wakeupnew | if you read nothing else in this post, read the last paragraph!!!

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Current Music: "He's Killed the Dog Again," Sherlock Holmes OST

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if you read nothing else in this post, read the last paragraph!!!

The printer is making death rattle noises. There are four of us currently here, in an office of 20+. None of my favorites are in. At least five of the people who aren't here are out for the entire week. So much jealousy. So much. I know my vacation is coming but I want it to come FASTER! I really miss having a winter break this year. This is the first year I've ever not finished reading through the Yuletide archive before having to go back to school/work. I am only up to the beginning of the M's in the fandom list; I'm a little over halfway there. I want to read more and more and more, but I'm trying to avoid fan fiction while at work, especially since my wireless access is no longer cutting it and I can't do internets on my laptop.

Basically, this is a pointless post about how bored I am and how cranky I am that I have to be at work today when I could be at home reading fanfic, kink meme-ing, and RPing. Ridiculous complaints are ridiculous, but I am still so happy it is a four-day work week.

(If you want a good laugh, go through Rotten Tomatoes' section for Sherlock Holmes. Some of the less flattering reviews are uproarious. I sat by myself at the reception desk this morning, as no one called and no one came in, just laughing my ass off. Bad reviews are the best! Writers always come up with their best turns of phrase in them.)

So this is a Give Me Things to Write and I Shall Endeavor to Write Them post! You all know my fandoms and what I am willing to try (for the record, a few ideas off the top of my head: Sherlock Holmes (new movie or oldschool canon), Iron Man, Glee, Sons of Anarchy, The Mentalist, NCIS, Bones, How I Met Your Mother, iCarly, National Treasure, M*A*S*H, Hellboy, Firefly, True Blood... there are many many many things I'm willing to try that aren't on this list, so feel free to request others if you know I am familiar with the source material). I can't write anything dreadful or explicit due to being at work, but otherwise, I'm pretty easy. Give me a character or characters, a pairing, a situation you want to see somebody in, a word or a song lyric or a phrase... Crossovers, crack, angst, romance, gen, whatever else, and general ridiculousness are all a-okay. Just give me something to jot short things about. For the love of God, please. D: D:

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I would like to see gibby as a viking, please!

I'm trying to prepare a mock interview for someone else, and pouring down enough tea to saturate my bloodstream with caffeine.

So, how about a slashy original Sherlock Holmes drabble?

Part of me wants a Sherlock Holmes/BPRD crossover (and by BPRD I mean Hellboy, really. Because IT ALMOST FITS. Kinda.)

HAHAHA, I love that you and Adiva are on the same wavelength; she asked for the same thing the last time I did one of these! Delightful! Two questions: movies or comics for Hellboy/BPRD, and I am assuming movie for Holmes?

Movie for Holmes, yes. And for Hellboy/BPRD -- I am thinking comics, unless last time you did comics. In which case this time movie? If you follow? And if not -- comics! *slow*

I did comics last time, so movie it is!

Sorry for going silent last night, I kind of ... fell asleep. Oops. >.>

Anyway, any chance of seeing Father Mulcahy discuss 'I just found out I'm friends with the devil' with Aslan? Since that thread never got written.

Alternatively, some kind of NCIS/M*A*S*H* crossover, perhaps with Hawkeye and Ducky being old friends.

Dick Winters is completely undignified! YES, IT CAN HAPPEN. (And I myself love BoB AU or crack, but I know everyone has different feelings on the matter.)

HMMM.

Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson, post-boxing.

I think I've already asked for RDJ!Stark vs. RDJ!Holmes, so now I will ask for Lance Sweets vs. Grace Van Pelt. I... don't know why. I was juggling those two fandoms in my head and that's what came out.

I want NCIS/Bones crossover fic. Maybe Abby/Fisher? Or gen. Or whatever. I just love those two shows together.

I'm probably the oddest of the odd for bringing this up, but I'll ask anyway. Can I talk you into writing M*A*S*H fic with Radar and Henry during the episode "Henry, Please Come Home"? I would *love* it if you could come up with an alternate (serious? please?) direction for the scene where Radar's faking his illness. I know it's supposed to be totally comedic in the end, but... yeah, if that scene had stayed as serious as it began, I'd love it even more than I do now. ... I'm a sucker for henry being all concerned and attentive, I admit it.

*scampers away, blushing red*

Holmes/True Blood crossover! HOLMES INVESTIGATES A VAMPIRE.

National Treasure/iCarly crossover.

:D?

Basically I want to see Riley meet Sam, but anything else will undoubtedly be hilarious also!

Okay, so it's funny that you ask this because NCIS is my new obsession... I'm looking for Abby/McGee fic that I cannot find for the LIFE OF ME and I think in all my searches I've found two good ones... so I know I'm being vague when I say this, but Abby/McGee? I would love you forever.

Okay, so it is not very slashy, but IT GOT AWAY FROM ME and then there was no more time for slash, because having to write 19^th century medical techniques with no resources at hand and no time to extensively Google things frightens me. Similarly, I stand by no historical accuracy here. FLASH FICTION UNITE!

Holmes was laughing like a maniac, and making himself of very little use when it came to moving forward.

“I will never,” Watson grunted, Holmes’s arm slung around his neck and warm side pressed up against his, “understand why you find lying to hansom cab drivers so amusing.”

“That is because you have no appreciation for the finer things in life, old boy.” Holmes lurched to the side again as he spoke, and Watson barely caught him in time to prevent him from toppling over, staggering himself. The hansom rattled off into the darkness behind them, and Watson hauled Holmes up the steps and into 221B. Mrs. Hudson had left a lamp burning, and under the flickering light, the full extent of Holmes’s dishevelment – and of his bruises – became more readily evident. His shirt tails were hanging out, his wrinkled jacket and scarf thrown on haphazardly. His left eye had begun to swell shut and his face was slowly turning ugly colours in several locations. He moved like a drunkard, or perhaps like a man trying to ride a bicycle while upside-down underwater, all of which did not assist Watson in his generally thankless job of dragging him back to Baker Street after a boxing match.

Watson shot a most dubious look at the staircase in front of them, then grimly started up it.

“Are you ignoring me?” Holmes sounded terribly amused by the prospect, tapping steps with Watson's cane as they went along.

“How you could possibly think so, given that you are currently threatening to pull me off the staircase with you—” Watson let go of Holmes's waist to grab the rail, and he held there until the worst of Holmes’s momentary lurch had passed. “—I have no idea.” Watson was a stout fellow and the taller of the two, but Holmes was heavy and stumbling, and while Watson generally went about without great trouble from his bad leg, it became quite difficult to avoid placing his weight on it while supporting another party’s.

“I am not about to pull you off the stairs,” Holmes scoffed, even as his opposite shoulder hit the wall, dragging Watson with him. “I am simply having some small bit of trouble with my equilibrium.”

“Small?” Watson said with a hint of incredulousness, finally wrestling him upright, up the final few steps, and into the hall.

“Infinitesimal.”

“I do hope that this infinitesimal experience will dissuade you from allowing an opponent to crack your head against the floor again in future.”

“It was a diversionary tactic,” Holmes insisted. “I had him right where I wanted him.”

“I’m certain,” said Watson, whose tone suggested nothing of the sort, as they came to a halt outside the familiar door. If he released Holmes, Watson strongly suspected that his companion would tumble, and as partially tempting of a thought as that was, as a physician, he could not allow it. Thus, instead of finding his own heavy set of keys, Watson simply shifted the arm already around Holmes’s waist and reached into his jacket pocket.

Holmes blinked at him exaggeratedly and said immediately, “Why Watson, I never knew you cared.”

Watson did not dignify the comment with a response – other than to momentarily make eyes at the ceiling – removing Holmes’s keys from his pocket, unlocking the door, and manhandling him inside, where he placed Holmes in the chair closest to the door and then lit a lamp. “Don’t move,” he said, pointing at him to underscore his point and reclaiming his cane. Holmes tipped him a jaunty salute and sprawled in the chair most obscenely.

Watson could hear the muffled thud even while across the hall. He simply shook his head to himself and, finished gathering his bag into order, crossed back to find Holmes on the floor, ineffectually attempting to dissuade the dog from licking his ear.

“Good dog,” said Watson, nearly grinning, and he gave the bull pup a light, fond slap on the side. Then he took Holmes by the arms, hauled him to his feet, and led him to a chair by the fire, which Mrs. Hudson had presumably stoked before retiring.

“Dreadful creature,” Holmes said, bleary but irrepressible.

"The dog?" Watson asked, dragging over a second chair and opening his bag over a side table.

"No, you," Holmes said, and Watson gave a faint, genuine chuckle.

"Your head down, please."

"You probably say that to all your patients," said Holmes, leaning on the armrest and bowing his head, and Watson permissibly rolled his eyes as he carefully searched out the contusion hidden in Holmes's hair, more gentle than he had to be.

Edited 2009-12-28 18:28 (UTC)

!!!!!!!!!!!!

OH MY GOD. :D

IS IT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO LOVE THEM EVEN MORE?

I'M NOT SURE.

Holmes meets a Jedi. If you can throw in some of the fantastic gay between Watson and Holmes, all the better. :D

Agent Grace Van Pelt sits with her arms folded and her mouth set in an uncomfortable line.

Dr. Lance Sweets sits in a chair across from her, equally silently but seemingly vastly more at ease. He calmly and steadily looks right at Van Pelt while her eyes study everything in the office that is not her new psychiatrist. He has his hands clasped, a notebook nearby, and he seems perfectly content to sit there forever without ever saying a word.

Finally, unable to stand it any longer, Van Pelt says, “I feel like I’m in third grade again,” half-laughing and half-scoffing, desperately self-conscious.

Dr. Sweets smiles, the sort of smile that’s a professional front; meant to put you at ease. “Why’s that?”

Van Pelt almost laughs again. She feels a little hysterical, but hysteria is definitely not befitting of a California Bureau of Investigation agent and she stuffs the feeling down. “I don’t know,” she says. “The office, the authority figure staring at me til I break down and confess.”

“Well, I can set you at ease on a couple of those,” he says, smiling again. “I’m not an authority figure, you’re not here because you’ve done anything wrong, and I’m not trying to cause any breakdowns.”

“I guess,” Van Pelt mutters, and then she sighs and presses a hand to her face. “I’m sorry; you didn’t deserve that. It’s just I – I’ve just had some less-than-great experiences with psychiatrists. In the past.” God, she thinks, you need to grow a spine, Grace Van Pelt; you didn’t even want to apologize, but you felt so uncomfortable that you did it anyway.

He slowly nods, his fingers steepled in silence, and Van Pelt abruptly finds herself saying, “Look, I’m sorry, but could you please talk? The silent treatment is totally freaking me out.”

For a half a second, he looks startled, like he didn’t expect such frankness out of her and now has to revise his judgment, and then it’s gone behind that mask of professionalism again. “Sure,” he says. “We can talk. Why do you think you’re here?”

Van Pelt glances down at her knees. “You know,” she says, her voice low. “Red John. Jane. You’ve read the files.” Her tone takes on more of an edge than she means for it to, with the last sentence, and she rests one hand over the back of the other in her lap, her knuckles white with her grip. “The feds stole the case from the CBI and now I'm here to testify, except somebody decided I had to talk to a 'mental health professional' first, so here I am.”

Dr. Sweets looks at her for a long moment, and then he says, "Okay." She frowns at him, confused. "I think that's enough for today."

"Enough?" she asks, not quite daring to believe it. "That's it?"

"Well, I don't see the point in continuing if you don't want to be here and you don't want to talk to me," he says practically. He leans back and plucks a business card out of a stack off his desk, and then he clicks his pen and jots something on the back. "This is my card. Call me anytime. No more awkward silences. Scout's honor."

She nods quietly, hesitating for just a second before taking the card when he offers it to her. She flips it over to read the seven digit number on the back. "Cell phone?" she asks.

"Yeah," he says, and at her extremely unimpressed look, he hastily adds, "Oh no, I'm not hitting on you. Totally professional capacity, and anyway, my girlfriend would kill me." It's the most genuine thing that's come out of his mouth in ten minutes, and Van Pelt gives a tiny tic of a smile.

"Okay," she says softly.

In my extremely vague backstory, either Red John killed Jane or vice versa.

You are amazing.

*tiny voice* iron man/firefly crossover?

OR IF THAT IS BORING FOR YOU

Tony Stark at Bill Compton's house. :D

"And so!" Sam shouted.

"Without further adooooo~~~" Carly wiggled her fingers, both girls' faces bobbing in and out of camera view. "WE GIVE YOU:"

(Behind the camera, Freddie was already stifling laughter.)

"GIBBYYY THE TEEEERRIBLE," both girls chorused together, doing TA-DA! arms in the general direction of the back of the studio. Freddie hit the button to bring the letters up and they flashed across the bottom of the screen, Gibby's new title in barbaric-looking lettering.

No one stepped out.

Sam and Carly exchanged a glance, smiles still fixed, and then Carly said into the camera, "I said--"

"GIBBY THE TEEEEEEE~~~EEEERIBLLLLLE!" they both chanted again.

Nothing.

"Gibby!" Sam barked, stomping off toward the back of the studio. "If you don't get out here, I'm gonna break your thumbs and wiggle 'em like spaghetti noodles!" She vanished into the back.

Carly stared wide-eyed into the camera. "Uh..." she said.

"I don't wanna!" shouted Gibby from backstage, and then there were yells and few lower-pitched shouts from Sam's voice. Gibby came flying out into the studio, his two-horned hat askew on his head and covering his eyes, and his furry skirt rustling with his panicked hurry.

Carly caught him by the shoulders and steered him in front of the camera. "It's Gibby the Terrible, everyone!" she said.

Gibby tipped his hat up, raised his plastic sword, and, through his blond fake beard, said a flat, "Arrr."

"That's pirates, you numb brain," said Sam, strolling after him while biting off a hunk of beef jerky. "Not Vikings."

"You guys said if I was gonna do this, I'd get to have creative freedom!" Gibby shot back at her, putting Carly between the two of them.

"And you do!" Carly interrupted, once again with a fixed smile at the camera, in a voice that belonged on a game show announcer somewhere. "He may not be six feet tall--"

Sam jumped back into the script. "--And he may be wearing a horned hat and carrying a cup made out of a skull, which is historically inaccurate--"

"And yet so funny," said Freddie from behind the camera, and Gibby scowled at him.

"--But he's going to perform a traditional Viking ritual! Freddie?"

"La musica!" Freddie trilled, leaning back to the computer and pressing play. A loud pop song filled the studio, and Gibby began doing the macarena with an expression that suggested that he was doing this under extreme duress and threats of epic wedgies.

"Well, that's all we have time for today," Carly said, as the camera shifted back to them and Gibby kept dancing away in the background.

"Uuuuuntil next time," said Sam, bouncing.

Both girls threw an arm up, fists clenched, at the same moment, and shouted, "PILLAAAAAAAGE!"

"Aaaand -- we're out," said Freddie, keeping an eye on the equipment and finally able to laugh, and Gibby groaned and flopped on the floor.

"I will never have a social life again," he said, his voice muffled by the floor.

"Oh, cheer up, Gibbifer; it's not like you had one to begin with," Sam said, and she used his back as a stepping stone to walk toward the studio door.

Sure! I can give it a shot. Yours isn't quite as flash fictiony as others, though, because I'll have to rewatch the episode in question, so I won't be able to do it right away, say sorry!

The tunnels beneath London smelled remarkably dreadful, a thick, cloying air that seemed to stick in one’s lungs. This was not a great surprise, John Watson reflected, but that did not make it any more pleasant. He splashed through the shallows, resolutely not thinking about the constitution of the liquid lapping at his shoes, and when he stopped to listen, he heard nothing. No answering splashes, no breathing, no shouts; only the quiet running of something that wasn’t quite water. There was no sign of his quarry, and certainly no sign of Holmes.

“Holmes,” he hissed quietly, and as if someone or something had been waiting for a sound, splashes echoed off the tunnel walls from around the corner just ahead. Watson glanced down at his service revolver, held steadily in his hand and pointed at the wet ground, and he began to make his way forward as quietly as possible. He did not dare call out again; he simply had to trust that if the rapidly approaching footsteps belonged to Holmes (and from the loud approach in the vast amounts of liquid being kicked up, he strongly suspected that they did not), his companion would not shoot him between the eyes in error.

The figure that came around the corner was certainly not Holmes. Watson found himself holding his service revolver on a bright red neck, and when he automatically adjusted to bring the barrel up to head level –

Watson’s eyes grew enormous.

“Damn!” said the red horned creature, which was pointing a pistol of tremendous proportions at Watson’s knees. It – he, from the deep American voice, the build, and the hair on his face – holstered its weapon. “You’re not a man-eating alligator.” He sounded, of all things, disappointed.

Watson opened his mouth; closed it. Then he tried once again. “Holmes,” he called, not daring to glance away.

“You can put the gun away, pal,” said the creature, which Watson answered by slowly backing away, his arm still raised.

“Holmes!” he barked over his shoulder as loudly as he dared.

“Terrible stealth, man; simply bottom rate,” echoed Holmes’s irritated voice. The fact that he had responded at all – and was coming closer – spoke to just how much of a desperate edge had been in Watson’s shout. “Moretti is just going to casually saunter out of the tunnels at this—” Sherlock Holmes turned the corner, and stopped in his tracks. He blinked. “Good God.”

“Oh,” said the creature, looking from one man to the other. “Crap.” A moment passed. “Hey babe?” he called over his shoulder.

“What?” shouted a quite annoyed, quite American, quite female voice. Watson and Holmes exchanged a swift glance. Watson slowly began to lower his weapon.

“I think we took a wrong turn somewhere.”

“How wrong?” she asked, louder, accompanied by the sound of quiet splashes.

The creature took another look at the two of them. “Realllly wrong.”

A slight woman in an entirely-black, form fitting costume ducked out of a side tunnel, a very strange gun held casually at her side – and she stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell upon Watson and Holmes. “Shit,” she said. “Did we time travel?” She said it as though the phenomenon were an everyday irritation.

“They are searching out a man-eating alligator,” Watson told Holmes, his tone more than suggesting his startled disbelief.

“Fascinating,” said Holmes, without skipping a beat. “We will be sure to scream if we spot it. Tell me, have you seen a man running through these tunnels?” This last statement and then question, he turned on the woman and the creature.

The woman pointed over her shoulder with her thumb. “He went that-a-way,” she said sardonically.

“Capital! Come, Watson,” said Holmes, charging in the demonstrated direction, and Watson was left to protest, “Holmes!” while he was dragged along by his scarf.

“Watson,” said the creature thoughtfully, and then Watson could hear him brighten without even having to turn around to see it. “Hey! I think that was Sherlock Holmes.”

“We’re in Victorian England?” the woman demanded. “Red!” and then their voices were gone in the darkness behind them.

The game was afoot.

Edited 2009-12-28 21:39 (UTC)

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