Magic One Shots (Sherlock BBC Fic)
AN – this is basically a dumping point for all the one shot cracktastic stuff that the magic verse threw up but didn't fit into the two fics. Also, it's an excuse to torture Mycroft.
Warning – slash, established relationship. This holds for all the chapters.
Disclaimer – characters and settings as depicted in BBC series (or any other established setting) are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.
Unexpected But Unchanged
Sherlock let the street door bang shut behind him carelessly and clipped up the seventeen stairs to his flat. He noted that John was home already, having chosen to go to work instead of accompanying Sherlock on his quest for silt samples from the various underground rivers that swirled under London and smiled to himself. He needed a cup of tea, his microscope, a bath and a snog with John, probably not in that order. Given the damp and faintly unpleasant smell rising from his trouser cuffs, he'd need the bath before he could snog John – his partner was very fond of cleanliness on the whole.
Their relationship was only months old. After Moriarty had attacked them at the pool, it had been evident to Sherlock that his feelings were stronger than the 'norm' for his flatmate-colleague-friend. John evidently returned Sherlock's feelings if his reaction to the tempestuous kisses that Sherlock had ambushed him with were anything to go by. Sherlock had needed to sit on a cushion at his microscope the next day. They hadn't heard from the master criminal since the pool, which Sherlock had mixed feelings about. He wasn't dead, but beyond that Sherlock was unwilling to speculate.
It appeared that his flatmate-partner-lover-friend was on the phone, as he could hear John speaking in a quiet, intent voice. As he neared the landing, Sherlock became aware that the smell he had associated with his trouser cuffs was stronger and there was a faintly stertorous breathing noise coming from the room John was in. That was a bit wrong, so the thin genius sped his last steps, wondering what was happening in their flat.
Sherlock pushed the door to the front room open and came to an abrupt halt. There was something in front of their fireplace.
"Sherlock. Don't. Move," the command came from John and froze the consulting genius where he stood, shock coursing through his body. He began to wonder if he'd been inadvertently exposed to something hallucinogenic in the waters of the sealed rivers.
The room was on fire. Green flames (methane? What else burned green?) spit and crackled all over the room, burning without leaving any charring or ash or smoke or heat… which was clearly impossible?
The thing in front of the fireplace burnt with green flame as well, covering a distorted skeleton. It wavered in place, breathing heavily and glaring at Sherlock with deadly intent. It was bipedal, though from the configuration of the legs it was more accustomed to running on four feet than walking on two – a hunter, then. It snarled; revealing wicked sharp teeth and Sherlock wrenched his eyes away, looking instead for John.
John was standing in front of the kitchen, a small wooden chest in front of his feet. He had a bottle in one hand which he was shaking gently, his thumb over the top of it, keeping the contents of the bottle from spraying out. His other hand was up and facing the thing in front of the fireplace, the palm bleeding from a self inflicted cut. His face was calm and intent, as if he was working on one of those stupid crosswords he enjoyed in the morning with his tea. His stance said 'I am in control here' and Sherlock was relieved by it. Someone needed to know what to do with this impossibility.
The thing in front of the fireplace shifted as if to step towards Sherlock and John barked at it, his voice commanding and strong, the words indistinct. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if he'd gone mad – he could hear John speaking clearly, hear the tone and the intent behind the words, but the words themselves were oddly muffled – they made no sense: there was no syllabic pattern to them.
There was a bright flash and Sherlock flung his arm in front of his eyes to shield them. There was a rending, sucking noise and then peace and quiet. The smell disappeared abruptly and when Sherlock lowered his arm the flat was back to normal once more. The cut on John's hand had sealed over, leaving a faintly pink line and the bottle in his hand was now stoppered with a cork. Green flames swirled inside, a miniature firestorm beating furiously against the glass.
"Sherlock?" John put the bottle in the wooden chest and closed it before approaching him cautiously, as if Sherlock was the dangerous one, "Are you alright?"
There was fear in John's eyes that had not been there moments ago – it didn't take much thought for Sherlock to deduce that John was afraid that Sherlock would kick him out.
"What was that?" Sherlock gestured to the fireplace and John sighed, not even bothering to glance back at spot where the thing had stood. It was an oddly comforting non-gesture.
"A demon," John sounded resigned, "I need a cup of tea. Sit down; I'll make you one too."
John tugged Sherlock out of his coat and pushed him onto the couch gently, relieving him of the bag with his samples as well. The coat went onto the hooks by the door, the samples in the kitchen next to his microscope and then John was making tea, the sounds so familiar and ordinary that Sherlock would have doubted the thing John called a demon had been in front of the fireplace … if not for the wooden chest still sitting on the carpet.
John came back with tea and sat on the coffee table, something that broke one of John's usual furniture rules: the chairs were for sitting, the table was for books, magazines and feet. Sherlock sipped his tea, made just the way he liked it, and tried to reconcile the events he'd just witnessed with the normality he sat in now.
"You have questions," John stated, "Go on then."
"A demon? Where did you get a demon?" Sherlock blurted. John snorted and ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired and worn, which Sherlock decided he didn't like at all.
"I didn't get one, Sherlock, it came by itself. In simple terms, in all of the various possible physical dimensions around us, there is one inhabited by creatures like that. Sometimes they find a crack that will lead them from their world to ours…"
"We had a crack in front of the fireplace," Sherlock interrupted, squinting at said fireplace, trying to see the crack for himself.
"Yes, a temporary one, but I sealed it over when I bottled up the demon. I'll get rid of it properly later," John replied, not at all angry that he'd been interrupted. Sherlock sipped his tea again and stopped squinting: it gave him a headache and from the look John was giving him, his lover thought he was cute.
"How did you know what to do?" Sherlock frowned, the thought dawning on him way too late that John seemed very knowledgeable and not at all surprised by the events he'd just seen. John closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to make up his mind, his jaw set.
"There are people in this world who are born with a natural ability to manipulate the energies of the physical world. Users of magic, is the common term: through incantations and other such devices, we work with the fabric of the world to maintain a balance," John looked at him trepidation clear in his eyes, though his face was impassive.
"Magic," Sherlock frowned, "A clandestine group of people who practice magic."
"Yes," John nodded, "The common practitioner is either a witch or wizard – they access the lower orders of magic."
"You're a wizard?" Sherlock frowned, and John shook his head.
"I'm a Mage," the pride in that statement was unmistakable, "Much stronger than your average Wizard. I usually don't practice magic though – after Afghanistan… well, I just don't. That demon was the first bit of proper magic I've performed for a year."
"Can you show me how you … no, of course. It's a clandestine group – there will be strictures in place to prevent you from telling me about their practices," Sherlock frowned and John sighed, putting aside his mostly untouched mug of cold tea.
"Yes there are," he replied, running a hand through short hair, "But I'm willing to give you some information. Partly because it seems stupid to pretend this afternoon never happened, but mostly because I love you, Sherlock…"
Here, John trailed off and leaned forward hesitantly. Sherlock smiled, put his own tea aside and hauled John into his lap for a thorough snog. When they came up for air there was relief in John's eyes, as if he'd been worried that Sherlock would reject him for not being 'normal'. Sherlock's research on the internet said that as a supportive partner he was now supposed to make light of the situation with a humorous comment. He rejected half a dozen possibilities, finally choosing to go with:
"If you start pulling bunnies out of hats…" Sherlock used a lightly threatening tone and was rewarded by John laughing and kissing him soundly once more before climbing off and looking down at Sherlock.
"You need a shower – you smell like damp and other less pleasant things. I'll order some dinner – what do you want?" he asked and Sherlock pushed himself up off the couch.
"Chinese," he replied, heading for the bathroom, "I'll predict your fortune cookie!"
John's chuckle followed him into the tiled room. Sherlock beamed as he shut the door behind him. He'd made a good choice in his partner – John was full of unexpected surprises and yet still recognisably himself. What more could a consulting genius ask for?
End (for now…)
More? Let me know…
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