A/N: This is a crossover fic co-authored by me and Queen Irene Holmes, between the BBC series Sherlock and the 2009 film Sherlock Holmes :D I write the Sherlock series scenes, and Irene the 2009 film scenes. This is set (for me) after the series' finale, and for Irene, after the completion of the film :)
The pairings in this are as follows:
Sherlock x John (written by me - Sherlock series)
Sherlock x Irene (written by Irene - the 2009 film)
Yes, this means both het and slash. If you don't like either of these pairings, you could still read it if you like the plot/the other pairing, etc.
We don't own anything related to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle :( Except perhaps the books, some DVDs of the various films/series', and a lot of Sherlock-y love ^_^
The following is written by me, based on the Sherlock series, and is not beta'd by anyone, so any mistakes are my own :)
Chapter One: What the doctor ordered
Sometimes there was a thing as 'too much' Sherlock.
Sometimes, the way he kept festering appendages of various deceased human - or otherwise - beings in several inopportune places in the fridge or freezer (whatever was required) was more than slightly disturbing; especially when said bodily parts found their way into the meat section or the salad drawer - even when sealed in individual bags it wasn't very hygienic and at one point succeeded in driving John to takeaways for a week in protest.
Sometimes, the way he deliberately committed murder on his violin to 'improve' his rate of deductive thinking, thus keeping John up for long, indefinite hours - usually so early in the morning the birds weren't even awake - made John want to show Sherlock where he should stick that bow.
But there were other times, such as the one he was experiencing now; where John would very happily deal with everything ever possibly Sherlock, and do so gladly, because despite his 'getting off' on cases (particularly those dealing with impossible means, and a formidable 'foe') he was a good man, at heart - and though John had doubted this at times, he never felt so certain of it then now, sitting beside Sherlock on the sofa, feeling very much alive and needing to know Sherlock was too.
John turned his head slightly to his friend - yes, definitely friend, not colleague - and gave a small, welcoming smile; "yes?"
"We need groceries."
John hesitated, blinked, and then frowned at him. "Excuse me?"
"We're out - the fridge only contains my experiments-" by which he means human remains, John summarized; "-and I don't want you eating that. You might get sick, and then we'd have to go back to the hospital-"
"You couldn't have just let the moment last, could you?"
Sherlock frowned, quizzically. "Moment?"
"Yes," John nodded; "that moment, just then, when we were just sitting, and I was thinking of being alive and you were thinking of groceries. It was profound. Until you spoke."
Sherlock paused. "Right," he said at last, apparently not getting it, or else not bothered about getting it. "Should I just...?" He trailed off, and looked at John expectantly. At his lack of response, Sherlock continued; "let you be?"
"No, no. It's gone now. Won't come back. Wait until we have another near-death experience." John paused; "in a swimming pool. With Moriarty."
Sherlock sighed, "it could still happen." He looked forlorn. Forlorn wasn't good when it came to Sherlock. It was never good.
"No, no it couldn't," John protested; "it will never ever ha-oh what am I saying? It could happen. They didn't find a body and to you that means no evidence of his death, which means leaping into the pool might not have been the only way to escape the blast." He crossed his arms and blew out a long, drawn-out stretch of air through his teeth.
After a tense moment, Sherlock prompted, "something's bothering you."
"Oh really?" John asked sarcastically; "I hadn't noticed."
Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "What's wrong? You were fine a moment ago."
"Can't you deduce it?" John quipped sharply.
"I thought it would be better to ask," he shifted awkwardly - well, as awkward as Sherlock ever got, and only in moments when he was riling John up or vice versa. "But if you didn't want to discuss it, why didn't you just say?"
"Because you would've read it in my blog anyway," John pointed out, irritation ebbing. "It was bad enough trying to convince everyone that I was okay, that I wasn't lying dead or dying anywhere, and that nearly being blown up wasn't as deadly as it sounds."
There was another pause. "I'm... sorry that you were dragged into it like that."
John glanced up, surprise flittering across his features at the sincerity of his tone. "You don't need to be. It's bloody terrifying but I wouldn't give it up." Searching Sherlock's pale eyes, he added softly; "but thank you. For the thought."
Sherlock stared back, seemingly fixated with John's own darker eyes, or else deducing something from them that John himself hadn't comprehended. Yet.
Blinking himself back into reality, John cleared his throat, suddenly more than comfortably aware of his proximity to Sherlock, of which there was little to divide them. He shifted slightly, aware that Sherlock was studying his movements, and pushed himself up from his seat, stretching. "I could get our groceries now, actually," he said, avoiding eye contact with Sherlock. This plan was swiftly uprooted, however, when the sound of the front door shutting announced Mrs. Hudson's arrival; she soon ascended the stairs, several bags of bulging shopping gripped in her hands.
"Only this once, Sherlock," she called as she deposited them in the kitchen. "I'm your landlady not your housekeeper!" She started to unpack them, before John intervened.
"I can do that, Mrs. Hudson, thank you." He smiled at her, noting that Sherlock had leapt up and was rifling through the bags with a mild disinterest.
"I'm only doing this because of that nasty business with the hospital," she continued to Sherlock, waving a finger at him good-humouredly; "don't start to rely on it." Sherlock smiled broadly in response, and waited until she was gone before returning to the living room and flopping down in an armchair.
"You could help, you know," John called, watching him. "Instead of just sitting there, looking bored."
"That's because I am bored!" Sherlock huffed, crossing his arms and slumping.
John sighed, abandoning the shopping for a minute to stare at Sherlock. "Can't you get a hobby?"
"Hobby? Hah!" He laughed, once, and then leapt to his feet again. "I don't need a hobby, I need-"
"Murder? Death? Danger?" John supplied, now rearranging the fridge.
Sherlock paused, smiled, and made his way into the kitchen again. "Exactly what the doctor ordered," he grinned.
A/N: Oooh, cliché saying! Can't live without that. I apologize if any of the above was ooc, I'm trying :)