Posted on

The Night before Sherlock

annejamison:

Twas the night before Sherlock and all through the earth
All the fangirls were squeeing with uncontained mirth.
The giffers were giffing the teasers with care
In hopes that new episodes soon would be there.

The slashers were nestled all snug in their beds
While visions Johnlockian danced in their heads.
To avoid any spoiling, I blocked from my Tumblr
All spoilers and actors who used to be humbler.

When out on the web there arose such a chatter
I logged in to twitter to see what was the matter.
I turned on the iphone, I didn’t need Flash
To hear cries of “no homo!” “no romo!” and “slash!”

“The camera on Cumberbatch flesh white as snow
Gave lust to John Watson’s gaze, shot from below!”
When what to my stream-scrolling eyes should appear
But an actor announcing “John Watson’s not queer!

 “Our show’s straight up bromance, it’s you all who gayed us!
The queer stuff’s a joke, you can even ask Gatiss!”
Then, more livid than fangirls oft slighted by canon,
Billy Wilder arose from the dead bearing fanon!

“Now Barrymore, Rathbone, Now William Gillette!
On Stephens! On Plummer! On Jeremy Brett!
From The Study in Scarlet to the top of Bart’s wall,
All Holmeses are “fond of queer mysteries”—all!

“The Great Game Sherlockians always have played—
When it meets with an error, a story is made!”
So up to the rooftop, the Holmeses, they flew,
Falling and dying and coming back new.

"When in "Reichenbach” Cumberbatch fell from the roof,
We knew Sherlock lived, we just didn’t have proof!”
As these ghosts of past Holmeses were flitting around
Through the livestream Mark Gatiss came in with a bound.

He was dressed all in pinstripes, a well-tailored fella,
Propped up on a signature Mycroft umbrella.
A bundle of references sprung from his lips,
From the footprints of hounds to the five orange pips.

 “We’re giving you Sherlock, so let us not tarry,
But fans wanted Johnlock where Doyle wrote us Mary!
Our Sherlockian mouth may be arched like a bow
And the camera may dwell on his skin white as snow,

We traded his pipe for the nicotine patch,
And we added a Molly, but Mary must match!
Our Sherlock likes cellphones, John posts to a blog,
But we’re not all that modern, we can’t have men snog!”

And then from my bookshelf a volume pushed out
And I laughed when I saw Nero Wolfe by Rex Stout!
With a wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Gatiss gave us to know we had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but turned to his writing
And filled slashers’ fic prompts with gazes exciting.
Rex Stout saw the Holmes/Watson conjugal life
But instead of two gents, called them “husband and wife,”

And where Moffat wrote Adler as weilding a whip,
Stout saw Watson, “The Woman,” give readers the slip.
But both Moffat and Gatiss as Great Gamers know,
Sherlock Holmes is for all of us! On with the show!

Posted on

No Shame

earlgreytea68:

“I’m just saying,” pouted Sherlock, “that I think the dragon was misunderstood.”

“Really?” said John. “All of the things that you could attack about that movie, and you’re going to defend the villain?”

“He’s a dragon, John. He wanted some gold. It’s just his nature.”

"Sherlock, dragons aren’t real, you know.”

Sherlock scowled. “I know that.”

“I didn’t know if maybe you deleted it along with the solar system.”

“You know, you dragged me to see that stupid movie, you shouldn’t complain now that I have opinions about it.” Sherlock flopped onto the sofa, full sulk mode engaged. 

"I’m sorry,” said John. “You’re right. I’m glad you identified with somebody in the movie.” John paused. “Even if it was the evil dragon.”

Sherlock huffed and turned his back on John. 

John, chuckling, left him to his sulk. 

***

“I am not alone,” proclaimed Sherlock, leaping onto John’s bed. 

John, startled out of sleep, said, “What?”

Sherlock shoved his laptop into John’s face, too close for John to focus on, especially in his bleary-eyed state. “I. Am not. Alone.”

“No,” said John, closing his eyes and turning over. “You’re not. You’re with me.”

Sherlock sprawled across John’s midsection so that he could stay on the side of John’s body that would put him in eyesight if John opened his eyes. “No. I mean about the dragon.”

“The dragon?” John echoed. 

“From the movie! Oh, my God, John, that was your bloody movie that you wanted to see.”

"Yes, and I saw it, and I’m fine with not thinking about it in the middle of the night.”

“I went on the Internet,” continued Sherlock, as if John hadn’t spoken, “and there are lots of people who agree with me about the dragon.”

John gave up and opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. “Are you seriously going to wake me up to talk to me about how you’re right in your defense of a fictional dragon?”

Sherlock considered. “Yes,” he decided. 

“You have absolutely no shame,” remarked John.

“No,” Sherlock agreed, and once again shoved his laptop too close in John’s face. “See, dragons aren’t greedy, John, not really, they can’t help it.”

"They’re just addicted to gold?” asked John, dryly. 

“No. Well, unless human beings are addicted to sofas.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We could live without comfortable seating, sure, but why would you want to?”

"If I had to massacre whole villages to get a comfy chair, then I think I might learn to live without comfy chairs.”

Sherlock groaned in despair and rolled off of John—which was good, because he’d been getting heavy—and wriggled onto his back on the mattress next to him. “You’re thinking like a human. You’ve got to think like a dragon.”

“Sherlock, there’s no such thing as—”

“It would be tough to be a dragon. They’re really big and scaly and they’ve got massive teeth and then they breathe fire. Humans aren’t going to want to be friends with them. Even if they were a nice dragon. It’s lonely being a dragon. So they find something that makes them feel less lonely. The dwarves all had each other, they were the greedy ones.”

John looked across at Sherlock’s profile. He thought maybe Sherlock knew something about loneliness and the things you did, desperately, to keep it at bay. “You’re absolutely mad.”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound in the direction of the ceiling. 

"But maybe you have a point.”

Sherlock looked at him in absolute delight. John could see it even in the dimness of the bedroom. “See? I’m right.”

“I said that you have a point. I’m not entirely sure you’re right. I feel like that dragon could have made friends. He had a pretty sexy voice.”

“Their world didn’t have telephones, John,” said Sherlock, scathingly. 

John grinned at him. “I love how seriously you take fiction.”

"What is the point of subjecting yourself to something like that if you’re not going to take it seriously?”

"I’m gonna get you hooked on Eastenders. I can’t wait to hear your rants about that.”

“Don’t you think it’s bad enough you made me watch the poor, lonely dragon?”

“I didn’t think you were going to get sad about the dragon. Sorry about that.”

Sherlock made a sound halfway between I didn’t get sad about him and thank you for realizing I’m sad about him. 

“For what it’s worth,” John said, and rolled on top of him. “I’d let you desolate me anytime you like.”

“You know how much I hate it when you use euphemisms,” Sherlock frowned up at him. 

“Fine. Get your laptop out of this bed and shag me through the mattress.”

“Better,” said Sherlock. 

“Good dragon,” said John, and kissed the tip of his nose. 

“Idiot,” grumbled Sherlock. But when he flipped John over, he growled at him playfully. 

And John laughed, and Sherlock kissed him. 

(Also posted to the noshameficathon collection on AO3.)