Explanation: OKAY so basically my mate Lyd did this amazing drawing for me for my birthday and it was WELL WICKED and inspired me to go off on this fucking crazy road of 'oh my god though Sherlock Holmes' father was JARETH FROM LABYRINTH. Yeah. Fucking, exactly. So basically I decided to write a fic about what would happen if Sherlock and Mycroft were Jareth's sons, and the Princes of the Goblin Kingdom and them growing up there and then eventually moving to the Human Realm and the events of Sherlock happening and BASICALLY I've got what looks like a fucking five year plan for this fic now.

This is chapter one.

Yyyyeah.

Title: Our Hungry Thirsty Roots
Word Count: 1757
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Jareth
Pairing: None yet, but will be eventual Sherlock/John
Disclaimer: I may possibly be insane. None of this is mine and it is an AU so if that doesn't shake your boat, you probably don't want to be reading.

( forever, as it turned out, was actually a very long time )

now now, don't get excited. it's nothing special. just a little stupid something to celebrate the fact that it's both Jared Padalecki and Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday today. one of my mates on tumblr said they'd like to see Sherlock and Sam celebrating this together, and I whipped this up on the spur of the moment. enjoy!


As if he couldn’t feel anymore out of place. The tiny English pub was filled with appropriately tiny old men, all of whom swivelled to see who had made squeaky door groan on its hinges. Sam, caught like a 6’4” rabbit in headlights, raised a hand in greeting, though he didn’t know particularly who to. The old men all let out a collective huff of breath, and went back to their drinking.

Sam stood like that for a few moments more, hand raised in the air, before lowering it awkwardly and heading over to the bar. “Uh, one beer, please.”

“Quite far from Kansas, aren’t you?”

The voice came as a surprise to Sam, and he tensed immediately. It was the sort of voice he associated with demons, and the fact that he hadn’t seen the tall, dark figure looming in the corner put him on red alert.

“Please, no Toto quips.” Sam bantered lightly, but the stranger seemed to slip into confusion for a second, and then masked it.

“That’ll be one fifty, mate.” The barman broke Sam’s concentration, and he flipped open his wallet to search for British coins, but before he could pay, the stranger in the corner put money forward.

“Here, Ron, it’s on me,” at this, the barman looked as shocked as Sam at the man’s generosity, “It’s his birthday.”

“Sure, Sherlock, sure.”

Sam sipped at his beer, watching the barman move away, before sitting a little closer to ‘Sherlock’, wanting to keep an eye on him.

“How’d you know?”

“About your birthday?” Sherlock smirked softly, and Sam noticed that he wasn’t drinking. He was just sat there, in the corner, alone. If Sam had of been hunting something, that’s exactly where he would have sat. In the corner, but not backed into it. Plenty of escape routes - vault over the bar, the fire exit behind him, the store room door to the left. You could watch the front door from there, without being noticed yourself. Briefly, Sam wondered if he’d run into a British Hunter, but then dismissed that idea. Sherlock’s face was all wrong, he didn’t have that hunted look that only came with being a Hunter.

“Yeah, about my birthday.”

“You’re in a foreign country, not alone, you’re here working with someone. Your job is quite unconventional, you don’t get much time off, and it’s something to do with people. Even as you came in here, one of the least dangerous places you could find, you still did a perfunctory sweep of the room. That means you’re constantly on alert, hunting someone, or something. However, you didn’t want to appear rude, you greeted everyone once you were sure the place was fine. Homegrown values like that, coming from a Kansas boy, tell me that you’re a traditionalist. You’re working an extremely important job, where your life could be in danger, and you risk that for a quick drink down a local pub? Must be an important occasion. I can rule out anniversary, no ring and no visible marks indicating you usually wear one. If it were to commemorate the death of a loved one you’d be much more morose and your partner- your brother- would be here too, to keep an eye on you or to have a drink as well. You think he’s forgotten this occasion, and you would’ve kept quiet but your traditional values demand you celebrate in some capacity, so you’ve slipped away for a quick drink to celebrate alone. Birthday.”

Sam blinked, staring at Sherlock, who had not once looked at him when he spoke, keeping an eye on the door. And here he thought Dean was a workaholic.

“That was amazing.”

Sherlock seemed visibly affected by these words, shifting slightly in his seat, though his face betrayed nothing.

“You can really tell all that- you could tell it was my birthday from just…  looking at me?” Sam raised an eyebrow, and after a moment or two Sherlock’s face split into a smile.

“Well, that, and I saw the driving license you keep at the front of your wallet.”

Sherlock reached out a hand, and Sam laughed, then handed it over, deciding he trusted this guy for some reason, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
Sherlock sifted through his wallet, looking like a kid in a candy story to Sam, the way his face lit up as he examined all of the fakes and forgeries.

“These are all spectacular. You make these all yourself? Brilliant craftsmanship.”

Sam got the impression this guy wasn’t one to give our compliments easily, so he swelled a little with pride as he downed more of his beer.

“Thanks.”

Just then, the door opened, and Sherlock’s back tensed. Sam frowned, and swivelled round. The guy who had come in had his eyes on Sherlock, though he didn’t look murderous or poised to kill. Just vaguely pissed.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything tucked into the side of your boot that could incapacitate without harming?” Sherlock asked Sam quietly, and Sam smirked, not wanting to know how Sherlock had figured out his knife was in there.

“Nope, sorry, dude. You’re on your own.”

“Right.”

“I spent two HOURS talking to Mycroft before I realised you’d gone!” The shorter man’s voice rang through the room, and though Sam was a little astonished at the power behind it, the rest of the people in the pub didn’t seem affected, as though they were used to it.

“But John, I-“

“No! Don’t you bloody dare ‘but John’ me!” ‘John’ stormed forwards, and though he was shorter in stature, he seemed to tower over Sherlock at this particular moment. “This is ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. You can’t leave me alone to face your scary as hell family at your own birthday party!”

Sherlock looked as though he were trying to pout. Sam snorted, wishing Dean were here to see this. And people had the gall to mistake them for a couple.

“John, if you’ll just let me explain-“

“No, because then you’ll explain it away, and I’m not having that.” John grunted, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to the door. Oh, Sam thought, watching them. Perhaps they were a couple, then…

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock.” He called, grinning, and the look Sherlock shot at him over his shoulder was one of a man begging for help.

“And, hey, happy birthday!” Sam returned cheerfully, making no move to save him.

Sherlock scowled, and grunted something that sounded like a distasteful “Americans.” under his breath, before disappearing out into the night, dragged by an argyle-wearing force to be reckoned with.

Sam chuckled softly, before jolting a little guiltily as he saw a familiar figure in the still-open doorway.

“So this is where you’re hiding.” Dean smirked, and obviously he hadn’t forgotten, a badly wrapped present tucked away under his arm. “Trust you to find the most boring place possible to get hammered.”

“Well, actually,” Sam began, smiling in a way that could only be described as devilish, as his brother joined him at the bar, “I just heard about this party that we could crash.”

if I keep writing meta-ficfic, you guys'll still read it

right

right?

So, a while ago, my best friend and I were talking about kinky Sherlock fics, and how we both generally disliked bondage. Something about it just struck a wrong chord with us, and she decided it was because she didn't think John would appreciate it, at all, because it would probably bring up some war memories for him. She went on to say how she'd love to see a fic like that, so I went on to write that fic for her.

Title: One Hundred Percent Raw
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 2082
Rating: T/M, depending on your personal viewpoint
 

( but it wasn't okay. it really, really wasn't okay. )

I quite like it here. I never thought I'd had another proper blog (I'm discounting tumblr, I don't really talk about my life there, just other people's lives)

So here I am. To stay.

as per usual, this is inspired by the brilliant anon who is writing The Theory Of Narrative Causality  over at the sherlockbbc_fic journal. Go read that, right now.

The first time Sherlock reads one of jumperfucker's fics, he almost smashes his laptop.

It was only the desire to read the fic again, to make sure, that halted his arms midair, bringing the cowering Vaio back down to balance atop his crooked knees once more. His eyes scan the page at lightening speed, still taking in every word of the 10k story within minutes, not missing a single detail. It was perfect. A little over-descriptive, of course, and with a tendency to lean towards romanticising details that should've been somewhat insignificant, but character-wise, plot-wise, relationship-wise, it was perfection.

And Sherlock doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to handle this. He never imagined he'd find anybody who understood like he did, who could breathe life so successfully into the characters he held in such high esteem, even through the cold, hard glare of a computer screen. He'd never prepared for this situation because he'd never envisioned it happening, he'd never taken into consideration that jumperfucker, as a writer and a person, could actually exist somewhere out there.  And so, Sherlock does not know what to do. It confuses him and makes him feel ignorant, which in turn makes him want to destroy the blasted piece of technology with renewed anger. So he does.

And this is how Mycroft knows
.
--

"What is it?"

"It's a piece of paper, Sherlock, do try and keep up."

Mycroft is never more aware of how the phrase 'if looks could kill' might have been coined than when he is around his brother. The shattered remains of what had been a loaned laptop are scattered about the floor in front of Sherlock, who balances on top of the back of his chair, feet sunk firmly into the plush cushions that Mycroft's home is rich in. He's been living with his brother for almost a month now, while he 'reconsiders his priorities' - Mycroft's words, not his.

"You know exactly what it is." Mycroft eventually answers Sherlock's real question. "Don't let it be said I never did anything for you, Sherlock."

"I don't need it." Sherlock mutters, pointedly looking away from the paper, and from his brother. "I'll find him myself."

There is a long silence, in which the Holmes brothers have a seemingly telepathic conversation which no one but they are ever privy to, and finally Mycroft seems satisfied, tucking the folded paper away in his pocket.

"Well, the information is always here, if you need it. Working for the Government has its advantages, Sherlock."

"Go away, Mycroft."

--

What follows is a month of Sherlock, for lack of a better word, stalking John. He reads, and re-reads and re-re-reads through every single post jumperfucker has ever made, right back to the first unsure post entitled "Nothing ever happens to me". He takes notes, draws up a timeline of John's history on LJ and his history IRL, based on little snippets of information dotted about John's journal. He traces every thread John has replied to, every time the username 'jumperfucker' is mentioned, Sherlock is there, analysing and deducing. By the end of all of this, he feels as though he's built up a quite accurate picture of who John just might be, and he cannot believe his ridiculous luck.

He goes on to repeat this experiment four or five times, trying to fault his findings because he refuses to acknowledge that some of the events in his life come down to fate. It must be a trick, some sort of delusion brought on by the last of the withdrawal symptoms, or perhaps his calculating mind, tired of having to deal with idiots, has decided to turn on him instead, finding him much better sport. In any case, it just cannot be real. However, as Sherlock knew all too well, once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth and,  in the heart he so often claimed he was missing, he had known the truth from the moment he had smashed the laptop. It had just been far too much for him to take in at that time and process correctly. After all, up until that moment, he hadn't believed in Watsons.

so I'm pretty certain anyone who comes here and reads this will be coming over from the sherlockbbc_fic prompt part xv, and I fucking love the metafic there SO MUCH that I wrote my own fic of a fic about fictional characters writing fics and drawing fanarts of their Victorian selves.
Yeah. Deal.

John used to hate those posers who sat in coffee shops, typing away on their laptops.

They always looked so fake, so false and so ridiculous. 'Look at me, everyone, I'm so busy and important and I'm always typing away, writing something really important here in this coffee shop, look at me go.' He used to smirk (not sneer, not really his thing) at them as he passed by, Criterion cup in hand, and wonder what on earth possessed them to make such a show of themselves in public.

But now he knows they weren't trying to impress. They weren't writers or poets or busybodies wanting someone to ask them what they were writing so that they could launch into a spiel about their latest masterpiece. They were thirty-something year old connoisseurs of Victorian porn, somewhat nervously waiting to meet the fanartist they'd been chatting (flirting? if you can believe everything you read on LJ) with for weeks, wondering whether this was all a big mistake, and so they'd decided to whip out their safety nets - their laptops - just to stop them from vomiting with anticipation.

Or perhaps they were, in actual fact, all tossers and John was the exception that proved the rule.

Every time the door of the Criterion opened, John looked up, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible, but somehow managing to look like a startled kitten. He didn't even know what he was looking for, the mysterious bastard hadn't given him any real clues as to what he looked like. He just said 'You'll know' and signed off. He groaned softly to himself, and his fingers hovered over his well-worn keyboard, staring at the unpublished journal entry that simply read 'what am i doing what am i doing what am i doing' over and over and over again. Swallowing another gulp of coffee, he tried to calm himself down. Why was this so ridiculous? So he was breaking one of his guidelines. This was different, this was. . . this was consulting_detective. 'Christ, John, you don't even know his name yet.' he thought to himself, and the nerves set in again (although he had, mentally and embarrassingly, began to refer to the man as 'Sherlock', but he'd never admit to it if asked). In any case, consulting_detective was different from all of the rest of the comm. He was a friend, a close friend now, and to be honest John wanted to actually see him and some of his drawings IRL, and, god willing, consulting_detective might even let him keep one of the rough sketches. He'd get it framed, and then hide it somewhere where no one but him could ever see it.

Pulling a face (the sort you might pull if you'd just lost out on an award that was rightfully yours), John tried to get a hold of himself. He was building this up too much. There was a big difference between UST on the internet and actual compatibility in real life. Internet dating? No thank you. Alright for some, but definitely not for him. He knew a little something about the kind of people you might find on the other side of a screen name, and he generally did not want those people in his life, let alone in his bed.

That is, until he heard a horribly familiar, kink-inducing, baritone voice behind him.

"jumperfucker, I presume?"