS
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,474
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John
Summary: What could make John change his story?
John usually came into the flat like he was expecting to come under fire. Which was absurd, in Sherlock's eyes. It had only happened once. Statistically meaningless.
This time, however, he came in with a spring in his step, looking for all the world like the wacky neighbor in a sitcom. "Guess what?" he demanded breathlessly.
Sherlock didn't look up from his work. "Doctors have found a small piece of shrapnel lodged in your brain. They've scheduled a surgery and as soon as it's removed, you'll be back to your hitherto unseen intelligence."
John stopped mid-cocky-stride. "That was a spectacularly insulting thing to say."
"Yes, I thought it up that time you botched the Helsinki case and called me a ninny, but you never gave me an opening, so I saved it until just now."
"You could've just not said it. Ever."
"But it was spectacularly insulting."
"Do you want to know the good news or not?"
Sherlock looked briefly confused. "Did I ever say I did?"
"Right." John waved his hands at Sherlock like he was shooing away the urge to divulge anything to him ever. "I'll be watching the telly."
That night, John woke up to see Sherlock standing at the foot of his bed. He threw his alarm clock at Sherlock before realizing who it was. That was his story and he was sticking to it.
"What's the good news?" Sherlock asked (the clock had missed him).
"Why do you care?"
"I have room for it now."
The disturbing thing was, that made sense.
Although he was very comfortable, John sat up, figuring it was the most dignified way to be talking to a fully-dressed man while you were in bed wearing Dalek pajamas (they'd been a gag gift that had turned out to be inordinately comfy). "I have a literary agent. Don't ask when, just accept it. She's turning my journals about our work into a manuscript and she's managed to get me a book deal. She says it's not just the cases, it's my narrative voice."
Sherlock made a hmm noise, signaling he was adding something to his disturbingly large mental file on John Watson.
"So the publishers asked if I had any other writing, I said I had a few ideas, they said type up a synopsis and let us see. I'm branching out into fiction!"
"You write nonfiction now?"
"Yes. I write us doing things that have actually happened."
Sherlock quoted from memory, for some reason giving John a Cockney accent. "Sherlock turned to me, his eyes blazing with knowledge. 'Whoever the police have as prime suspect, his hair is different than the killer's.'" He returned to his usual stentorian tone. "I said 'different from the killer's.' Why would I make such a common grammatical error?"
"That's just the way people talk? Don't you think you should take it up with my editor instead?"
"I intend to. I've already written a strongly-worded letter on the topic. It's around here somewhere. Make sure to send it."
"Yeah," said John, who wouldn't.
Sherlock left, and twenty minutes later poked his head in the door to say "Congratulations."
That morning at breakfast, Sherlock ate nothing, became inordinately fascinated by the scrambled eggs John had left in the pan, then finally sat down in the kitchen nook and asked "What's your book about?"
"I was thinking historical fantasy," John replied ably. "I've always been fascinated by the Crusades. I mean, all of history is relevant to the present day, but the issues that were being grappled with back then are still so much at the forefront of…"
Sherlock was back to examining the scrambled eggs. John stared at him. "These came from Yorkshire," he said finally.
John sighed. "I'm having a friend over for lunch. I'm going to be bouncing ideas off her. She's a Muslim, so don't suddenly decide she's a terrorist or anything."
"John, that would be absurdly offensive."
"Yes, it would."
"As a woman, she's much more likely to be a thief of some sort. You should check for stolen goods, not a suicide vest."
Sherlock strolled off before John could figure out how to respond to that. After an hour of measuring maggot lengths in correspondence to the ethnicity of the carrion being eaten while memorizing the differing pitches in Bulgarian slut-rock, he returned to the kitchen to see if John had any interesting food he could appropriate from the icebox and bumped into the man himself on the way back from the bathroom, judging by his toweled-yet-wet hands and his fly being undone.
"John, when's your friend getting here?"
"She is here," John said, pointing into the dining room.
A woman leaned into view of the doorway and waved. Sherlock raised his hand and tried tilting four times. That seemed to be the right number. He lowered it.
"John, you should let her know right away that I may need you if someone is murdered, or if we run out of tea."
John quickly ran through that fantasy he had of disciplining Sherlock with a keen jab to the ear each time he treated John like a maid, but for that to work, he probably would've had to it from the get-go, so he just nodded and resolved to let the next bugger who took a swing at Sherlock get in a few punches before being pulled off him.
"Sorry about him," John said, sitting back down. "He thinks he's Doctor Who."
"He seems nice enough."
"So does poison ivy, right up until it gives you a rash."
"Right. Well, I'm feeling very literary, why don't you run your story by me?"
"Sure!" John sat down at the table with her and spread out his notes. "So it's set in a fictionalized version of the Second Crusades, much like George R.R. Martin used the War of the Roses. One of Saladin's generals is looking for a djinn so he can wish for victory—"
"Are you planning to use Islamic djinn, or a Western pop culture take on them?"
"Huh? Oh, I was thinking of doing a twist on them, tying them into the theme and all that."
"So you're using fake djinn, not real ones."
John looked askew for Sherlock. Maybe this was a logic puzzle. "I guess you could say that."
"Alright. Continue."
"So that's the bad guy. The hero is Rashne, he's very devout, training to be a cleric, but he doesn't believe violence solves anything—"
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"…excuse me?"
"You just said devout Muslims believe violence solves problems."
"No, I didn't!"
"Yes, you did."
"Look, I think I would've remembered if I'd… done hate speech!"
Farah stood up. "Mr. Watson, I think it's obvious that your work is going to perpetuate Muslim stereotypes, not concern itself with an accurate depiction of Islam. As such, you'll hardly be needing me."
"You don't even know what it's about!"
"I don't need to know something's plot to know it's offensive. Good day!" She walked, slamming the door on her way out.
"No one likes being accused of shoplifting," said Sherlock sagely. "It's not a very noble crime."
John gnashed his teeth. "I ask for some friendly assistance, she calls me a racist. Good luck killing Jack Bauer!" he added, to the door. "That's what I should've said. Am I post-racial enough to get away with that? My cousin is Jewish…"
"Who's Jack Bauer?" Sherlock asked.
Struck by an idea, John rushed to the window. He leaned out and shouted "Good luck with positive representation in the media!"
Farah gave him the finger.
"So I take it ebony and ivory aren't in perfect harmony?" Sherlock said.
"She thinks my as-yet-unwritten portrayal of Muslims is unrealistic."
"You portrayed Muslims as humorless and easily angered?"
"Don't go there! What are you, American?"
Sherlock acquiesced by busying himself with a nicotine patch. "So now that you've lost the lucrative Muslim audience, what next?"
"I suppose I'll just turn everyone into space aliens, write it that way."
"Watson, please." Sherlock jack-knifed himself into a high-backed chair. "What would you know about writing creatures with intellects vastly superior to humanity, evolved beyond the need for crude emotions, and completely unfamiliar with human customs?"
John stared at Sherlock.
***
"Congratulations on the Hugo Award, Mr. Watson!" the reporter enthused.
"Thank you, thank you. We're all winners here tonight."
"But if there's one thing my Twitter followers want to know, it's this. With the interstellar conflict in your book so clearly based on the Crusades, why not simply set the story in the Middle Ages? After all, genre fiction can always use more Muslim characters."
Watson thought fast. "Because I disapprove of Islam's stance on homosexuality?"
"Are you saying you and Sherlock Holmes are gay lovers?"
"…did you just skip over asking me if I was gay?"
I love Benedict Cumberbatch
no subject
Yet more LOLs.
no subject
My father is a british 'toff' who lives in Putney and my mother is Welsh. XD
no subject
no subject
Terribly colonialistic behaviour really.
no subject
no subject
/still laughing
no subject
Best thing I've read all day!
no subject
no subject
Oh my God that is bloody brilliant!
no subject
Your disclaimer made me laugh out loud, too.
no subject
John stared at Sherlock.
ROFL! And the last line had be rolling, bb! Lovely fic.
no subject
That is so funny!
"Sorry about him," John said, sitting back down. "He thinks he's Doctor Who."
And Sherlock having room for John's news - brilliant. Well done!
no subject
squee
very rare but heartfelt.
Bart
no subject
"Watson, please." Sherlock jack-knifed himself into a high-backed chair. "What would you know about writing creatures with intellects vastly superior to humanity, evolved beyond the need for crude emotions, and completely unfamiliar with human customs?"
John stared at Sherlock.
***
Bwahahahahahahahahah!
"Because I disapprove of Islam's stance on homosexuality?"
give it up john. just come over to the dark side. we have cookies. XD
great fic!!!
no subject
no subject
no subject
I LOVE that Watson got a Hugo out of it all :D
such a fun read, thanks so much for posting it!!
no subject
no subject