THG AU Meme →
Peeta has a little brother for whom he volunteers.
Suggested by lu-fu-yes
“The world has been turning steadily since Sherlock’s birth and one thing has remained certain since: that London’s Greatest Detective has also been it’s biggest prat.”
The tale of the beginning, the middle, and the present of Sherlock Holmes, told by his best friend, a very much perplexed and absent-for-most-of-this-narrative-but-writing-it-anway John Watson.
fake film meme; requested by anon
His first clue had been the footsteps on the stairs.
One set. Small feet. Light body-weight. Familiar.
But not John.
Sherlock was up from his chair, tossing John’s laptop aside haphazardly and already moving to the door when his son burst in; tears streaming down his face, which was set in the most horrified expression Sherlock had ever seen.
“What happened?” Sherlock demanded, crouching down to look Hamish in the eyes.
Hamish inhaled a shakey breath amidst his tears, “D-Dad did what they asked… we… we were j-just coming h-home…” Sherlock tightened his grip on the boy’s arms, hoping to cease his trembling.
“Where’s John!?” The detective’s voice boomed.
Hamish jumped and tried to shrink away from his furious father, but Sherlock pulled him back and wrapped his arms around him; holding him close to his chest.
“I’m sorry, Hamish, but you must tell me! Where is he?! I need to go help him! He’s in trouble, isn’t he? Is he hurt? Is that why you’ve returned alone? Hamish, TELL ME!” Sherlock urged. He’d hoped to keep his tone free of desperation and fear, but that was impossible now.
“N-Northumberland Street…” Hamish wept.
Sherlock’s jaw clenched. Street harassment, attempted assault or robbery, perhaps. “Alright, stay here. Don’t move. I’ll bring him back.” He spouted quickly, lifting Hamish in his arms to set him down in John’s chair. Sherlock paused just before he pulled away from his son, “Are you alright, Hamish?” He remembered to ask; eyes quickly scanning over the boy for injuries.
“F-F-Fine…” Hamish seemed to be trembling and shaking more and more with each passing minute. Sherlock hesitantly placed an awkward kiss atop Hamish’s head, unsure of what else he could leave the boy with.
He must have seen it - high possibility of assault, John is hurt - alone now - made Hamish run home…
“Ms. Hudson!” Sherlock yelled as he raced from the flat. Charging down the stairs while tossing on his coat, his landlady scuttled out from her flat in confusion. “Stay with Hamish! Calm him down, I need to find John…” He instructed.
He could hear her tutting away in worry, but he was in no place to humour her or give her more information. He had to get to John.
Sherlock was almost certain he’d never run so fast. He pushed aside shoppers and Londoners who happened to step in his way. They cursed him, they looked at him like he was crazy… but it was all a blur.
Reaching Northumberland Street, Sherlock finally reigned himself to a stop and whipped out his mobile. He clicked the second speed dial number listed in his phone, and waited impatiently for Inspector Detective Lestrade to answer.
“Lestrade, send a unit to Northumberland Street…. I don’t know WHERE! John is hurt, and I need to find him! Do something useful and send an ambulance as well!” He barked, quickly hanging up without waiting for an answer.
He clicked the speed dial for the first number in his phone.
“John! Where are you! What do you see? I’m here, I’m looking!” He shouted into the phone, as if it were all John’s fault.
Luckily, his partner knew that was just the fear talking. “Mm… I… f-few feet from Angelo’s… I think…” He could hear John panting and groaning in what was presumably pain. “I-I… I can hear jazz music… in… I’m in… an alleyway…” He coughed. “S-Sherlock… Hamish! Is… is Hamish…”
“He’s fine, John, STOP talking for godssake man!” He snarled, tearing back through the streets. He checked every alleyway he came across, listening for the sound of wafting jazz music.
He had to find him. His John. His roommate. His partner. His best friend. His…
Finally, he heard it. Wafting jazz music.
“John?!” He called; eyes frantically darting to each corner as he barrelled down the closest alleyway.
Sherlock heard a weak cough, and noticed a pair of legs lingering from behind a rather large garbage bin. Sherlock dove to that spot, and found John propped up against the brick wall. “John!” He exclaimed, kneeling close. “John, can you hear me?”
He looked awful. His eyes were already beginning to bruise from where he’d clearly been punched, his mouth was bleeding, and there was a sizable gash along the side of his left temple. John’s clothing was rumpled and somewhat dirty, so the struggle had taken him to the ground.
“K-Knew you’d turn up…” John winced with a weak smile.
“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped. “Conserve your energy. Three, maybe four offenders. Robbery, was it? Or just London’s unfavourable youth taking the piss out of you and my son?!” He hissed out his deductions as he tried to help John stand. He wrapped one of John’s arms around his shoulders, while he wrapped one of his own around the Doctor’s waist. “You still have your phone, so mugging seems likely, but just for your wallet. Or did you hide it? Did you fight back, John? Did they touch Hamish? TELL ME!” He boomed.
John coughed, “If… you’d…” He stopped, the sounds of sirens pulling up nearby catching his attention. “You… called… Lestrade.”
“That’s an idiotic observation, John. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, and chalk it up to that blow to your head.” Sherlock growled, helping him back out of the alley and onto Northumberland Street.
The ambulance was just arriving alongside an unmarked car. John was immediately taken out of Sherlock’s grasp, and into the hands of the medics on scene. Lestrade stepped out of his car, “What the hell happened to him?”
“I don’t know all the details, I arrived only a few minutes before you did.” The consulting detective huffed. “John is too dazed at the moment to answer questions coherently.”
Lestrade nodded. “Well, uh… I don’t mind stayin’ with him, of course. The medics will give him a look-over, and when they’re done, I’ll bring him back to your flat, yeah?”
“I’m staying.” Sherlock insisted.
“No.” The older detective grasped his elbow firmly. “You’re going to go home, and stay with your son. If you’re both here that means he’s alone, doesn’t it?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes petulantly, “Ms. Hudson’s looking after him. He’s fine, just shaken up.”
“Shaken up?” Lestrade repeated. “Christ, Sherlock, was he with John when this happened?”
“Yes. He came back to the flat alone, and I knew something was wrong. GOD! I need details!” Sherlock shouted.
“Oi, enough!” Lestrade yelled back to him. “Go home, Sherlock. Go home and stay with your son, and I’ll bring John ‘round. If he needs to be admitted, you’ll be the first to know. But you need to go home. Hamish is probably scared shitless, and Ms. Hudson won’t be enough to calm him down. Not with both you and John gone.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock knew Lestrade was right.
“Bring him home immediately once they’ve finished. And they better do a sound job of it too.” He warned darkly.
Taking one last glance toward the ambulance that was currently hosting his injured partner – Sherlock turned and began to storm back toward Baker Street. This was unacceptable. He hated not knowing. But what he hated even more was seeing John hurt. No one had any right to hurt that man; he was the most saintly human being Sherlock had ever had the privilege of knowing (not that he’d ever say that out loud).
He was a war hero. He was a doctor. He was an army captain. He was moral, and loyal, and…
His phone chimed; incoming text…
|| Ok so this ficlet became waaaay too long. I’ll post the rest of it along with the other ‘parentlock’ stories on AO3 when I get them up. CLIFFHANGER ftw! x
Brilliant, aloof and almost entirely lacking in social graces. Sherlock is a unique young man with a mind like a ‘racing engine’. Without problems to solve, it will tear itself to pieces. And the more bizarre and baffling the problems the better. He has set himself up as the world’s only consulting detective, whom the police grudgingly accept as their superior.