Day 13: BBC Sherlock: Gen
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adventdrabblesTitle: Seven Hundred Swans a-Swimming
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Gen
Notes: Genderswapped Johnlock.
Prompt: Holiday home decorating.
Summary: John never knows what she is going to find when she returns to the flat.
Living with Sherlock Holmes was an adventure. John was never bored.
John was by no means immune to the surprise of whatever might greet her when she returned to the flat that she and Sherlock shared. It might be an experiment gone wrong—or right. There might be body parts in the fridge or in the microwave. Sherlock might be in conversation with a client who was elated—or the very opposite of elated—about Sherlock’s results or her observations.
Sherlock had her moods. She might be in a dark funk, or she might be on cloud nine. She might be playing the violin meditative, drinking tea lethargically, or staring at a case board as if it held the secrets of the universe.
It was the week of Christmas. John had made some casual suggestions about decorating for the holiday, but Sherlock had baulked, and John hadn’t pressed.
One evening, John left for a night shift at the hospital with Sherlock in a rather nervy state, a condition which never boded well for what might greet John on her return. John had made some suggestions, the usual self-help advice, but she doubted Sherlock had even heard her.
John climbed the stairs slowly, listening, sniffing.
Nothing. That could be good or bad. John never knew and, as she had heard from Sherlock many times, it was folly to anticipate ahead of the facts.
She reached the sitting room and gasped.
The flat was covered with bits of paper, and Sherlock was asleep on the sofa.
John picked up one of the bits and studied it.
“Swan.”
John looked up into Sherlock’s sleepy gaze.
“It helped,” added Sherlock.
“I can see that,” said John. “We’ve got,” she looked about the flat, “seven hundred swans a-swimming.” In every type of paper available in the flat. Holiday wrapping paper. Cards and envelopes. Note paper. Junk post. “I like them.”
Sherlock grunted and got to her feet. She shambled toward the hall, muttering,
“Shower.”
John smiled at Sherlock’s retreating figure, then she surveyed the rooms and got an idea.
Sherlock returned an hour later, wearing a robe and toweling her damp hair. She stopped and stared.
“What do you think?” asked John.
She had hung many the swans on strings in vertical curtains. She’d gather others into a wreath and linked still more in chains along the mantelpiece.
Sherlock’s grey eyes sparkled. “I like them.”
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Gen
Notes: Genderswapped Johnlock.
Prompt: Holiday home decorating.
Summary: John never knows what she is going to find when she returns to the flat.
Living with Sherlock Holmes was an adventure. John was never bored.
John was by no means immune to the surprise of whatever might greet her when she returned to the flat that she and Sherlock shared. It might be an experiment gone wrong—or right. There might be body parts in the fridge or in the microwave. Sherlock might be in conversation with a client who was elated—or the very opposite of elated—about Sherlock’s results or her observations.
Sherlock had her moods. She might be in a dark funk, or she might be on cloud nine. She might be playing the violin meditative, drinking tea lethargically, or staring at a case board as if it held the secrets of the universe.
It was the week of Christmas. John had made some casual suggestions about decorating for the holiday, but Sherlock had baulked, and John hadn’t pressed.
One evening, John left for a night shift at the hospital with Sherlock in a rather nervy state, a condition which never boded well for what might greet John on her return. John had made some suggestions, the usual self-help advice, but she doubted Sherlock had even heard her.
John climbed the stairs slowly, listening, sniffing.
Nothing. That could be good or bad. John never knew and, as she had heard from Sherlock many times, it was folly to anticipate ahead of the facts.
She reached the sitting room and gasped.
The flat was covered with bits of paper, and Sherlock was asleep on the sofa.
John picked up one of the bits and studied it.
“Swan.”
John looked up into Sherlock’s sleepy gaze.
“It helped,” added Sherlock.
“I can see that,” said John. “We’ve got,” she looked about the flat, “seven hundred swans a-swimming.” In every type of paper available in the flat. Holiday wrapping paper. Cards and envelopes. Note paper. Junk post. “I like them.”
Sherlock grunted and got to her feet. She shambled toward the hall, muttering,
“Shower.”
John smiled at Sherlock’s retreating figure, then she surveyed the rooms and got an idea.
Sherlock returned an hour later, wearing a robe and toweling her damp hair. She stopped and stared.
“What do you think?” asked John.
She had hung many the swans on strings in vertical curtains. She’d gather others into a wreath and linked still more in chains along the mantelpiece.
Sherlock’s grey eyes sparkled. “I like them.”
