werejohn ficlet
The occasional client still contacts John. Usually he declines. Sometimes he’ll shepherd them towards a sympathetic police officer he used to know. He doesn’t do The Work anymore. He doesn’t do much of anything. One such worried face arrives at his door step over a year after Sherlock’s death. He only takes a look into things because it’s so reminiscent of the H.O.U.N.D. case. He imagines he could sort things out quickly and clue in Lestrade to the situation. It’s not what he thinks at all. In the horrible aftermath he he begins to wish he was dead too.
Please write more stitchy!
Quick ficlet for fanwork friday:
Jack stood on the cliff edge and watched the galaxy rise over the perfectly flat lake, reflecting blue and purple and the spread of stars. There was a flutter of wings and he reached automatically for Cas’s hand.
There was hesitation, but Castiel stepped up next to him. Jack could imagine the shadow of his wings covering him, noticing how the breeze lessened. They remained silent as the galaxy ascended, bright enough that the night needed no moon.
Suddenly, the lake began to light up, as if there were new stars being born alongside the reflections. Jack pointed and heard Cas’ breath catch as they watched the lights bloom until the lake was on fire, nearly too bright to look at, washing out the stars above. Instinctively, Castiel turned Jack towards his chest, shielding the human, until the lights began to fade.
When Jack blinked his eyes clear he smiled at Castiel, who was watching the lake with deep concentration.
“They bloom every two hundred years,” said Jack, finally breaking the silence.
“I see why you called me here.” Castiel’s voice was gentle, full of wonder.
Jack softly kissed him. “I figured even angels haven’t seen everything.”
They lapsed into silence again, taking a seat on the cool ground and watching the night pass by.
they never showed sherlock getting off the plane so theoretically s4 could begin with him stepping back onto the tarmac, walking straight over to john, gripping his face between his hands and kissing him as if the world were about to end
The thought had occurred.
Sherlock gets off the phone with Mycroft and just breathes.
The plane is turning around; in four minutes or so, he’ll be back on London soil (not that he was off of it for very long). He’ll have a new mystery, a new game. Likely, he’ll have the promise of his old life back at the end of it—no time to worry about a petty murder charge after dealing with Moriarty.
He’ll have John.
Sherlock tilts his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, and thinks about the pathetic speech he made before he got on the plane. Sherlock is a girl’s name, how eloquent. It had made John laugh, at least: an image he had intended to carry with him until his inevitable death in Serbia, however long that took.
He has another chance, he thinks, and the thought makes him smile dryly. Fate is a ridiculous concept coined by people who are incapable of observing the goings-on in their own lives and are too stupid to fix it in a logical manner, but it comes to mind anyway that fate has given him chance after chance after chance to tell John the truth, and he has wasted every single one. Sherlock came back from the dead because of his love for John, twice if one counts both the sham and the literal event, and he still couldn’t be bothered to tell the truth before he boarded a plane for parts unknown.
Moriarty wasn’t the most dangerous man in London, he thinks suddenly. The concept of facing Moriarty hadn’t been half as terrifying as facing John.
The plane rattles onto the tarmac, stirring Sherlock from his reverie. The plane cruises to a halt, and after a moment, the hatch opens, spilling sunlight into the cabin.
Sherlock feels like he’s suspended in helium, curiously dizzy and weightless as he steps onto the stairway down to the tarmac. Down below, Mycroft stands by his sleek black car, peering up at him. Mary and John wait a few feet away. Mary’s expression is unreadable; John’s is a grin so brilliant that it could rival the sun they stand under.
Sherlock knows that he’s moving, though he doesn’t recall telling his feet to take him down the steps. He hits solid ground, and then the distance between him and those gathered waiting for him is shortening. He’s dimly aware of the presence of Mary and Mycroft, but his focus is on John. John may hate what he’s about to do, but he cannot, will not waste this opportunity, not when he’s wasted so many before, not when he came within a hair’s breadth of losing John forever not ten minutes ago—
John opens his mouth to speak as Sherlock approaches, then pauses when he realizes Sherlock isn’t slowing down. His face falls from elation to confusion. Sherlock can practically see the questions forming on John’s tongue, but his stride doesn’t break until he’s standing directly in front of John.
For some reason, it’s so easy now: take John’s face between his palms, close his eyes, lean in.
The kiss is awkward at first. Sherlock barely registers that John is still with shock, He anticipates a punch or a shove; he can feel the gazes of their witness burning into him.
But it is so, so worth it to feel the moment that John relaxes, huffing out a breath against Sherlock’s mouth, his lips turning soft and fitting against Sherlock’s with a precision that locks and keys could never accomplish. There’s a hand sliding across Sherlock’s shoulder and curling around his neck, pulling him down, closer. Sherlock strokes his thumbs down an unshaven jaw and feels the mirroring scratch of fingertips on the back of his neck. They kiss like the world is about to end, and it’s the most glorious thing he could ever imagine.
Sherlock could leave now. He could get back on that plane and survive six months of Serbia on just this memory alone, recalling John’s thin lips and the weight of his body and the tiny, bitten-off noise he makes at the shy touch of Sherlock’s tongue on the upper curve of his lip.
In the next ten seconds, Mycroft will interrupt with a clearing of his throat and some snide remark about being too busy to focus on the mission ahead. Mary won’t; she’ll be too shocked to say anything and won’t want to cause a scene. John will probably shy away, though Sherlock hopes that he won’t. In all likelihood, nothing will change in their future—too many factors to consider—but he knows now with absolute certainty that John loves him, too. That will have to be enough.
It won’t be, after awhile, but for now, it’s everything.
THIS IS PERFECT
<3
soulmate AU where everyone has their soulmate’s name on their wrist and John has “William” on his but after he meets Sherlock he decides to ignore it because he knows that this man is going to be the most important and amazing person he’ll ever meet and then Sherlock dies so he meets Mary and then Sherlock comes back and tells him his full name and John just understands
William.
William.
Shit. Shit shit shit.
John rubs his wrist, heart shattering into a million shards as the plane taxis down the runway. He walks back to Mary, an invisible anchor dragging behind him, fighting him with every step.
If she can read anything on his face, she says nothing. Let her just think he’s missing his friend.
Suddenly her face lights up, and John blinks, confused. She points and he turns to see the plane turning around in mid-air. His heart swells, painful, filling his whole chest. He can’t breathe.
As soon as Sherlock steps back off the plane, John runs. Doesn’t walk. Runs. Floats.
“John.”
“Sherlock. I… there’s…”
Fuck it, the words won’t come. John clenches his fist. Relaxes. Clenches. Relaxes.
He raises his arm, pulling his sleeve back.
The smile Sherlock gives him could light up the dark side of the moon. He reaches up, rolls up his own sleeve, revealing the flowing script on his arm.
“I know, John. I know.”
William. Such a boring name. Sherlock hated it. Since childhood he’d demanded to be called by his middle name, because it was him, truly. And it would throw off any idiots who would try to convince him that they were soulmates, that he needed them. He didn’t need anyone.
John had a woman’s name on his wrist. It was obvious. The constant streams of girlfriends in and out every week told him that. It had to be a nickname of some sort, something that more than one woman could easily have. The four letters on Sherlock’s wrist burned every time he saw John with someone else, as if they wanted to claim John as his.
It seemed that fate had miscalculated.
It’s his last chance, now. His last chance, last hope. With nothing left to lose in case this goes wrong, Sherlock doesn’t care. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he recites, and watches John’s face fall ever so slightly.
He almost doesn’t want to believe it- they could have had an infinity together and now they’ll never- but the evidence is there. Sherlock keeps his mask on, doesn’t sway.
And then he’s gone.
And then he isn’t.
Fanwork Friday this week is career change, with the idea of putting them into another ‘verse. awabubbles convinced me to do a superwood in Firefly, and something–tookish had the brilliant idea of making John Hart my Jayne:
“I have had nothing but trouble since you two came on board!” Jack raged, swaggering towards the young man standing in front of him. “You and your brother are nothing but trouble, and I should just let the Alliance have you both.”
“But you won’t,” said Dean, fire sparking in his own eyes as he tried to stay calm.
“Your brother is crazy,” said John Hart, checking one of his guns.
Dean swung around at him. “Sam isn’t crazy. And how do we know it wasn’t you that tipped off the Alliance?”
“Enough,” growled Jack, aware the others were watching them on the catwalk above. Shepherd Castiel leaned on the rail next to Ianto, looking as put together as ever, Gwen was his second in command and Tosh took care of the engines. Owen was his pilot. “Take care of your brother, the rest of you get back to work.” Jack stalked towards the bridge.
Ianto slipped next to him. “I need to know where we’re going next so I can arrange clients.”
Jack stopped and looked at him, wondering once again what Ianto was doing as a Companion. “Badger has some work for us, so that’s where we’re going.”
“Thank you, Captain,” he said formally, turning to go back to his room. Jack watched him walk away.
“I don’t know why you don’t take advantage of that,” John appeared next to him, leering.
“He’s off limits to crew, you know that.” Jack suddenly grabbed the front of John’s shirt and pushed him up against the wall. “You better not be selling out Dean and Sam. They’re on this ship, they’re crew. Dean pulls his weight around here. You sell them out, you sell all of us.”
“I know, I know, Captain. Fact still stands that Sam’s nuts.”
“When I want your opinion I’ll tell you what it is. Leave Dean and Sam alone.” Jack turned towards the bridge again.
Cas stopped him just as he turned another corner. “I do hope you are not seeking to remove Sam from this vessel.”
“Of course not, Shepherd. Just don’t need more attention on ourselves. “
There was a loud clang from the engine room. “Tosh?” Jack headed down to investigate.
“Everything’s shiny,” said Tosh, vanishing around behind some equipment.
Jack shook his head and turned back for the bridge.
Gwen stopped him just before he got there. “You have John under control?”
“Leave John to me, Gwen.”
She looked him in the eyes, then relented, letting him finally reach the bridge. Owen was sitting at the pilot’s console. “We’ll be there in about five hours.”
“Were you planning on berating me too?”
Owen shrugged. “I’ll let Gwen handle that.” He got up. “Badger knows we’re coming.” He wandered off, leaving the Captain alone.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Jack jumped as he raised his head and found Sam watching him. “No, I’m not kicking you and your brother off,” he said gently.
Sam curled up in the pilot’s seat, surprisingly well, considering his size. He watched the stars go by. Jack reached over and patted his knee. “You’re both safe here, far as I’m concerned.”
He didn’t respond to the touch or the words. Jack sighed and leaned back, watching the view as well and enjoying the brief moment of quiet.
(not on AO3, debating if I should)
And this is the other Valentine’s Day fanwork friday. Jack/Cas, and this one’s a bit more angst, also on AO3
The first time Castiel came for Jack on Valentine’s day it was 2010. They’d worked together a couple times in the year since Ianto’s death, but he wasn’t really looking for anything when the fourteenth of February came around.
But then Castiel was there, appearing literally on his doorstep. Jack stepped back and let him in, going to sit on the scratchy mattress. Castiel sat next to him and merely took his hand. Jack took a ragged breath, leaned on the angel’s shoulder, and for the first time, started to cry.
–
The next time they met up it was 1937. War was on the horizon and Jack was working undercover. He couldn’t really change anything, of course, but there was still work he could do. So he was more than a bit shocked to walk into a tavern in the south of France and find Castiel standing at the bar with two glasses of wine.
Jack gave a tiny smile and took a glass from him. “It is Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Jack raised his glass in a toast. “Come on back to mine tonight?”
He nodded and they drained their glasses and at least for that one night Jack truly had comfort.
–
Early in 2217, Jack was working at a bar on station orbiting a small blue planet when a familiar face walked in. He smiled broadly and poured two glasses of wine for old time’s sake. “Castiel.”
“Jack.” He sipped his wine and Jack could tell the years hadn’t all been easy on him, angel or no. They chatted a bit and that night Jack was the one giving comfort to Castiel.
–
Back to 1974. Jack was spending Valentine’s Night chasing down an alien in the streets of London. He’d narrowly avoided himself a week earlier, but he knew exactly where his current self was spending the night. He cornered it in an alley and prepared to take it, only to be jumped by a second one from behind. He fought them both, but a knife (or was it a claw?) found his heart and they left him dead with the trash.
He gasped awake to Castiel holding his hand. He smiled ruefully. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
Castiel helped him up, checking him for other wounds, even though there wouldn’t be any. “They have returned to their ship, they will not be a bother to you or anyone else.”
“You took care of them? Thank you.”
Castiel merely inclined his head and helped Jack back to his flat, where he stayed until dawn.
–
In 4207, Jack kicked open a door. The handful of demons turned to the human, one of them scoffing. He fought (perhaps ironically) like a man possesed, not stopping until every one of them was dead. Only then did he move to release their prisoner.
“Knew you’d come,” said Castiel.
Jack kissed him. “Don’t talk, save your strength.” He helped Castiel to his feet, out the door, and into his ship.
Castiel touched his cheek. “By Earth calendars, today is Valentine’s Day.”
“It’s our lucky day,” smiled Jack, kissing his hand and worriedly watching the angel fall asleep.
–
At a Valentine’s Day dance in London, 2003, Jack slowly danced with Castiel. He leaned in and stole a kiss, glad that this was a time and place where he could be himself with Cas.
“I’ll try not to chase any aliens tonight,” he smiled.
Castiel gave him a look. The song ended and Jack took Castiel’s hand, twirling him. They retreated to the side and each took a glass of wine.
“To stolen moments,” said Jack.
“Wherever they might be,” answered Castiel.
A Clean Break (9.13 Coda)
Sam remembered one time, years ago, in some middle-of-nowhere dingy motel. He was eight or nine, maybe. Dad was gone, hunting. He’d only said he had a lead. Sam was pretty sure now that it must have been Azazel. Nothing less would have kept him away for three whole months.
There was a tree outside the hotel. Dad never let Sam climb trees, but Dad wasn’t there, and Dean was busy swiping food from the local gas station. He came back to Sam huddled and crying in the mud at the foot of the tree.
His arm was broken. He’d never seen Dean so scared. They didn’t have insurance, and the money dad had given them was quickly running out. So Dean wrapped Sam’s arm in ace bandages from the gas station and they left it alone, the way other boys hid broken vases from their mothers.
Fanwork Friday this week is the characters in a different time period:
Of course he was about to be burned at the stake as a witch. Owen surveyed the crowd dispassionately and tested the rope tying his hands. Damn Middle Ages. Heaven forbid a doctor might try to cure somebody. Bloody rift, dropping him here. At least it wasn’t in some far corner of the galaxy. Though, maybe he wouldn’t be about to set on fire there.
A man brandished a torch, shouting something in what wasn’t quite the English he was used to. But he sounded like a complete wanker.
There was the sound of wings and he found a dark haired man standing in front of him, facing the crowd. The crowd muttered and fell back.
“Do not harm this man,” his voice was low and dangerous. He repeated it again in the local tongue.
The one with a torch stepped forward, shouting more. Owen rolled his eyes. The stranger put out his hand and he dropped the torch, jumping back and shouting more, looking at the crowd, then at the stranger. The crowd started to retreat faster.
He drew himself up as if spreading wings and gave a command.
The crowd broke and ran.
“Not that I’m not grateful, but who the hell are you?” asked Owen as he slowly turned around.
“Castiel,” he said freeing him. “Jack asked me to retrieve you.”
Owen rubbed his wrists. “How? You with the Doctor or something?”
Castiel touched his head where he’d been hit and it instantly healed. “I am an Angel of the Lord.”
“Right, of course Jack knows a literal angel,” said Owen sarcastically.
Castiel gave him a weary look and took his arm.
They reappeared in a patch of primeval forest. Owen blinked. “Okay, that was different.”
“I don’t yet have enough energy to get us back to your present. We will be safe here.” Castiel led him through the trees and towards a tiny village. Really just a collection of houses. A young woman greeted them with a smile and took Castiel’s hands.
Castiel said something to her in the local language, like Welsh, but worse to Owen’s ears. She answered looking between the two and curtseying.
Owen eyed the angel. “Been here before, have you?”
“This is an important location in the history of Earth.”
Owen looked at the collection of huts. “Doesn’t look like much.”
“Many human things begin that way.” Castiel followed the woman inside and Owen found himself fed and given somewhere to sleep. Far better than when he’d first landed here.
The next afternoon there were shouts. An accident, one of the men hurt working in the forest. Owen automatically went to help them, Castiel translating his requests as he cleaned and bound up the wound. “Maybe he won’t die of infection,” muttered Owen when he finished.
Castiel put a hand on his arm. “You did a good thing.”
Owen shook him off. “I’m a doctor. Can we go home yet?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why didn’t you just cure him the way you took care of the bump on my head?”
“As you pointed out, you are a doctor. He will survive, thanks to you. And if I use all of my energy to cure, then you will not be able to return home.” He left him alone with his thoughts.
Owen walked around the village, looking around. These people were people, that much didn’t change, even if the technology did. He suddenly wondered how hard it must have been for Jack to land when he did and figure out how things were done. A little girl ran up to him and pointed at the hut where the man was resting and gave him a flower. Must have been his daughter. Shaking his head, Owen muttered and went back to the hut he was staying in, stuffing the flower in his pocket.
The next day they walked back out to the forest. Another flutter of wings and the forest changed into the concrete and steel of Cardiff. Before Owen could say anything else, the angel was gone. Shaking his head he went to find Jack and the others, wondering how Jack and Castiel would have ever met.