Lamplock Tribute
Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock Holmes (in any form, though in this case the fanfic below is based mostly on the BBC incarnation), or the tumblr post from (no spaces) reapersun. tumblr based on the corner of the SH fandom known affectionately as Lamplock.
-LT-
His last home had been intense. They'd hardly cared about his carefully maintained square shade, or his polished, smooth body, as long as he had been able to cast light on other, broken pieces of furniture. His light helped to determine whether they could be put back together or not, and it was a good job. John would never say he had regretted being a working fixture there in the electrical pieces and broken parts… but it was tough thing for a lamp to shine on day in and day out.
One day, the socket he was plugged into – trying to light up an entire table of battered, heavy-duty power tools, and determine whether they were fit for plugging back in – shorted. The charge singed his prongs, rippled up his cord, and shattered his bulb, fusing a sticky mess of filament to the attachment mechanism of his body. It had been touch-and-go there for a while.
His home had sold him to a repair shop; it had no need of a lamp, especially a broken, stationary floor lamp, when they could just cash in for a brighter, moveable desk light. Careful, experienced fingers cleared the old filament, re-wired his cord, and gave him a new bulb. It wasn't perfect: John still had scorch marks around his bulb attachment, now he flickered just a little when he was turned on and off, random scuff marks still speckled his body, and his shade was still a little creased… But, the repairmen reminded him time and again, at least he could still shine.
John wasn't so sure. Who would buy a faulty lamp like him, with so much visible usage from his past chipped and discolored into his ceramic?
So John was utterly shocked when a pair of gentle old hands picked him up, and a woman's voice cooed at him, "Oh, the Detective is going to love you! So much personality! And you're going to fit right in with his favorite living room lamp – blue and brown are so dashing together, dear."
The careful old hands packed him up tight and drove him away from the repair shop. They passed him into the calloused, rough hands of a working man, and a gruff voice rumbled, "And here I was telling you just the other day about how finicky my lamp is! I tell you all the time, you're a wonderful landlady. Maybe with this little fellow, we can get some steady light in the room all the time, hm?"
John was swiftly plugged in and flicked on. He sputtered fitfully, his shade tipped to the side loosely. Across the room, the flare of a tall, narrow, blue standing lamp cast a warm glow over his crooked shade. Sherlock, the name (and arrogance) came with the warmth, guessing about John. His new owner carefully resettled John's shade, and suddenly his own light was washing over his blue companion, too, offering his story, and the truth behind Sherlock's assumptions. The places where their circles of light mixed were… well, brilliant.
And John suddenly wasn't worried that a battered little floor lamp wouldn't suffice. On his own, maybe not. But as long as Sherlock was nearby, they would keep the living room lit just fine. Together.