Well, it's been a long time, but here it is! At long last, my fanfic! Hope this works out.
I should probably say some stuff like: "I don't own/didn't create/write the BBC Sherlock or Harry Potter", but come on! It's pretty obvious that I'm a little female to be Moffat or Gatiss. And I'm a little American to be JK Rowling. I don't think I really need it. I'm just some blogger, people! I don't write the show or books, I just fangirl about them.
(PS don't expect too many/any more author's notes. I'm going to try and avoid those as best I can. Please comment if you have any criticisms, compliments, or questions (if my comment bar works, it's messed up before...)
Here it goes! A fic months in the making...
---
Sherlock laid sprawled out on his sofa. He hadn't bothered changing out of his pyjamas. It was a sad time right now; truly depressing, even. The consulting detective buried his face within the well-worn cushions.
“I am bored!” He groaned, his voice muffled by the sofa. “Bored. Bored. Bored!” None of his usual activities appealed to him at the moment. There had been no murders this past week. And that was sickening. Deeply sickening. He felt much like a sweet-toothed child who didn't have candy. He sighed and shouted, “SO! BORED!” and went limp.
Luckily, John had lived with Sherlock long enough by now to be able to detect the early signs of Sherlockian Boredom. Earlier, he rushed out of the flat as fast as possible to get his flatmate something to do. Preferably, before a certain self-proclaimed sociopath decided to occupy his time by writing out a well-planned (and plausible) strategy for taking over all of Western Civilization using only a paperclip. Then sending said plan to Mycroft just to get a rise out of him.
Again.
Yes, if there was one thing the world didn't need, it was a bored Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes and the Chest of Reality
A Fanfic By Loveable Freak
Chapter One
The Children's Book
The Children's Book
Sherlock laid sprawled out on his sofa. He hadn't bothered changing out of his pyjamas. It was a sad time right now; truly depressing, even. The consulting detective buried his face within the well-worn cushions.
“I am bored!” He groaned, his voice muffled by the sofa. “Bored. Bored. Bored!” None of his usual activities appealed to him at the moment. There had been no murders this past week. And that was sickening. Deeply sickening. He felt much like a sweet-toothed child who didn't have candy. He sighed and shouted, “SO! BORED!” and went limp.
Luckily, John had lived with Sherlock long enough by now to be able to detect the early signs of Sherlockian Boredom. Earlier, he rushed out of the flat as fast as possible to get his flatmate something to do. Preferably, before a certain self-proclaimed sociopath decided to occupy his time by writing out a well-planned (and plausible) strategy for taking over all of Western Civilization using only a paperclip. Then sending said plan to Mycroft just to get a rise out of him.
Again.
Yes, if there was one thing the world didn't need, it was a bored Sherlock Holmes.
As John entered the flat with a paper bag, Sherlock bolted up. “John! Please tell me someone's experienced a grizzly murder!”
John shook his head. “No, but I got you some stuff to do. Thought it'd help.” Sherlock flopped back on the couch and pouted. John reached into his bag and pulled out a DVD. “Here, it's some mystery movie. The guy at the shop said it was good...” John said, tossing it to his friend.
Sherlock glanced at the cover, then promptly threw it across the room, nearly knocking over his skull. “The old man has a split personality. He kills and cannibalizes everyone. Then he dies when he realizes what his alter has done.”
John stared at him. “You got all that from a cover? Wow, you never cease to amaze...”
“No.” Sherlock said, matter-of-factly. “Anderson never shut up about it when it came out. THAT was an annoying case.
John shook his head and reached back into the bag. “Alright, how about a board game?”
“I'm bored enough, John...” Sherlock sat up. "No."
John set the unknown game on the table, amongst the usual mess. Finally, John tossed a book from the bag onto Sherlock's lap.
Sherlock examined the novel. It had a bespectacled boy and a train upon the cover. He read it's title aloud. “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone?”
John nodded and smiled. “Yeah, it's a good...”
“It's a children's book.” Sherlock stated.
“But a good one!” John replied.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I take you've read them, then?”
“And I take it you haven't...”
John looked to the ground and sighed. “Look,” he said, refocusing on his friend. “That's all I got. So either read the stupid book or or sit around and mope all day.”
Sherlock perked up, having gotten a "better" idea. “Or, I could plot out...”
“I hid all the pens, Sherlock.” John said, having planned ahead.
Sherlock angrily mouthed something John couldn't make out. “Fine!” He said aloud, temporarily defeated. He curled up on the sofa, opened the book, and began to read. John sat down in one of the living room chairs, and decided to blog about this little “adventure”. Plus, he could keep an eye on Sherlock, in case he went pen hunting (unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had deducted fifteen possible locations for the pens already).
As he read, Sherlock found himself slowly dozing off, the overpowering mixture of reading, calm, boredom, and the monotonous sound of typing being hypnagogic. He slipped halfway off the sofa and fell asleep.
Sherlock examined the novel. It had a bespectacled boy and a train upon the cover. He read it's title aloud. “Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone?”
John nodded and smiled. “Yeah, it's a good...”
“It's a children's book.” Sherlock stated.
“But a good one!” John replied.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I take you've read them, then?”
“And I take it you haven't...”
John looked to the ground and sighed. “Look,” he said, refocusing on his friend. “That's all I got. So either read the stupid book or or sit around and mope all day.”
Sherlock perked up, having gotten a "better" idea. “Or, I could plot out...”
“I hid all the pens, Sherlock.” John said, having planned ahead.
Sherlock angrily mouthed something John couldn't make out. “Fine!” He said aloud, temporarily defeated. He curled up on the sofa, opened the book, and began to read. John sat down in one of the living room chairs, and decided to blog about this little “adventure”. Plus, he could keep an eye on Sherlock, in case he went pen hunting (unbeknownst to John, Sherlock had deducted fifteen possible locations for the pens already).
As he read, Sherlock found himself slowly dozing off, the overpowering mixture of reading, calm, boredom, and the monotonous sound of typing being hypnagogic. He slipped halfway off the sofa and fell asleep.
***
He was surprised to suddenly wake up in the compartment of a moving train. He was sitting upright in a chair, not the position he had been in at home. And he was garbed in one of his suits, a far cry from his pyjamas. Sherlock stood up and glanced out the window, and saw what appeared to be, of all things, Scotland. “What?” He said to himself. Had Moriarty decided to kidnap him? Or was it just Mycroft being ominous again, kidnapping him to ask for his help? Either way, this was all admittedly quite unsettling, to say the least. “Where am I? Besides possibly Scotland... And where's John?” He thought.
“John? JOHN!?” he shouted, feeling panicked. He opened the door of the compartment. He scanned for guards, finding none in view. “Funny,” he thought, “if I've been kidnapped, they certainly aren't afraid I'll run. Not that there's anywhere to run on a moving train...” He prepared to bellow out his companion's name, hoping he hadn't been killed, when he heard a yawn.
A familiar voice replied, “What's with all the shouting? I'm right here...”
Sherlock looked at the seat opposite his, and uttered, “Oh, no. That's impossible!”
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