Magic One Shots (Sherlock BBC Fic)
AN – this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.
Warning – slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.
Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Sherlock watched as John unlocked their front door, totally unaware that his flatmate was on the other side of the road. For a former soldier and Mage, you'd have thought his situational awareness would be a little sharper. As the designated 'evil genius' in their partnership – a badge bestowed on him after an incident that involved large quantities of alcohol and some kind of magical hiccup – Sherlock pondered the best way to startle said partner before he got inside.
He watched John pause and fish his phone out, evidently reading a new text and then sending a reply. Seconds later his own phone buzzed and Sherlock fished it out, suspicions growing.
Don't even think about it. JW
Sherlock sighed and stuffed his phone back into his pocket before trotting quickly across the road, catching the door before it could swing shut.
"You weren't even in disguise!" John called from the stairs, not even glancing back as he climbed up them. Sherlock didn't mind – in fact he rather enjoyed the view.
"Your acting has improved," Sherlock replied in an approving tone. The more devious John became the better for their agency. He bounded up the stairs as John chuckled, catching up with his partner as the man opened the door of their flat. John seemed to stumble over a hidden step as they crossed the threshold and there was a sudden heated rush of air. Lights flared in the front room, then settled down to a yellow glow.
Sherlock knew that something magical had happened at once, for two reasons. One, the layout of the room and its contents had radically changed: and two, John's scent became sharp with snow and wood smoke.
There was a fire in the fireplace instead of their heater, the lights on the wall were gaslights, not electric and the mess was of a decidedly different calibre. There was a dining table in the front room and their kitchen area was given wholly over to a chemistry set. The furniture was Victorian, well worn.
John Watson was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, staring at them with surprise over the broadsheet newspaper he'd been reading. This John Watson was not Sherlock's and yet was – the hair was longer and more elaborate. There was an endearingly ridiculous moustache. He wore a suit of brown cloth and an air of military discipline. He was also staring at them in shock.
"I thought you were a morphine induced hallucination," both Watson's declared at the same time. Sherlock was delighted to hear a distinct Scottish trill to the other John's accent, as opposed to his John's London accent. There was a pause, then Watson quirked that familiar mischievous grin that Sherlock's John wore so often – different with the moustache but recognisable just the same – and folded the paper into his lap.
"I guess not," they both continued and Sherlock frowned. It would be very annoying if the two John's in the room were to speak the same words at the same time for the duration of this encounter.
"Look, John, this Watson doesn't mind having a proper chemical rig set up in the front room," Sherlock beamed, taking advantage of the rooms obvious surrender to his profession, "Surely…"
"Dr Watson doubtless has a partner who leaves the dead body parts in the laboratory or morgue," John interrupted, proving he could speak for himself, "We're not having this argument again."
John sounded amused, rather than upset about Sherlock's attempt, so that was alright. The Watson in the chair was regarding him with surprise though, recognition drawing over his face.
"Holmes?" he asked, "My goodness… you look so different…"
Sherlock frowned, instantly curious as to what the Sherlock Holmes this Victorian gentleman was used to. He glanced around as if expecting to find the other man hiding behind a piece of furniture – it was clear that some version of himself lived here – the Stradivarius violin in its case, the paraphernalia around the flat and the knife in the mantelpiece all spoke of his presence.
"How does your wound go?" John asked curiously and Watson grimaced.
"I'll never practice as a surgeon again – I lost too much strength in the limb, and my movement is restricted. That plus the damage to the Achilles tendon have restricted me to work as a GP… when I'm not chasing Holmes through London," Watson sighed and pulled out a pipe, which he began to pack swiftly, "And you?"
"The shoulder isn't too bad that I can't practice, and they fixed the tendon… I'm lucky – we now have different surgical techniques that can help that sort of injury. I work in an emergency medicine department now – the shift work allows me to chase Sherlock through London too," John replied, and Watson nodded, his eyes disturbed.
"That there should be another war in Afghanistan… another Maiwand," he shook his head, "What's it all for, I wonder?"
"Human nature is warlike, I suppose," John replied, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs in clear warning. No spoilers about the future, then, and Sherlock pouted, shifting to the side to try and see more of the room. John snaked an arm out and held him in place, plastered to John's back – a position that Sherlock enjoyed in other settings. He watched the Watson in the chair read their body language, the way Sherlock accepted John's casual embrace and wondered if they were about to be treated to a very Victorian bout of homophobia. He was not prepared for the flash of pained envy, quickly disguised as he lit his pipe, which the other man experienced.
"Stay still, Sherlock, you'll disturb the field," John warned. Sherlock nodded and sniffed with interest at the pipe smoke that was wafting their way.
"Are we here because he's a Mage too?" Sherlock asked, looking down at his own personal Mage. The Watson in the armchair choked in surprise and John shot him a concerned look.
"You've told him?" Watson asked, and John nodded, shrugging.
"You banished a demon in front of the fireplace," John sighed, "It came back. Sherlock walked in on me getting rid of it again."
"You haven't told me? Your version of me?" the sentence was awkward in his disappointment. It was becoming increasingly obvious that this centuries Sherlock Holmes didn't have this centuries John Watson in quite the same way.
"No," Watson said shortly, "He's not…"
"Watson, who are you talking to?" the voice was Sherlock's, but the man that emerged from Sherlock-and-John's-future-bedroom was not quite like Sherlock at all. His dark hair was shorter and pasted back with some sort of Victorian hair product, his fingers stained with chemicals and tobacco. He was tearing trousers and waistcoat and a real dressing gown, the sleeve of one arm partially rolled up. It was obvious that the Holmes in front of them was high – had in fact just finished injecting himself with a fresh dose.
"What is it tonight, Holmes, morphine or cocaine?" there was pained sorrow in Watson's voice. Sherlock shuddered at it and pressed himself even more closely to John's back, trying to burrow inside his partner's warmth. This was where he had once been – his mind wasting away in the influence of the drugs he took. In Victorian times, both drugs were readily available at the chemist – doctors administered cocaine to their patients, even prescribed it.
"A seven percent solution of cocaine, Watson," the Holmes in front of them frowned, "It may have been contaminated by something… there appears to be two inappropriately dressed men in the doorway, one of whom bears remarkable resemblance to your good self."
"Holmes, you'll ruin yourself with this," Watson sighed, getting up and going to his friend, "Your health…"
"Is no longer your concern, as you are about to abandon me to the pleasures of a lonely hearth in favour of pursuing wedded bliss with Miss Morstan," Holmes interrupted. Sherlock shivered.
It was clear to him that the Watson before him was unable to bear watching his Holmes kill himself with drugs and therefore had decided to leave the warmth of Baker Street to pursue the phantom of a normal life in the arms of a woman. This could have happened to him. If ever he needed another reason to remain clean, it was standing here in front of him – a shell of the man he could have been. This Holmes' drug addiction had killed his chance at the partnership, the amazing, rewarding incredibly enriching partnership that Sherlock now enjoyed with his John Watson. He could not imagine life without John, now that he'd experienced a life with him – he would not survive having to go back to the cold, lonely existence that he had once endured.
"Take heart, Dr Watson," John said softly and then stepped back from the doorway, pushing Sherlock with him. Sherlock stumbled over nothing and found himself back on his landing, the open door to the flat showing John's laptop and the glow of electric street lights.
He grabbed John around the waist and buried his face in the strong neck, sniffing the magically enhanced scent and shaking a little.
"Never, never, never," he muttered, and John's arms came up around him, squeezing in understanding.
"I know, Sherlock," John murmured, "I know."
End (for now…)
More? Let me know…