VoOs does Sherlock Drabbles (10/100)

[VoOs]

Too much Sherlock fic on the boards, they said?

Sorry I'm not sorry.

In this drabble thread, I'm going to use Garnet's lovely list of drabble prompts that can be found → here

And I say drabble thread, but I think the first three or so drabbles are going to read as a longer story (I was thinking I should try and write these in order from prompt 1 - 100).

First off...

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~ Allergic ~ (give me a title like that, and I'm going to be shamelessly self-indulgent)

”You're... allergic?” John hissed the question out of the corner of his mouth, staring sideways at Sherlock, incredulous, as they both crouched behind the massive, leather-clad sofa in the extravagant sitting room.

“Yes. Regrettably”, came the answer, muffled by the scarf that the detective had hastily pulled over the lower half of his face as a kind of makeshift protective filter mask.

“To cats?”

“Don't make me repeat myself, John. I need to save my breath.”

“Please don't tell me you're asthmatic as well?” John nearly groaned. It was bad enough having to worry about the killer, who at that very moment was standing outside on the veranda, less than twenty feet away from their hiding spot, nervously twiddling a gun in his dressing gown pocket.

“Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get that medical degree of yours”, Sherlock whispered in reply, his biting tone betraying his anger with himself rather than anything John had said. Stupid. Stupid. How could he have missed such a vital detail? The spot of bird's blood on the porch; the claw marks on the carpet. They'd only get one shot at this. He'd be damned if he was going to let his misguided immune system get in the way of what was likely to be their only chance to get hold of the last piece of evidence.

Not asthmatic, no. But that didn't mean he wasn't about to experience some shortage of air. Sherlock clamped a hand firmly over his nose and mouth and concentrated on breathing slowly, regularly. It was all a matter of time now. If he could just postpone the reaction for another five minutes, things might still go according to plan.

“Still no sign of him”, John breathed, peeking over the edge of the sofa, through the French windows that opened towards the garden.

“He'll be here.” As he bent his head to press his nose deeper into the protective fabric of his scarf, Sherlock's eyes fell upon a single, long, white hair drifting lazily over the floor, stirred by the breeze leaking through the open glass doors. He followed its aerobatics across the parquet and gritted his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. White Persian. It wasn't the fur that was the problem, of course; it was the airborn dried saliva of the cleanliness-obsessed creatures that bothered him. He knew this, and still the sight of the hair seemed to trigger some kind of nocebo effect in him, making his formerly dry eyes well with tears and his nose...

God, his nose.

Cursing inwardly, the detective wiggled his nose between his thumb and forefinger, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and the bridge of his nose deeply wrinkled in an expression akin to a snarl. In the space of two breaths, his nasal passages were suddenly ablaze with itching, making his breath catch in his throat and his nostrils flex against his fingers as he tried to rub the irritation away, or at least keep it at a bearable level.

It was a fruitless struggle.

By his side, John was watching him with mounting alarm.

“A-are you ready with your phone?”, Sherlock managed, blinking hard to rid himself of the tears that was now blurring his vision. John nodded.

“Any minute now...” Or was that wishful thinking? Still with his hands cupped over his face, Sherlock risked a sniffle and regretted it immediately. The sound was thick and far louder than he had expected. What was worse, the sensation of loose congestion shifting inside his nose aggravated the tickle even further. One minute or two seconds, it made no difference. He wasn't going to last -

“Hh-nxh!”

It was less a sneeze and more a tightly contained shudder, nearly soundless save for a moist squeak-like sound at the far back of his nasal cavity.

“H'nxx!” And again, his shoulders jumping and his fingers never letting go of his nostrils.

“ 'hngx! - 'xgh! - hdnxgh!”

Five sneezes later, and the itch didn't show any sign of letting up. If anything, it was gaining strength, every nerve ending in his nose protesting fiercely against this unforeseen invasion of allergens. Powerless to fight it, all he could do was gasp and wait for next onslaught.

In the midst of all this, Sherlock could feel John's hand closing on his shoulder - supporting, concerned - and he tried to shake him off, waving his free hand irritably which was his improvised sign language for 'Never mind me! Keep ready with the phone camera!'

It was all he could do before the lingering ghost of the killer's cat sank its tiny, particle-level claws in his sinuses again and made him double over with another spell of stubbornly stifled sneezes.

“hd-ngh! h'xxh! hh... hih... hH'ngxx!”

There was simply no way he was letting the killer get away now. Not after all this.

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(TBC, sorta)

[tma]

“Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get that medical degree of yours”, Sherlock whispered in reply, his biting tone betraying his anger with himself rather than anything John had said. Stupid. Stupid. How could he have missed such a vital detail? The spot of bird's blood on the porch; the claw marks on the carpet. They'd only get one shot at this. He'd be damned if he was going to let his misguided immune system get in the way of what was likely to be their only chance to get hold of the last piece of evidence

.The whole thing, but *this* - this is an example of where I can totally picture the scene and hear *exactly* how he's saying that, and the expression on his face.

It was all he could do before the lingering ghost of the killer's cat sank its tiny, particle-level claws in his sinuses again and made him double over with another spell of stubbornly stifled sneezes.

Just when I think that you have come up with the best way to state something- you do it *again*. This was *especially* brilliant- it really is so very wrong that you do such a fabulous job of picking out words and images- but I will *not* complain- I'll just *try* my best to deal with having to read beautifully written fiction. *sigh*

And I adore the set up as well- LOVE!!

< needs to set *following* onto some of these topics here Mwahahaha!!

[Garnet]

Is it weird that I'm stupidly excited you're using the prompt list I posted? Go, my lovelies! Write, create! I'm looking forward to the next part, but here are a few lines that stood out to me :q

“Yes. Regrettably”, came the answer, muffled by the scarf that the detective had hastily pulled over the lower half of his face as a kind of makeshift protective filter mask.

Iiii really love the visual (and... audio?) of Sherlock muffling through the scarf. Ugh, my heart.

“Sometimes I wonder how you ever managed to get that medical degree of yours”, Sherlock whispered in reply, his biting tone betraying his anger with himself rather than anything John had said.

Ahaha oh man, this is so perfect. Perfectly encapsulates what a bratty pissant Sherlock is, while also revealing the complexities of his emotion underneath. Baw <3

God, his nose.

Such a short line, but so, so delicious.

[MyOwnPrivateSFC]

You cannot imagine my excitement when I saw the title of this thread, and dear God, its contents did not disappoint. So perfectly written, so Sherlocky...I honestly can't even find the words to do it justice.

[Dusty15]

Gosh this is SO DELICIOUS already, and only one drabble! You're a master of description, VoOs! I can't wait for you to spoil us with more Sherlock amazingness

[AngelEyes]

Oh. My. Can I just melt now....

[tenderwarrior]

This was SO good! I could hear Sherlock and John's voices throughout this entire drabble. I can't wait for more!

[MoonDuck]

"Master of description" is the perfect title.

I disagree. No too much Sherlock.

[Spoo]

The title of this thread should be "VoOs does Sherlock Drabbles...extremely well." Heh. Lovely start, my talented darling. Can't wait for more torture prompt fills!

[sallyhally]

There is nocsuc thing like too much Sherlock! Espetcially if you do it, VoOs! Can´t wait for more!

[cally]

I think the same thing every time I post a new instalment, and tbh, I'm not even bothered.

I also nearly fainted when I saw that you had started a drabble thread. Honestly.

And this is lovely. Poor Sherlock all overcome and John all comforting. /dies

[sallyhally]

I also nearly fainted when I saw that you had started a drabble thread. Honestly.

i had exactly the same reaction

[tma]

I also nearly fainted when I saw that you had started a drabble thread. Honestly.

i had exactly the same reaction

^^

[ID2006]

Since I am currently incapable of coming up with coherent praises, just reread what everyone else said.... and post more of course.

[HoneyBunny]

I also nearly fainted when I saw that you had started a drabble thread. Honestly.

i had exactly the same reaction

Me too

This is so so so extremely well written. Like, it's more Sherlock-esque than the show itself. Can they please fire Moffat and let you write the scripts instead? Because that would be so much cooler.

And Gaaaaawd these silent fits. SO HOT. I honestly don't know what to do with myself now nghghghgh <3

[VoOs]

Oh, wow. I wish I had time to reply to all of you individually. I can't believe this response. You're all too lovely.

*drabbles at 4 in the morning because why the hell not*

English? Wat eez English? Ai häv no aidea...

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~ Desperation (continuation of 'Allergic') ~

And it looked like he wouldn't have to. The blasted sneezing was preventing him from keeping his eyes open for more than a couple of seconds at a time, and suppressing the outbursts had caused his eardrums to pop, making his hearing somewhat dulled as if his head was submerged in water. Despite these rather infuriating disadvantages, Sherlock still noticed it before John did - the sound of shoes on grass, drawing closer.

A surge of excitement ran like an electric impulse through the detective's muscles, so strong that he momentarily forgot about the rebellion that was currently taking place in his airways. For all his 'yes, I am sure's and 'trust me, he'll show up's, he had been secretly harbouring a tiny speck of doubt. You always took a risk when you brought human sentiment into the calculation. Granted, he had gotten better at it since... well, since John, but until he heard those footsteps approaching through the garden, he hadn't been one hundred percent certain. However now he had, and now he was.

Prying his sticky, swollen eyelids open, Sherlock grabbed hold of John's jacket sleeve and hissed with unmasked glee:

“Here he comes!”

John made a thumbs up and inched his way to the far end of the sofa, poking his phone and head around the edge of it as far as he dared. Meanwhile, Sherlock was fighting a heroic battle to keep another bout of sneezes at bay. Knuckling two fingers under his nose and sawing them back and forth, he tried in vain to get at the itch that seemed to have settled somewhere deep between his eyes, unreachable, maddening. Eyes and nose dripping an equal amount, his fingers came away with a thin coating of watery discharge, and he wiped his hand on his coat, more frustrated than disgusted. He wanted to peek over the sofa, make sure that John caught what they needed on film, but his eyes were once again fluttering closed on their own accord and an involuntary inhale through his nose served only to fan the burning tickle into even fiercer flames.

“Heh'dNXh!” They were becoming progressively harder to contain, his temples beginning to ache faintly with the effort.

“Hh'NGHh! -gnNXXh!” To think that a reflex could be so forceful and yet so unsatisfying at the same time...! Each sneeze seemed to trigger the next, for the time being trapping the usually composed, in-control detective in a vicious circle of sneeze-gasp-sneeze, rinse and repeat.

A couple of moments later, John was back at his side again, nudging him in the arm and whispering something that Sherlock had trouble picking up at first, deafened as he was by the sound of his own head repeatedly exploding. And then, in the quivering, pregnant pause between sneezes number eleven and twelve, John's triumphant words finally reached him:

“Got him.”

“Excellent, John! Now all we need to do i-hh... hh!”

John was still holding his phone raised like a trophy, on its screen the paused video of two men embracing on the veranda, when Sherlock gave a high, uncontrollable gasp and sneezed freely, desperately, through his fingers, his whole, lean body convulsing with the sheer force of it:

“Hiih'ESSHHh!”

“Ah, fuck.”

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(dun-dun-DUNNN...! TBC)

[Garnet]

a vicious circle of sneeze-gasp-sneeze

I'm stealing this. I'm stealing it and using it and I'm not even gonna feel bad about it.

Also: NGHGHGHGhhnnn <3

[AngelEyes]

You always took a risk when you brought human sentiment into the calculation. Granted, he had gotten better at it since... well, since John

Awww. So true!

Knuckling two fingers under his nose and sawing them back and forth, he tried in vain to get at the itch that seemed to have settled somewhere deep between his eyes, unreachable, maddening.

I can Totally picture this!!!

Does little happy dance!

[squealofapproval]

SHERLOCK IS ALLERGIC OMGGGGES

I CAN'T.

[sallyhally]

uuuuuuuuuuuh cliffhanger (love it)

[cally]

Awww poor Sherlock- (please more!).

[tenderwarrior]

Allergic Sherlock! You write allergies so perfectly, VoOs, and I'm so excited for more.

[Spoo]

Desperate sneezing is the best kind of sneezing my opinion, hehe. Have I told you that I'm glad you're writing these? If not, here you go: I AM GLAD YOU ARE WRITING THESE.

[tma]

I agree re: the desperate sneezing.

and speaking of which... am desperate for the writings of VoOs. *evil grin*

[VoOs]

Ahem.

This next drabble became pretty long because HOLY CRAP CASEFIC?! (I tried, okay? )

Also: BAMF!John.

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~ Cat (continuation of 'Desperation') ~

The soft murmur coming from the veranda stopped immediately. Then came a frantic whisper - “Run!” - and the unmistakable, metallic snap of a gun's hammer being cocked back, followed by running steps disappearing into the garden.

In less than a second, John had reached his hand to the back of his jeans and whipped out his own gun from its resting place against the small of his back. His kneeling figure became tense like a coiled spring, adrenaline suddenly dancing in his dark blue eyes.

“Sherlock, keep your head down”, he instructed under his breath, slowly slipping out of his jacket until he was holding the crumpled piece of clothing in the one of his hands that wasn't already occupied by his gun.

The detective nodded and kept low, one hand still clamped over his mouth and his red-rimmed eyes widened in a horrified expression that would have been comical under less dire circumstances. If John hadn't known better, he could have sworn he saw a faint blush rise on his friend's otherwise pale cheeks.

“I-I warn you, I am armed!” The suspect's voice came drifting through the veranda door, high and shaky, and John knew just by the sound of it that the man would fire at the first thing that moved. During the last couple of days, Sherlock had been dropping hints for the killer to find, making him feel hunted, fanning the flames of paranoia to such heights that he was now ready to crack. It had been necessary to make him reveal his secret, but in this state he was also more dangerous.

Here goes nothing, John thought, unaware that he was smiling, and threw his jacket hard towards the other end of the sofa, not even wasting time to listen for the first gunshot before he slided on his side out from behind his end of the sofa, both hands supporting his gun as he aimed and pulled the trigger in one swift motion.

A loud bang. A cry of surprise and pain. The clatter of a gun landing on wooden boards.

“Don't move a muscle!”, John barked, getting to his feet and walking towards the glass doors, gun still raised. The man on the veranda slumped down on his knees like a marionette that has gotten its strings cut, pressing his bleeding, empty right hand to his chest pathetically.

~ ¤ ~

“Excellent shot, John”, Sherlock panted, using the backrest of the sofa to support himself as he stood up. He was rubbing at his nose again, a grimace of helpless irritation fighting with his pleased grin for dominance over his face. In the end the irritation won, throwing the detective forward into the bend of his arm as he sneezed repeatedly, the sound harsh and throaty now when he didn't have to hold them back any longer.

“Hh'IESHHh! ... Heh'IISCHuh! ... -'ESHHgh! Ugh, I thought so...”

“Thought what?” John asked, but a soft mewling from somewhere behind them answered his question before Sherlock could.

Sauntering into the sitting room as though she owned the place came a snowy white persian cat, seemingly indifferent to the commotion of gunshots and with the yellow eyes in her permanently grumpy face fixed upon Sherlock. Obeying the unwritten law of her species to always pick out the least willing (most allergic) human as their new favourite friend, she trotted straight up to the detective and began to enthusiastically twist herself around his ankles, purring like a dynamo.

“Oh, for god's sake”, Sherlock groaned, trying to push the friendly creature away with the tip of his shoe and almost tripping over as he was overcome once more with a series of quick, intensely itchy-sounding sneezes:

“Ih'ESCHh! -'ESHHh! - heh'ISCH! … 'ISHHhih!”

The cat gave the noisy human an offended sort of look before she turned her tail to him and took a graceful leap onto the sofa, where she proceeded to stretch out like an empress on a divan.

“How about some fresh air?” John suggested, and Sherlock hurriedly joined him outside, pulling his phone out as he went.

“Lestrade? We got a romance scammer here for you to pick up.” A pause, followed by an impatient sniffle. “Romance scammer, do I have to spell it out for you?” In Lestrade's defense, Sherlock's usually impeccable diction was currently muddled by congestion, and his speech was oddly breathy as well, as he appeared to be balancing on a knife edge between control and another fit.

“56 Heath Street, Hampstead. Hurry up. Oh, and make sure that no-one by the name of Dea-Hyun Knightley is allowed to board a plane from London... No... N-no, he's not going anywhere, John's got him... ah-at gunpoint... hh!”

Strong eyebrows slanting into an expression of ticklish need, Sherlock quickly turned his head away from his phone and stifled the sneeze tightly against his wrist, his nose clearly not satisfied with the result as his nostrils continued to flare dangerously even as he put the phone back to his ear.

“Never mind that, just get over here! 56 Heath Street.” And he hung up, just in time to duck his head back into the crook of his elbow, giving in to what sounded like a truly unforgiving tickle.

“Hih'ESHHuh! 'tSCHHh! huhh... hhhuh... Heh'IISCHhh!”

By the time Lestrade and his men arrived at the house, the allergic reaction had begun to calm down somewhat, but the detective still looked like he had just recovered from an intense fit of crying. His normally pale, dagger-sharp eyes where red, swollen and uncomfortable-looking, his nose pretty much in the same state as his eyes, and he had to keep his mouth ajar in order to be able to breathe.

“Christ, Sherlock, what happened to you?” Lestrade sounded more amused than worried.

“Biological warfare”, Sherlock muttered with a sniffle.

“Wha?”

“Do you want to hear how he did it or not?”, Sherlock snapped, and Lestrade raised his pen and notebook obediently.

Sherlock straightened and placed his hands on his back in what John had begun to think of as the detective's 'deduction stance'.

“The man you just arrested is Dea-Hyun Knightley, thirty-one, originally adopted from South Korea by an English family when he was barely one year old. About a year ago he went on a trip to his country of birth, where he by chance discovered that he had an identical twin brother – the two of them had been separated at birth, and there was no record of them being related. He lured his twin brother back with him to England with the promise of a better life, smuggling him into the country illegally, and then used the brother to create a waterproof alibi when he murdered his wealthy wife for her money. By letting his brother be seen by a large number of witnesses as well as several CCTV cameras in a completely different part of town at the time of the murder, he had rid himself of all suspicion. Or so he thought.”

“Until you had a look at the surveillance footage?” Lestrade guessed.

“Until I had a look at the surveillance footage”, Sherlock confirmed, with some of his old smugness back in his voice, at least until his breath started to hitch again and he had to turn away and pinch a couple of sneezes into submission between steepled hands.

“H'nxgh! - Hih'dnxh!”

“Bless you!”, Lestrade said, sounding rather surprised. “Didn't even know you could do that.”

“I'm a world of undiscovered surprises”, Sherlock said, coolly, swiping his coat sleeve under his nose with another liquid sniffle before adding: “You don't happen to have a tissue on you? I feel like I'm drowning.”

“Oh? Yeah, sure.”

After blowing his nose – with some difficulty, due to his thick congestion - Sherlock dived straight back into explaining the case:

“The man in the surveillance footage looked exactly like Knightley, even down to the moles on his face - which they of course had painted on – but there was one detail that gave him away.” A pause for dramatic effect. “His wedding ring. In the footage, he kept playing with it as if he wasn't used to wearing it, and upon closer examination of one of the photos he had taken with a witness on that day, you could clearly see that there was no tan line on his finger where the ring ought to have left one. Still, this wasn't enough evidence to prove that Knightley was lying. We needed to lure the twin out into the light, and so, I started dropping hints to make him believe that the police were hot on his tail, that you had strong suspicions about there being a twin brother. I calculated that he would tell his brother to leave the country, which would make him harder to trace, but I also suspected that the brothers had grown fond of each other during this time, and that they would try to meet one last time before the false Kingsley left for South Korea. And... I was right. There they are.” And he pointed at John's phone, to the now zoomed in picture of the two identical men hugging.

“What about the other twin?” Lestrade asked, running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

Sherlock suddenly seemed to become very fascinated with his own finger nails.

“He... got away.”

“Why?”

“Never mind why! You have his description. You even have a perfect copy for reference. Go fetch, inspector, that's what you lot do best.”

And with that the detective turned around in a swirl of long coattails and dark curls, striding away through the garden, followed by a quietly chuckling John.

“Take care, Greg!” As he called back over his shoulder, John noticed the reason to Sherlock's sudden withdrawal: the white persian was now sitting at Lestade's feet, staring after the detective with a heartbroken sort of look on her flat face.

In front of him, John could hear Sherlock stifle another set of ticklish sneezes.

John's smile broadened, and he picked up his pace to keep up with his retreating companion.

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