#fannish writes

[fannishminded-blog]

Debating-

I have SO MUCH angst fic from the falls, that I am debating letting it linger and die on Tumblr, vs digging into it to copy and tag it onto AO3.

Anyone even interested in the old angst bait? (Fall gone wrong child Sherlock, John's suicide without Mary in his life, etc) All that stuff?

[fannishminded-blog]

you should write more hobbicorn <.<

<.< Draw Hobbitcorn and cuddly!Smaug, and I will totally feed my plot bunny for it. I’m thinking a slightly different story than Dwarrows drag Bilbo to mountain.

More, Bilbo feels the land to the distant east call out in pain and suffering, feels an illness and blight there, one he KNOWS he can fix. And so he goes with the Dwarrows. However he must travel cloaked and hooded, for he does not have a full Hobbit form. So the Dwarrows know from the beginning that he’s a UNICORN as well as a Hobbit.

Shenanigans and adventure happen, then finally Bilbo is in the mountain, having been told by Gandalf that he must leave the darkenss in the woods to the Council, and instead JUST take on the Dragon.

Who, after finally meeting the unicorn, is found to have been sick with Gold Fever this entire time. All dragons being cursed and afflicted with it to better help Morgoth, despite their born inclination to be far more leisurely in hoarding food and comforts rather than just gold for gold’s sake.

Mind you, it won’t be massive or horribly long, but seeing as I am having to completely chuck half the world building I’ve done on my original fic, I’m using it as an excuse to play with ideas for a last time before putting them to bed. XD

[fannishminded-blog]

(OTP ask) pick a Doctor Who pairing of your choice for 1) who is most likely to hog the covers? 2) Every person has that one thing that bugs the hell out of their significant other, what do they do that bus one another? 3) Which person is the hardest for the other to cook for? :)

Master/Doctor(Simms! and 10 specifically):

1) They both cheat a bit, having a single sheet to each, and sharing the blankets. The winner each night is usually decided not by who has the covers, but who manages to keep THEIR sheet. Both do it it in their sleep, trying to get the other closer, or subconsciously removing barriers.

Though, with how often The Doctor wins, The Master sometimes is fairly sure he does it when awake, too.

2) What don’t they do to annoy each other?

3) Koschei is a damn child. So what if he forgot the 3rd loop on the floating time bubble squeak. He’d worked on that dish most of the day. It tasted perfectly fine! So what if it didn’t have the full spectrum of color and smell in it, it was still better than any dish in any other world. It was a dish from home. A dish they had shared when they ran away from the Academy.

Doctor glared as he poked the, now jiggling, orb.

He just. He wanted to have one meal, without a fight. With only good memories.

Instead he found himself shaping the floating glob into a mound. And remembering two very different women, and times, that were happy in their own way, even as they were both so painfully sad.

Rose/9/Jack:

1) Jack has woken up stone cold and without even a stitch of blanket or sheet on his person for a third night in a row. It’s clearly going to be a thing, and he doesn’t bother opening his eyes by now. It’s when he reaches over to poke Rose and steal back a bit, that he’s shocked into opening his eyes, finding her cold back is bare. He lifts his head to look across the bed and his breath catches, for a very different reason than usual. On the far side, the Doctor is bundled in all the blankets and shivering. It’s the 5th night they’ve slept together… and the first time the Doctor has not been in the middle.

Jack had thought it jealousy, that kept him to one side and Rose to the other, till tonight.

He regretted making a comment, and he gently got out of bed, pulling the heavily sleeping Rose into the warmed spot where he was, before walking to the far side of the bed. He gently touched the Doctor’s shoulder, softly stroking, before leaning in to whisper at near speaking volume “move over, you’re hogging my spot” the Doctor’s face scrunched and he wiggled over murmuring “Koschei, ‘snot y’r spot. ‘s ours. ‘member?” Jack felt something inside break and something else inside shift. He had pieced together that something big had happened to the Doctor. The myth of the time war, not being so much a myth.

And Rose, and even the Doctor, had hinted, that their Doctor was the true LAST of his kind.

He’d lay dollars that Koschei, whoever he was, had at one point been someone very dear to the man before him. And he, like so much, for the alien male, was gone. “Yeah, still, budge.” Doctor made a rude noise and as jack slid in and cuddled close to the burrito of blanket and, Time Lord, he heard the broken little whisper before sleep fully reclaimed their doctor. “Miss y’. My broken soul.” Jack held him, just a biit tighter.

Truths come out in sleep.

Truth you never want to come out.

Not even to yourself.

Doctor, a name given to himself, a man to fix things. To heal.

And he survived the time war. Probably made the decision to SEAL it, only way to stop it, that he could see, if half the myths were true.

And his Koschei, was broken, long before the man before him made a choice that either killed him, or sealed him away for all of time.

Jack couldn’t understand such strength.

Didn’t mean he didn’t want to somehow find something like it in himself.

2) If The doctor didn’t stop creeping up on him, Jack WAS going to eventually accidentally attack him. Rose’s gum popping may get the same reaction but from annoyance not shock.

The doctor stared in barely contained horror at his humans. Really, was it too much to ask, that they not… do. THAT?!? It was, it was, Distinctly Disturbing. “HAH! More flexible. See?” Jack and Rose were both curled into poses that defied any norms for their age, a gymnast and a 51st century time agent being trained to maintain their limberness… And for a Time Lord, they were both being unspeakably lewd, in a distinctly ancient, pre-Rassilion time-lord mating display, way. He preferred to think of them as Human. And not. That.

Rose stared at the men, the pissing contest going strong, one upping one another with their sonic toys when they met, and STILL doing it NOW! They were bloody SLEEPING together, yet they still competed as if by competing they were flirting. “Can’t you too STOW it?” They both looked back to her, a confused expression on their faces.

She threw up her hands in disgust. “Not the time OR Place, Boys!” They looked at each other, then out the window at the robot Samurai outside, before looking at each other again and laughing.

Maybe Rose had a point.

3) There was no documentation on Time Lord cuisine, but as the Time Lord had made a point to give them both comfort food regularly, they wanted to do the same for him. Jack flirting shamelessly with the TARDIS to get her enlisted to help.

The dish looked interesting, and smelled, very interesting. Rose looked at it and compared it to the holo projection Jack and the TARDIS had cobbled together. “It… looks a bit different.” “Yeah, we followed all the instructions though. And the TARDIS is not warning of any danger, or anything like that, so, maybe it’s supposed to be like this?”

"It’s more a mound than a cone." "Yeah."

"Well, shall we?"

"I’ve got the fish and Chips as backup, lets go."

—-

It of course was a disaster. Their Doctor had looked horrified at the baked dish, then painfully sad. Then angry.

He snapped at them that they were foolish apes, and should never have tried to make such a dish.

He’d stormed off, but not before Rose snapped that they were only trying to give him a meal from home, which had only resulted in more pain all around as the deadly hiss of “I have no home, not anymore.” had been returned before the door was slammed shut.

Rose and Jack had eaten the chips. The fish, and Gallifreyan dish were binned.

Much later, their Doctor came back to their shared room, not looking at them, as he explained, that that was the dish his grand-daughter had made, when she first learned how to cook. And she had messed up the tenses on the recipe too.

Rose started to ask about her, but a hand motion from Jack stopped her. Instead they all curled up on the bed, and decided that Sushi from ancient Japan was in order for tomorrow.

Tonight they would just let their personal past be the past.

[fannishminded-blog]

Doors is done on LJ,

now to edit the draft for AO3.

For those followers that came for the kinkmeme fills.

[fannishminded-blog]

Lost- A Childhood Friend, Found- Humanity (Wholock fic, chapter 1)

Okay, here is the first chapter-

I'm just gonna post it here for anyone that wants to help me beta it.

Please do reply with comments, or even edits, etc. I love you all and thank you for helping me with this. I'm still editing so part 1's under the readmore. :)

Feel free to reblog with notes or feedback- I'm off to go work on part 2 now.

The Doctor can't believe it when he hears it, when he sees the footage. Martha sends him the message and all the facts as she knows them. According to the message, the only reason anyone knew "John" was a Timelord at all, let alone that he was the Master, is the lightshow and readings that spiked on dozens of devices when the Master's watch was destroyed in the explosion from an IED.

The Doctor threw up his hands on hearing this but didn't stop reading and watching. Jack's message gives more detail- evidently this version of the Master really is different to the one at the end of time. The actions caught on those same recording devices, the explosion that followed, gave John a nasty scar on his leg and a small commendation and medal for bravery and integrity under fire as well as an unanimous international agreement to keep agency hands off.

This made the Doctor just snort before skimming on even faster.

UNIT and Torchwood had closely guarded the information that the secondary explosion was the essence of a timelord dissipating- so of course all the other major players new what that had been all about within an hour of Martha's exclamations confirming their suspicions on seeing the footage.

At this point the missives from both of his former companions were set aside to examine the raw and compiled information that had been sent.

Notes had been penned in margins by Jack and some other hands on many of the Torchwood files, and the Doctor absorbed them into his impressions as he watched and read with growing agitation. The entire event was caught on dozens of different devices only as a result of multiple unusual anomalous events in the area during the prior year stirring interest from Torchwood, UNIT, Area 52, SHIELD and a dozen other agencies. The data recorded was some of the most re-watched classified footage ever taken in the Middle East according to one note. 

This was likely a result of how, between all the different department's cameras, the footage looked like something out of a Hollywood action film even without the smartass techs in various agencies splicing it together as if it were such a movie. The earliest footage of note recorded in part the conversation that led up to the compact form of Captain John Hamish Watson, MD running what could have possibly been a suicide run to save 9 trapped soldiers.

It documented in stunning detail the incredible accuracy of his shots and the gory details of his action and commands as he set to saving one soldier's life and leg while under residual fire mere seconds after he secured the site and ended the stalemate of enemy fire that had pinned the other 8 surviving soldiers.  The sheer bloody minded courage and skill it took to hold an artery closed with his right hand, while with the left firing two shots to kill an advancing enemy soldier, had been enough to floor most of those that had the clearance to watch the tapes. That John had proceeded to finish clamping the leg and stabilizing the young soldier while keeping him, Bill, lucid was just icing on the cake. His voice was calm and steady in the lone pickup that was near enough to get the lower volume, while his shouted commands carried well into the other mics. The wrappings were tightened after a quick bit of setup and prep for moving Bill, and it seemed the end of an amazing and heroic scene. A scene fitting for any propaganda film or summer blockbuster. That scene didn't last for half a moment before everything went south in the blink of an eye. As the video turned from nearly normal to screams once more, the footage became so classified that half the agencies who had originally owned the cameras that recorded it, couldn't view it anymore. A yell from another insurgent pierced the air before a modified bomb flew towards the only targets in easy reach- the doctor and his prone patient. The insurgent died in a spray of blood even as the misshapen explosive whistled through the air. The improvised rocket landed beside John and Bill, John had used the scant seconds to throw himself across young Bill before the impact and explosion. The first explosion took out one camera- shrapnel peppering the area with deadly shards of metal and nails, and just as the cameras cleared a second explosion erupted from John Watson's leg. More correctly, from the smashed device in his cargo pants pocket, a personal item later reported on by multiple agents and what got Torchwood, and even UNIT, intimately involved even as it ensured that no agency on the planet would touch John, no matter how skilled he had already proven he was. It was nothing special as far as almost all the reporting agents could tell. Nothing fantastic or Alien, nothing that would cause such a reaction. Just an old fashioned watch. A now shattered pocketwatch, it's guts shoved into the jagged wound in John's leg and spread like so many filings into the pocket that had once held it. But on the film, this wasn't visible, instead an incredible explosion of light and sound- fury palpable in the loud drumming beats, the pattern of it familiar and terrible to both Martha and Jack as they each watched the replay time and again. The Doctor himself flips back and forth through the reports, to every picture he received and then a dozen more.  He re-watches and re-watches and re-watches, his breathing picking up even as his hearts hammer in time with the beat that fills the microphone pickups for almost a full minute of explosive sound and an impossible light show- for an eternity on loop, as thousands of images play out in seconds on the air- spooling out as terrible proof of who the sandy haired man must be. Have been. Still might be. Can't be. But the footage doesn't END there. His frantic reading finally running out of paperwork on the watch, he lets the next, last, footage play. It goes on, and as The Doctor lets the rest play out he clutches the console like it is a lifeline. The sights and sounds now are almost pale in comparison to the earlier footage-except with all that had happened before it is that much more remarkable that this scene is so calm. Despite the passed out forms of Bill and the rattled shouts of the other men, after the explosions John keeps his wits about him enough to not only bandage himself but get all the men organized and create the orders necessary to make an orderly retreat possible. 9 saved men, all of them far too young and inexperienced to have made the command decisions necessary, not only survived a massacre, they did it with not a single man among their international combined membership besides Bill having a rank higher than a the rough equivalent rank of Corporal. The masterful way that John had handled everything from entry, to triage to after IED evacuation had ensured the awards were guaranteed- The lightshow itself had also ensured that while he received awards he would never receive a promotion- or indeed change position until he retired. It also sent Torchwood and UNIT into a frenzy as both Martha and Jack recognized the pattern of the glow and dispersal- however "John" never woke up as a timelord and remained purely human in every respect.  Both Jack and Martha had watched and agonized for days before agreeing to send on all the information- the man John Hamish Watson had lived and worked as a soldier with ironclad records for almost 7 years at this point. His history started as he "graduated" from Barts and signed up to the RAMC, and not a moment earlier or later. He had gone through all the training, had been deployed, had done it all, as a human. Had lived as a human the entire time, and was known and liked by his fellows. He was a doctor first, and a soldier second, except for the brief glimpses, such as shown so graphically in the video, where he was a hero. Report after report, interview after interview- a man well liked, prone to bursts of rage and anger- but a good guy. A bit of a ladies man. A gambler. "A hell of a guy to have fight beside you- I wouldn't want to have to go up against him! He's the best mate a man can have. Loyal to a fault once he's with you, he'll follow you into hell and do so gladly." hits him like a slap in the face. Of course this man, this Bill would say that. The Doctor watches and reads and watches every clip and angle again and again. He devours each interview, each scrap of accumulated information and afterwards he sits with his dark curls in a riot from where he has gripped them so often, and tries to process it all. He still can't believe it. Martha had thought, for even a second, that that might be him? Might really be the Master she and Jack so hated? He so loved. He himself finds it impossible that this film, this man he is watching... is Koschei. Human Koschei. John can't be him. He can't be. And Koschei's timelord essence can't have been destroyed like that. John isn't him it's just a trick. His hearts are hammering and the silence inside the TARDIS is mocking as his latest companions sleep through his world coming apart. Again. He decides in a whirlwind of emotion-fueled energy to do whatever it takes to prove to himself that this isn't real. He sets the co-ordinates to prove them wrong. To show Martha and Jack that they have to be wrong. Timelords can't become humans, and they can't become more as a human, than they were as a Timelord. They just can't.

End Part 1

[fannishminded-blog]

No Really. I have 200 things to be doing

This is not one of them.

Things I did this morning while at work.

Wrote that Cape fic.

WHAT IS MY LIFE EVEN????

Thor and Loki, being goobers.

The next parts have Doomki and Thorki and the dreaded Mpreg so I won't post them here even when they're done... but yeah. This part stands completely alone.

This is what I banged out because of that damn picture...

Loki has killed Doom and is mourning Thor- whom Victor had claimed to have killed.

Yes.

The prompt was originally:

Thor comes back from a hunt to find Loki asleep on his bed, teary eyed and clutching one of his capes.

Title: Red as Roses

Thor is just glad to be back from Doom's latest attack. The Avengers had been sucked into some sort of subspace lair. All he knew for sure was that it had been over a week since his last decent ale. Thor was ready to bathe away a week's constant fighting's sweat and grime then eat as much as Tony could provide in the promised victory feast. He knew he was not alone among the Avengers in this plan, for a change. They had all had very lean times in the past eight days. Victor Von Doom had been amassing an army in that pocket of space, and the only way to get back out was to fight their way through the vast hordes of creations Doom had secreted away there. Thor pushed open the door to his quarters, taking a deep breath of the herbs and scents of his Midgard home, only to stop and look about intently. Bilgesnipe's Rose was a scent used for contemplation and remembrance- it also did not grow anywhere except for Asgard. In with the sage and herbs of his home- there was a scent of his true home. Of Father's chambers when he remembered his lost brothers in arms... in Mother's chambers when she remembered lost children and times... it was not an herb used lightly- even in the very palace of Asgard, where the only remaining bushes of it were cultivated at the farthest edges of the gardens. Thor took another breath and slowly turned up the lights the way Tony had shown him he could a dozen times, before giving up and putting in the lamps Thor had asked for. Thor knew how after the first time being shown- he just preferred lamps. Except now. To light them would be to risk, well, disturbing whoever was in contemplation and remembrance for the lost. As the diffuse light slowly increased Thor looked around for who had come into his quarters and set the herbs to smouldering. He looked over the chairs and rugs, the sofa and chests- his eyes passed over the bed twice before he registered that it was not the red sheets and blankets- but his own missing and shredded cloak that he was seeing. Thor carefully stepped closer to his bed and tried to see who it was, for the lump inside it was not the messy crumple of bedding but the slight form of a person, curled and wrapped in the tattered remains of the cloak. Loki's dark hair peeked over the edge of the cloak, his hands clutching a bunch of the fabric up under his chin and nose in two tight fists even as his slightly uneven breaths huffed out in small weak hitches. The crusting of tears had marked the cloak as a tie to grief nearly as much as the presence of still more tears on the pale and hollow cheeks did. His brother was worn, red and puffy eyes that looked bruised enough to be black, Thor could only imagine what they would look like open. His nose was obviously also running with the force of his tears, exhaustion probably the only way he had slept. Those soft and agile lips were bitten raw and chapped with dryness, even as the brightening light made Loki turn to bury his face further in the cloak, they parted to breathe out "Thor-" Thor stopped thinking or moving at this utterance. Paused and his heart skipped a beat. His entire world lurched to a stop and then re-started. He looked around his room again. This time he saw it with new facts and a new attention. He looked at the herbs, fresh and old alike, the last of what must have been half a bush's harvest having been burned already. He looked at his brushes and his spare chests- the wash waiting to be cleaned now spread outside it's basket and the obvious time that Loki had been here added up in his head. Thor had been gone a mere week- but Loki had been soiling that cloak- had fallen to pieces, a mere half hand of days after his disappearance. The battle with Doom had torn off that cape. Thor remembered Doom shouting with victory as it tore free of him before the portal had opened. And here lay his brother, wrapped in that same torn off cape, mourning like his very heart had been taken from him. Loki was mourning HIM.

Thor did not know what had happened.

In this moment, however, he was glad of it. Even as he was sad that his brother had thought him lost, Thor could not stop the smile that pulled his lips as his eyes softened. For all that his brother had so often fought with him, for all that he had only clashed and fought and yelled with every encounter they had had on Midgard... when Loki thought Thor lost- he mourned him. Indeed mourned him with more passion and fervor than even a brother would normally hold. No matter what Loki said from now on, Thor knows he is loved by Loki at least as deeply as he loves Loki.

[fannishminded-blog]

Get Well Ficlet: 'Carry on, till the day is done' - Johnlock, Fluff Unbeta'd

Okay, so an awesome person is sick right now.

As a bit of moral support I am sending her some fluffy H/C post-case fic. Well, it's more on the comfort side. Sherlock presses himself twice as hard when he's sick during a case- and when it's over he knows John will be there to carry on when he can't.

Shamelessly Johnlock- though nothing more than cuddles and kisses happens here, so you can say it's deep friendship or Ace!compliant loving.

The fic, under readmore:

Sherlock was shaking as John helped him up the stairs. John knew that this was coming, and while he braced Sherlock to get the door he knew that just a few years ago he would be wanting to yell at Sherlock for letting himself go this far.

Sherlock shuddered again, leaning against John with his sweaty cheek pressed to John's temple, a weak cough rattling out instead of words when he opened his mouth. John's brow furrowed and he hurried them into the flat and up towards the bathroom.

"Stairs, Sherlock- Lean onto me, okay, I have you, just 15 more to go, yes, soon as we get in, shower, okay?"  John was talking even more than usual, because last time Sherlock had quietly asked him to fill the silence, to fill the rushing sound of stillness.

The fact that John was old hand at this should probably worry him. Not just as a partner but as a doctor. However, they had caught the serial killer, just barely in time to save seven year old Tommy Clarence's life. If Sherlock hadn't pushed himself, another dead body would have been found instead of a traumatized boy being held by his weeping parents as Sherlock stumbled off to catch a cab home, refusing to go back with the police or the ambulance crews.

John knew he should be upset- instead he was just focused on how to make it better. "Here we are, through here then shower, we'll get this sweat cleaned off and have you bundled up in no time." Sherlock's face was scrunching up a bit, however all he did was follow along, trying to regulate his breathing enough to not trigger another cough. He wouldn't let himself fully collapse, not yet, not till they were in and completely safe.

Almost four days since the kidnapping, the deadline far too literal a term as each hour and minute translated to time a boy was in a madman's hands. They knew that the previous two boys had been kept alive and mostly unharmed during the first four days, only to be ritually killed on the morning of the fifth. Sherlock had been getting sick that first day, he barely ate and didn't sleep for most of following days, his rigid control and John's medical assistance the only thing keeping his mind mostly clear.

Four days of knowing this was coming, and getting ever more worried as the deadline creeped closer and Sherlock grew weaker. Four days of wishing there was any other way, and knowing that only when this was over would Sherlock let himself be cared for.

"Here- we're safe, home at last. Just a bit to get the wet jacket off- it really was pouring out there. Fitting weather for the end of winter though"

John helped steady Sherlock just past the hall, gently unwrapping the scarf and efficiently removing the heavy coat to hang on the hooks before moving them both on into the bath.

The open bottles of medicine gleamed in the light, a rainbow of labeled bottles and boxes lined the corner of the bathroom counter, a silent testament to how the last four days had gone. With gentle tugs John got Sherlock perched on the commode before starting the water and quickly shucking his own clothes.

His hands moved with the ease of practice to brace and assist Sherlock in getting first out of his shoes and socks, then out of the shirt. "You have far too many buttons. The steam is going to make you cough even more, hopefully we can get more of the phlegm out with each cough." He pulled two guaifenesin tablets out and helped Sherlock drink the cup of water with them before testing the water and moving to brace for his next goal. Getting Sherlock into the shower when all Sherlock's muscles were trembling with weakness and fever.

"Up we get, you know, someday, you are going to be the one doing this for me. Although I doubt I'll be as good at being guided. Steady on me, I can take your weight so if you need to, just let me take it, better you don't try to stand full on only to take a header." A quick tug to the trousers helped in pulling Sherlock up to lean heavily across John's wider shoulders as gentle hands unbuttoned and pushed those free as well. Another gentle tug and John was guiding white pants to join the puddled trousers before Sherlock shakily lifted first one, then the other foot free of the cloth, boney elbows digging into John's braced upper arms as he shifted.

Sherlock took a deeper breath to speak, riding out the cough that it produced before managing "John- thank you." His shoulders shook with another even wetter cough and he rested his temple alongside John's temple as he caught his breath again. John's rougher and wider hands gently soothed along Sherlock's back as the coughs rattled out. The steadying words getting softer as John spoke after the cough passed.

"Hey, I want to take care of you. No need to thank me for this Sherlock." John's hands pulled Sherlock into a quick hug, squeezing a bit before moving to better brace for stepping into the tub. "Okay, this part is one of the trickier parts for us, you step in first, I've got you steady, once you're in the tub I'll climb in, okay?"

Sherlock coughed again, no words but a nod and he shifted to get into the steep tub. The tub was as massive as it was ancient- a hold over from some long ago tenant who had wanted a tub to share. It was deep and fantastic for soaking in- however when one was unsteady, getting into such a high and deep tub was a nightmare. Sherlock didn't slip, John's steady support and assistance making it easy, the steaming water felt almost cool against his clammy skin even as it made the tense and quivering muscles start to relax.

John was in and had a soapy flannel chasing the water across Sherlock's back and shoulders, his neck and each arm in turn. Sherlock kept his face pressed to the cold tiles and his shaking legs kept as steady as possible, absorbing the warmth in his muscles and the cool tiles soothing his aching head. John just spoke softly, his voice blending with the water to make a comforting rush. Inconsequential things that just made an almost hypnotically calming backdrop.

Sherlock absently raised each leg when asked, the flannel getting the everywhere, he wasn't sure when he had had his chest cleaned, or his legs, but before he knew it, John was asking him to tilt his head back. Strong fingers massaged his scalp and washed his hair, scrubbing days of neglect from his hair and stripping him of the remaining strain and stress from the case, muscles knotted from tension finally unwinding under the hot stream and steady fingers as Sherlock relaxed. He didn't even tense when he finally coughed out the first of many globules to come.

Another rinse and Sherlock felt the nozzle turned lower, John rinsing himself quickly before wiping off most of the water with firm brisk strokes of his hands before shutting off the water completely.

Sherlock smiled a bit, eyes closed and riding out another cough even as his clouded mind told him that one simply couldn't take the soldier out of the man. Soft terrycloth briskly rubbing, warming and drying as it went along, down to the knees. It was time to get out, the steamy air doing exactly what John had said- another wet cough rattling out more of the mucus as John dried himself even quicker than he had Sherlock, before clambering out of the tub to reverse the process they had used to get Sherlock in.

Sherlock waited till the coughs had passed for a bit, then leaned on John's shoulders again, his hips braced and guided in wide hands as first one leg, then the other lifted over the tall lip of the bath. A part of Sherlock wanted to make comments about being babied, except that last year, Sherlock had managed to concuss himself getting out of this very tub- despite John being there. It was better to prevent the slip from happening at all rather than try to catch him once it started.

Sherlock's body was well and truly on it's way to shutting down to recover and fight off the infection that had been taking hold despite the best in medicines that wouldn't cloud the mind. Sherlock could barely keep his eyes open as John finished drying them both and guided them to the bed. He trusted John to guide them, focusing on each step, on staying upright until the comforting stream of words became a gentle order.

"Okay, into the middle of the bed. I'm going to get the stock heated and your first doses ready." Sherlock was being sat on the bed, sheets and blankets folded back and pillows hastily propped up at the headboard. His task was to get himself into the middle of the bed and propped up, the blankets pulled up, and himself comfortable enough to get down the enriched broth and basic nutrition to feed his immune system.

His body ached and he had to open his eyes again to verify the tissues location for coughing out the next wet globules, but he did get himself situated. John had obviously prepped before they left yesterday. Sherlock would smile at that except his head was aching and he could barely even think of why that was good. He just wanted to sleep.

"Okay, you can sleep in just a few moments, here's the broth, pills first, and use the broth for drinking." John's voice was soft, and Sherlock felt the mug of slightly gritted broth and three pills pressed into his hands. Sherlock popped and swallowed the pills dry before using both hands to shakily bring the mug up. John helped support it, and softly brushed the drying curls back from Sherlock's forehead, not so subtly checking the fever as he went.

"You'll need another shower in the morning, and a bit of real soup after that. Come on, all the broth then you can sleep." Sherlock's brows pulled into a sullen sulk and he curled a lip in disgust. His head hurt and he was tired. John's voice cut in again "I know you're tired, come on, one more pull to get the as much of the dregs as you can, and then a good drink of water to clear them."  Sherlock's mouth felt like cotton as he swallowed the last gritty gulp.

Enriched broth had nutrients he needed, medicines to help boost his system, all the things he needed to jumpstart his recovery... it was a gritty, horrible tasting mess though. The garlic, rosemary and pepper in it that helped increase his sweating and temperature just made it that much nastier. Even with a tongue coated in mucus he could taste it. He didn't complain over the delay of water, gratefully drinking a good three chugs of it before making another face at it. 

John's laugh at the face made Sherlock scowl again, which only made John laugh harder even as he moved to help Sherlock lay back. "John. Not good." Sherlock's voice wasn't a reprimand or a whine, it was somewhere in between but when John spoke the smile was evident in his voice even as his cool fingers were soft in brushing over Sherlock's face. "I know, you will have to excuse me for it." Sherlock humphed, only to have the cough return.

By the time the coughing burst had passed Sherlock's pillows were laid out again and he was curled to his side, John wrapped around his back, a low plastic basin for used tissues and a box of tissues by his head, and a warmed herb filled pillow between his arms. Despite the fact that he knew John hated the smell of it, the smell and feel of Vick's was on his chest and that warm arm was cradled across his abdomen under the covers.

Sherlock hated being sick, especially when he had a case. However, since John had become a part of his life... he at least knew that no matter what, when everything was done, he could let John take over.

John would make him better as fast as possible. He'd support him in keeping a clear head- even help him with some stimulants, with no arguments over it, nothing damaging. And when the case was over, when he could recover, John would do whatever it took to make sure he was fine. It took almost five years for him to grasp this. For them to find the right balance. But as he felt John gently kiss the back of his neck, Sherlock fell into sleep with a smile and one last thought echoing into dreams.

He was so very loved.

[fannishminded-blog]

OH, HOT DAMN! Guess who got 4th place? (A fanfic under the cut)

Out of 29 fics, I was 4th. *cackles*

The Challenge, a first kiss- The pairing, Johnlock.

I was running right up to the deadline and constantly waffling so I blatantly stole from my own life- played up a bit.

Under the Read More is an unbeta'd "well, it looks good, oh crap may not make it home by deadline", Fanfic submission. Enjoy, comments, critique, etc welcome as always.

Without further adieu, I present:

Moments of Peace (Amidst the Chaos)