1. Title: Don't Judge a Book by its Cover
Crossover: Ray Bradbury and François Truffaut's Fahrenheit 451
Characters: Sherlock and John, mention of Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson. Mystrade implied, S/J gen or squint.
Rating: PG
Summary: John and Sherlock (and the gang) have joined the Rebellion and become Book People.
He could hear Sherlock's voice over the soft lilt of the river, connecting the words together much as he had once connected facts and data on State orders. The recitant raised his head in time to see John wince and hug his leg as he lowered himself down on the bank.
"It still hurts, then."
John shook his head. "Yeah, bloody Hound. Less now, still. Lucky me, escaping with a genius who hid The Universalis Encyclopedia of Poisons in his landlady's collection of hatboxes."
"A mechanical bee-dog," Sherlock mused, still cradling the thick, no nonsense looking book in his hands. "You know, that's really a... mind-tickling concept. I asked Lestrade if he could provide us with a prototype when he last liaised, but he wasn't exactly complying."
"Oh? What did he say?"
Sherlock's mouth stretched into a lazy smirk before it released a gravelly staccato. "Listen, kiddo, I've got three fake busts to stage and the Captain breathing down my bloody neck, and not to check my lower orders either. Just piss off and stay put, will you?"
"He was being concerned for your safety."
"No, he was annoyed that he'd only managed to cover five more pages of Julia Childs." Sherlock didn't try to hide his complacency; his inner hard disk capacity had soon made him Book of the Year among the fugitives. The essay on his lap was the fourth he'd memorized ("engraved, really") since their arrival two months earlier.
"Fuck paperwork, said he, and went off to blaze another fake stash. Mrs Hudson's offered to drill him through the ear-piece but it's far too risky, all the more as she's been learning Exquisite Corpses and I'd hate to think of the consequences if Lestrade ended up confusing the two."
John laughed, crossing his arms under his neck. The river slough was lulling him half into easeful sleep, but he didn't want the talk to end, not yet. He looked up at Sherlock, squinting his eyes against a sun that no longer spoke of combustion and furnaces as it trickled down on them through the beech leaves. "Give us some," he asked quietly.
He could feel Sherlock's hand on his knee, grounding him to their speech, their nook of rest. "Men are apt to mistake the strength of their feeling for the strength of their argument," the beautiful deep voice recited slowly. "The heated mind resents the chill touch and relentless scrutiny of logic."
"Don't tell me you're recording your own opus, you git."
"No, no. William Gladstone."
"Gladstone? Wait a sec, didn't Mycroft call dibs on him?"
"Your lack of faith saddens me, John."
"Christ. Don't tell me you've been gobbling up the political three-deckers only to get one over on your bro." John chuckled. "Be a good chap, now, leave him some Machiavelli for dessert."
Sherlock gave him a pointed look and burrowed his nose into his book.
"What's that, then? Strength of feeling has left you without an argument?"
"Quoting a quote is waste of voice, John. Why don't you give me some, as you so aptly say?"
"Wouldn't want to inflict my book's opinions on you for the world."
Sherlock heaved an exaggerated sigh, putting Mr Gladstone aside for the second time. "And fishing for a nice review is beneath you, John. Out with it, whatever it is you're hiding in your back pocket."
"You might be surprised," John smiled. He raised himself on his left elbow, letting the sun bathe his face so that he wouldn't have to watch Sherlock's reaction too closely.
"Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect..."
"T. S. Eliot." Sherlock's voice was edged with disbelief. "What on earth made you chose The Old Possum Book of Cats? That's Molly's department, obviously. And we've got that stack of war novels Mycroft sent over from the Churchill Fund, I thought —"
"Well, you got it wrong." John forced his eyes open, facing Sherlock in the strong afternoon light. "Why is Lestrade memorizing a cookery book? Why did Mycroft lay claim to The Complete History of Football in Ten Volumes? Why am I learning a glut of poems about tall, thin, clever cats with high-doomed brows and martyrized greatcoats? I'll give you a clue, Sherlock Holmes. The whole damn point of rebellion is that you do it for others and because of others. Others. That's a starting point for you."
The river stream was the only audible speaker for the next five minutes, until John, who had dropped back into the shade, murmured "Problem?"
"No." Sherlock coughed. "John, would you mind if I, erm. Gave us some more?"
"Pleasure." But John kept his eyes closed.
He heard the rustling of bruised grass as his friend turned over on his side. "No man ever became great or good except through many and great mistakes. This is one I'll — be careful not to make again."
Sherlock's face, hovering under the sun, was a curious mix-up of certainty and hesitation. John lifted a hand to cup the speaker's neck. "I can't argue with you," he said simply, and waited for the quote to register. When it did, and he could pull down Sherlock to him, he stared at the sky past his friend's shoulder, and the invisible towns on the other side of the sky. Try it, he thought. Work your worst. Burn us if you can - but you won't burn this out of us.