![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
holmesticemods posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
holmesticeTitle: The Importance of Being Prudent
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mustbehavingfun
Author:who_is_small
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word count: 1790
Warnings: Schmoop. I mean it. This schmoop is so fluffy that in any civilised country, I ought to be shot.
Note: Many thanks to the mods, and torandom_nexus for the beta action. Any mistakes are mine, since I keep on fiddling with things.
Summary: Someone wants Sherlock to come out and play. But why? And does Death wear swimming trunks?
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were staring at their living room table. On the table was a laptop, four empty bottles of claret and a note.
It was eight o´clock in the morning. They had been drinking since two AM, buzzing high on adrenalin after their last brush with death in the darkened swimming pool, where Carl Powers met his own personal Grim Reaper face to face, back in 1989.
After the third bottle, they had got into a passionate discussion on whether said Grim Reaper would've been wearing black swimwear, and if so, what type. It would have to be proper swimming trunks, John decided eventually, because of the shape of the pelvic bone. Speedos would keep shlipping down over the ilium to the ischium, right, and he couldn't keep holding them, right, becaush of the… of the… of the… shcythe!!! Cheerio on that.
After the fourth bottle, they had decided to go out and watch the sunrise. Since they were alive, and stuff. When they stumbled back, the note was laying on the table. It was in ordinary envelope, marked "FOR S." in black helvetica.
They looked at each other and back at the note. Then Sherlock, suddenly sober, gestured at John to stay put and moved around the room, checking, searching. He examined the frame of the door and the carpet on all the seventeen steps. Finally, he came back into the room, a bit more relaxed, and gave John a thoughtful look.
"Is everything all right?" asked John.
Sherlock nodded and snatched the note from the table.
"Dear Prudence," he read, "Won't you come out to play?"
It was not signed.
John blinked. "Well, that's a new one. Who would have thought criminals would be into music references."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh come on. You must know this one. Even you could not have missed the existence of the most famous band in the history of the world."
A blank stare was his answer.
"Actually," said John, staring back, fascinated, "you could, couldn't you. That is unbelievable. That is fantastic. Hundreds of millions of people went crazy over them, they've been revered as minor gods during last fifty years, and you… you somehow actually managed not to notice the existence of the Beatles. What were you doing when you were a teenager?"
"I was in the library,“ said Sherlock Holmes, „being sensible."
He flicked the slip of paper with his forefinger and squinted at it against the sunlit window.
"Plain ink jet paper, common brand, soaked two days ago and dried. With a hairdryer." Sniff. "Water and… lemon juice."
"Someone was a boy scout," remarked John lightly.
"Or was trying to look amateurish," growled Sherlock, "as if there was any need of that."
"How do you mean?"
"There is no message in so called 'invisible ink', John. The lemon and water are merely attempts to muddle the tracks. Our someone was nervous when writing this. It was most likely an impulsive thing. More interesting is the determination to finish what he – or she – started, even after the impulse wore off."
"I don't think so. Nine out of ten guesses say it's from Moriarty. He'd want us to know that he is still very much alive. And waltzing through our living room at eight in the morning..."
"...leaving us whimsical musical references after watching us getting slowly sloshed on claret. That, my friend," said Sherlock, "would be Jim's idea of Hell. Maybe he is dead, after all. And you know what I think?"
"He should've left us a note about those swimming trunks in that case."
"Exactly. So. I assume we will need the lyrics of this" he waved a hand in the air, "song. Go on."
John, who had expected this and therefore had been digging in his memory for the lyrics for last few minutes, started to recite. "Dear-"
"Sing it."
"Wha?"
"I assure you," said Sherlock nastily, "it is not for my pleasure. While you have many admirable qualities, the Muses missed your cradle by a good few thousand miles. And by Muses," he added, "I mean both Euterpe and Thalia."
John threw his hands up. "And here we go again. Could you possibly lay off my writing for a minute? You do realise that it brings you clients, right? And how do you know the names of Muses anyway? That´s not exactly your typical area of expertise, given that you are a man who is baffled by the existence of not only the solar system, but also the Greek culture in general."
"It brings us clients," said Sherlock. "And because of symbolism. I once needed to research some references to solve a theft in the Royal Opera House."
He was tapping at the laptop while talking, and with a F11 jab to see the relevant sheet music fully, he reached for his violin. John stared at him.
"There might be clues in the tune as well as in the text," Sherlock said in what John considered an unnecessarily patronising tone, and started to play.
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day.
The sun is up, the sky is blue, It´s beautiful and so are you.
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, open up your eyes
Dear Prudence, see the sunny skies
The wind is low the birds will sing, That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence, won't you open up your eyes?
The last violin note fluttered out of the window on silken wings and eerie silence fell.
"You do realise that we could have just watched it on Youtube," said John after a while.
"Of course," murmured Sherlock, his eyes unfocused. He did not move.
"So," said John, "would you like to hear my theories?"
Sherlock looked at him. "My dearest John," he said warmly and patted John´s hand, "there is literally nothing I would like to hear more."
John was taken aback. "Are you still drunk?"
"Not anymore," said Sherlock, still staring at him, "but I will be."
"Why? Never mind. So. The first verse. Jim wants you to
obviously, a new sicko game of brutally murdering innocent people. Because he is, as we know, unhinged.
Greet the brand new day
means that the new 'game' starts this morning. The
- now, that's clever, but also obvious, when you think about it." John raised his forefinger, "The Sun and the Sky news - Rupert Murdoch! There is something his media channels know about the case that other papers and TV channels don't. What do you think so far?"
He turned to find Sherlock watching him, wearing an oddly wistful expression.
"Er," he said.
"No, no," said Sherlock and smiled at him. "The link is obvious. Well spotted."
There was a bit of silence.
"Do go on."
John blinked. Then he turned around and started to pace the room.
"It's beautiful," he quoted, "and so are you. Beautiful for Moriarty means devious. The crime will be repulsive and hellishly difficult."
"Which means?"
John stopped and sighed.
"Poor Anderson," he said, "his nerves will be shot to hell."
"You are right," said Sherlock with satisfaction. "Heh. This was great even before I read the note, because I knew what might be written in it. It got even better when I actually read it. And we will piss off Anderson. This is shaping up to be," he concluded smugly, "one of the best days of my life."
"You are beautiful," said John and resumed his pacing.
Sherlock looked at him sharply, his eyes gleaming.
"Moriarty calls you beautiful," John continued, oblivious, "because you are devious."
"Thank you."
"Shut up. Next stanza.
- that means not much is happening at the moment. The case is dormant. But
the birds will sing, that you are part of everything.
An old fashioned slang term, which likely means that a criminal in police custody will give testimony, which will, in some way, incriminate you in all his crimes. And you should
which means that either The Sun or Sky News will report on this. And you should watch it."
"I am agog," said Sherlock, and he was. "Pray, continue."
"Well," John stopped in front of the window and looked down on the street, at a news stand owner rolling up the blinds. "That´s it, really."
"But you have forgotten a bit," said a voice close behind him and a hand touched his back just beneath his shoulder blade and slid up.
John swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Teres major muscle, he thought, concentrating on the light slide of the palm on his back, up the trapezius muscle to, oh, spine of scapuia. I am gone.
"Look around," said Sherlock quietly, so close that his breath was making the small hairs on the back of John´s neck stand up and shiver. "Look around round round."
John did so.
"Hello," said Sherlock Holmes and kissed him.
John stood frozen for two seconds, forgetting how to breathe. Then his nervous system finally kicked in and he grabbed Sherlock's waist with both hands and kissed him back.
-oOo-
"You knew it was me from the beginning?"
"Of course," said Sherlock, stretching lazily on the bed, fingers playing with John's hair. "You have to admit that writing me a note, in which you would ask me to finally 'COME OUT' was not exactly subtle. Although I thought you were never going to own up."
"Technically," said John Watson, peeling his cheek from Sherlock's chest for a moment to smirk up at him, "I didn't. You ambushed me."
"Well, I had to. The Sun and the Sky News. I mean, really."
"I had," said John, kissing the nearest bit of skin, which happened to be Sherlock's clavicle, "a lot of claret. Mind you, I though I was pretty clever, giving you a chance to ignore the whole thing. I made a suggestion, which you could think about and choose to understand… or not."
"I know. I considered it when I was checking the room."
"While I can spot the results with my untrained eye from here," drawled John, "what made you change your mind?"
"I have come to the conclusion," said his new lover archly, drawing a G-clef on John´s back with his fingertips, "that the importance of being prudent is vastly overrated."
"Hmm. That tickles."
"Does it."
"Heh. S-stop it."
And Sherlock pounced.
A short while later, the situation changed in his favour from combat to surrender.
"Well, well, well, dear John," Sherlock whispered against the skin of John´s ribs, which were shaking with laughter, "won't you let me see you smile?"
-the end-
Recipient:
mustbehavingfun Author:
who_is_small Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Word count: 1790
Warnings: Schmoop. I mean it. This schmoop is so fluffy that in any civilised country, I ought to be shot.
Note: Many thanks to the mods, and to
random_nexus for the beta action. Any mistakes are mine, since I keep on fiddling with things.Summary: Someone wants Sherlock to come out and play. But why? And does Death wear swimming trunks?
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were staring at their living room table. On the table was a laptop, four empty bottles of claret and a note.
It was eight o´clock in the morning. They had been drinking since two AM, buzzing high on adrenalin after their last brush with death in the darkened swimming pool, where Carl Powers met his own personal Grim Reaper face to face, back in 1989.
After the third bottle, they had got into a passionate discussion on whether said Grim Reaper would've been wearing black swimwear, and if so, what type. It would have to be proper swimming trunks, John decided eventually, because of the shape of the pelvic bone. Speedos would keep shlipping down over the ilium to the ischium, right, and he couldn't keep holding them, right, becaush of the… of the… of the… shcythe!!! Cheerio on that.
After the fourth bottle, they had decided to go out and watch the sunrise. Since they were alive, and stuff. When they stumbled back, the note was laying on the table. It was in ordinary envelope, marked "FOR S." in black helvetica.
They looked at each other and back at the note. Then Sherlock, suddenly sober, gestured at John to stay put and moved around the room, checking, searching. He examined the frame of the door and the carpet on all the seventeen steps. Finally, he came back into the room, a bit more relaxed, and gave John a thoughtful look.
"Is everything all right?" asked John.
Sherlock nodded and snatched the note from the table.
"Dear Prudence," he read, "Won't you come out to play?"
It was not signed.
John blinked. "Well, that's a new one. Who would have thought criminals would be into music references."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh come on. You must know this one. Even you could not have missed the existence of the most famous band in the history of the world."
A blank stare was his answer.
"Actually," said John, staring back, fascinated, "you could, couldn't you. That is unbelievable. That is fantastic. Hundreds of millions of people went crazy over them, they've been revered as minor gods during last fifty years, and you… you somehow actually managed not to notice the existence of the Beatles. What were you doing when you were a teenager?"
"I was in the library,“ said Sherlock Holmes, „being sensible."
He flicked the slip of paper with his forefinger and squinted at it against the sunlit window.
"Plain ink jet paper, common brand, soaked two days ago and dried. With a hairdryer." Sniff. "Water and… lemon juice."
"Someone was a boy scout," remarked John lightly.
"Or was trying to look amateurish," growled Sherlock, "as if there was any need of that."
"How do you mean?"
"There is no message in so called 'invisible ink', John. The lemon and water are merely attempts to muddle the tracks. Our someone was nervous when writing this. It was most likely an impulsive thing. More interesting is the determination to finish what he – or she – started, even after the impulse wore off."
"I don't think so. Nine out of ten guesses say it's from Moriarty. He'd want us to know that he is still very much alive. And waltzing through our living room at eight in the morning..."
"...leaving us whimsical musical references after watching us getting slowly sloshed on claret. That, my friend," said Sherlock, "would be Jim's idea of Hell. Maybe he is dead, after all. And you know what I think?"
"He should've left us a note about those swimming trunks in that case."
"Exactly. So. I assume we will need the lyrics of this" he waved a hand in the air, "song. Go on."
John, who had expected this and therefore had been digging in his memory for the lyrics for last few minutes, started to recite. "Dear-"
"Sing it."
"Wha?"
"I assure you," said Sherlock nastily, "it is not for my pleasure. While you have many admirable qualities, the Muses missed your cradle by a good few thousand miles. And by Muses," he added, "I mean both Euterpe and Thalia."
John threw his hands up. "And here we go again. Could you possibly lay off my writing for a minute? You do realise that it brings you clients, right? And how do you know the names of Muses anyway? That´s not exactly your typical area of expertise, given that you are a man who is baffled by the existence of not only the solar system, but also the Greek culture in general."
"It brings us clients," said Sherlock. "And because of symbolism. I once needed to research some references to solve a theft in the Royal Opera House."
He was tapping at the laptop while talking, and with a F11 jab to see the relevant sheet music fully, he reached for his violin. John stared at him.
"There might be clues in the tune as well as in the text," Sherlock said in what John considered an unnecessarily patronising tone, and started to play.
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day.
The sun is up, the sky is blue, It´s beautiful and so are you.
Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?
Dear Prudence, open up your eyes
Dear Prudence, see the sunny skies
The wind is low the birds will sing, That you are part of everything
Dear Prudence, won't you open up your eyes?
The last violin note fluttered out of the window on silken wings and eerie silence fell.
"You do realise that we could have just watched it on Youtube," said John after a while.
"Of course," murmured Sherlock, his eyes unfocused. He did not move.
"So," said John, "would you like to hear my theories?"
Sherlock looked at him. "My dearest John," he said warmly and patted John´s hand, "there is literally nothing I would like to hear more."
John was taken aback. "Are you still drunk?"
"Not anymore," said Sherlock, still staring at him, "but I will be."
"Why? Never mind. So. The first verse. Jim wants you to
come out and play
obviously, a new sicko game of brutally murdering innocent people. Because he is, as we know, unhinged.
Greet the brand new day
means that the new 'game' starts this morning. The
sun and the sky
- now, that's clever, but also obvious, when you think about it." John raised his forefinger, "The Sun and the Sky news - Rupert Murdoch! There is something his media channels know about the case that other papers and TV channels don't. What do you think so far?"
He turned to find Sherlock watching him, wearing an oddly wistful expression.
"Er," he said.
"No, no," said Sherlock and smiled at him. "The link is obvious. Well spotted."
There was a bit of silence.
"Do go on."
John blinked. Then he turned around and started to pace the room.
"It's beautiful," he quoted, "and so are you. Beautiful for Moriarty means devious. The crime will be repulsive and hellishly difficult."
"Which means?"
John stopped and sighed.
"Poor Anderson," he said, "his nerves will be shot to hell."
"You are right," said Sherlock with satisfaction. "Heh. This was great even before I read the note, because I knew what might be written in it. It got even better when I actually read it. And we will piss off Anderson. This is shaping up to be," he concluded smugly, "one of the best days of my life."
"You are beautiful," said John and resumed his pacing.
Sherlock looked at him sharply, his eyes gleaming.
"Moriarty calls you beautiful," John continued, oblivious, "because you are devious."
"Thank you."
"Shut up. Next stanza.
The wind is low
- that means not much is happening at the moment. The case is dormant. But
the birds will sing, that you are part of everything.
An old fashioned slang term, which likely means that a criminal in police custody will give testimony, which will, in some way, incriminate you in all his crimes. And you should
see the sunny skies,
which means that either The Sun or Sky News will report on this. And you should watch it."
"I am agog," said Sherlock, and he was. "Pray, continue."
"Well," John stopped in front of the window and looked down on the street, at a news stand owner rolling up the blinds. "That´s it, really."
"But you have forgotten a bit," said a voice close behind him and a hand touched his back just beneath his shoulder blade and slid up.
John swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Teres major muscle, he thought, concentrating on the light slide of the palm on his back, up the trapezius muscle to, oh, spine of scapuia. I am gone.
"Look around," said Sherlock quietly, so close that his breath was making the small hairs on the back of John´s neck stand up and shiver. "Look around round round."
John did so.
"Hello," said Sherlock Holmes and kissed him.
John stood frozen for two seconds, forgetting how to breathe. Then his nervous system finally kicked in and he grabbed Sherlock's waist with both hands and kissed him back.
-oOo-
"You knew it was me from the beginning?"
"Of course," said Sherlock, stretching lazily on the bed, fingers playing with John's hair. "You have to admit that writing me a note, in which you would ask me to finally 'COME OUT' was not exactly subtle. Although I thought you were never going to own up."
"Technically," said John Watson, peeling his cheek from Sherlock's chest for a moment to smirk up at him, "I didn't. You ambushed me."
"Well, I had to. The Sun and the Sky News. I mean, really."
"I had," said John, kissing the nearest bit of skin, which happened to be Sherlock's clavicle, "a lot of claret. Mind you, I though I was pretty clever, giving you a chance to ignore the whole thing. I made a suggestion, which you could think about and choose to understand… or not."
"I know. I considered it when I was checking the room."
"While I can spot the results with my untrained eye from here," drawled John, "what made you change your mind?"
"I have come to the conclusion," said his new lover archly, drawing a G-clef on John´s back with his fingertips, "that the importance of being prudent is vastly overrated."
"Hmm. That tickles."
"Does it."
"Heh. S-stop it."
And Sherlock pounced.
A short while later, the situation changed in his favour from combat to surrender.
"Well, well, well, dear John," Sherlock whispered against the skin of John´s ribs, which were shaking with laughter, "won't you let me see you smile?"
-the end-
