“Hello?” Rose shouted into her phone. “Hello? Terrible reception.”
“Why? It’s an Earth phone, and we’re on Earth,” said Brem.
“Your father fiddled with it,” said Rose. “How long does it take to choose a Christmas tree, anyway?”
“I can just take my TARDIS to go see how they’re doing. Better than a phone.”
“We’re back!” shouted Fortuna, coming in.
“No need,” said Rose. “They’re back.”
“And we have chosen the most enormous tree in the universe,” said Athena.
“You need a big tree for a TARDIS,” protested the Doctor. “A little tree would just get swallowed up in here!”
“This one really needs your discretion,” said Lestrade, very seriously.
“My discretion?” snapped Sherlock. “When am I ever not discreet?”
Lestrade winced. “It’s just that this person is important.”
“Important? Oh, God, it isn’t Mycroft, is it?”
“No, it’s not Mycroft, it’s…” Lestrade looked around and then lowered his voice and said, “It’s a rock star.”
“A what?” said Sherlock. “You mean a singer?”
“He is not going to care about that,” said John. “On the other hand, I am avidly interested now. This will make a great blog entry.”
“No, you have to be discreet,” sighed Lestrade. “Oh, bollocks.”
WARNING: I wasn’t the hugest fan of the way Yuri on Ice ended, although I enjoyed it well enough before the final episode, and then I tried to analyze why I didn’t like the ending as much as everybody else seemed to, and then this long, crazy thing resulted. In which I randomly get fixated on genres, sports AUs, my inability to enjoy litigation as a career, and oh, yeah, a three-paragraph re-write of how I would have ended the show.
( What even... Yuri on Ice spoilers aheadCollapse )
For alafaye (sorry for the delay, LJ was down for maintenance when I kept trying to post yesterday!)
Oliver had a wanderer’s spirit. Sherlock always seemed so linked to London, so inclined to stay put. But Sherlock, John thought, had clung to a home once he’d found one. Oliver had always had a home, and so he wandered far and free. When he returned, it was laden down with an exotic tea or new jumper for John, and an array of curiosities both mundane and extraordinary that he and Sherlock forewent sleep to examine.
And Oliver would say, in the morning over tea John made for them, “It’s good to be home,” smiling, pleased.
John and Sherlock agreed.
Arthur said it with blood running choking over his face, said it with every labored breath his body kept trying to take, said it after he lost all sense of time and place and could remember nothing other than how important it was that these people think that Eames was not important.
He said it when the pain of being touched pulled him from the numb darkness he’d sunk into. “Eames—doesn’t matter. I don’t care—about Eames.”
“Darling,” said Eames, sounding anguished but very alive. “I’m here now. You’re safe.”
Eames, thought Arthur, relieved. The only thing that mattered.
Sherlock was wearing a sour expression on his face. John hadn’t really wanted to go undercover in the gay club—not his thing—but it was worth it for how scowly Sherlock was being.
“Don’t like dancing?” John said to him, relishing the reply.
The reply was: “That’s not dancing. That is a collection of bodily movements having nothing to do with anything like a pirouette or a plie or an arabesque or a battement tendu.”
John blinked at him, surprised. “Wait. You know about dancing?”
“Yes,” responded Sherlock. “And that’s--” Sherlock nodded toward the seething dancefloor— “not it.”
“Everything about your plan is brilliant,” Eames said, “except for the fact that you want me to forge a baseball player.”
“The mark loves baseball,” said Arthur.
“But I know absolutely nothing about baseball. I am an expert when it comes to handling balls—”
Arthur rolled his eyes.
“—but as far as I’m concerned ‘bunting’ is a holiday decoration.”
“Do you want me to teach you about baseball?”
“I want you to dress in tight baseball trousers and throw some balls around with me. If in the process I learn something about baseball, that’d be an added bonus.”
“I am pretty sure he’s real, Mum,” Brem said.
“Krampus isn’t real,” Rose assured him. “It’s just a folk tale made up to scare children.”
“Dad says folk tales are all real. You just have to find the right universe.”
Rose sighed. “Your dad is sometimes not very helpful. Even if Krampus is real, it doesn’t matter. He only visits bad children.”
“I’m not good all the time,” said Brem. “Sometimes I get in trouble. Because I’m precocious. I’m concerned Krampus is particular and will not appreciate precociousness.”
“I think Krampus makes exceptions for impossible Time Lord children,” Rose promised.
“I’m bored,” said Eames.
“Stop it,” said Arthur. “You’re not bored.”
“Yes, I am. I’m very bored. Let’s play a game.”
“Let’s play I Spy.”
“That’s the game you want to play? I Spy?”
“I spy with my little eye something blue.”
“Well, that game didn’t last very long.”
“My tie is aquamarine,” said Arthur. “With little gold diamonds.”
“Sorry. I spy something aquamarine with little gold diamonds.”
“I spy something pink,” said Arthur.
Eames frowned and looked around. “Pink. Hmm.”
“Your mouth,” said Arthur.
Eames blinked. “My…”
“Let’s play a game, Mr. Eames,” purred Arthur.
“What are you doing awake?” Sherlock asked, where he was sprawled on the sofa staring at the ceiling.
“It’s cold in the bed,” said John.
Sherlock sighed heavily. “I suppose you would like me to join you.”
“No,” said John, who knew what he was on about.
“No?!” Sherlock sounded shocked.
“Just looking for a hot water bottle,” John said innocently.
Predictably, Sherlock was next to him instantly. “You won’t want the hot water bottle. I’m using it to hold O-negative blood at the moment. I’ll just have to come to bed with you, shall I?”
John smiled. “I suppose.”