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corpsereviver2, inspired by the wondrous holiday card she sent me.
Title: "Deck the Hearse and Kiss the Driver (Or Maybe Vice Versa)"
Fandom: Sherlock (Bone-Fiddle-verse, Appalachian AU)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG, tops.
Words: 221
Warnings: none
Summary: John surprises Sherlock for a change.
John had been in medical school and the Army, but even by those standards, this was a labor-intensive prank. It had involved a lot of hiking, scouting, snipping, and one nerve-wracking climb in a high oak tree. He was pleased that none of it was store-bought: the woods on Sherlock’s land had yielded everything he needed.
He’d weathered Sherlock’s piercing study of the scratches, the mud, the surprisingly piney-fresh scent of John’s knapsack. Even if Sherlock figured out what John was up to, he was just going to proceed as if he didn’t live with a super-genius. (But John really hoped he wouldn’t.)
John finally got his chance just a little bit before dawn on December 23rd, when Sherlock had finally succumbed to heavy post-research exhaustion and lay like a snuffling pile of rags on the living-room couch.
When Sherlock at last emerged from sleep and saw John’s handiwork on his vintage hearse, his poleaxed, horrified expression was everything John had hoped for. Pine and spruce and hemlock garlands festooned it, and sharp shiny holly was wedged into every outer crevice.
“You’ve desecrated it!” Sherlock roared.
“Close but not quite the right word. I think it’s festive.”
“Why did you imagine I would tolerate this for a second?”
“‘Cause I put the mistletoe inside. In the back.”
Happy Holidays, y'all!
corpsereviver2, inspired by the wondrous holiday card she sent me.Title: "Deck the Hearse and Kiss the Driver (Or Maybe Vice Versa)"
Fandom: Sherlock (Bone-Fiddle-verse, Appalachian AU)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG, tops.
Words: 221
Warnings: none
Summary: John surprises Sherlock for a change.
John had been in medical school and the Army, but even by those standards, this was a labor-intensive prank. It had involved a lot of hiking, scouting, snipping, and one nerve-wracking climb in a high oak tree. He was pleased that none of it was store-bought: the woods on Sherlock’s land had yielded everything he needed.
He’d weathered Sherlock’s piercing study of the scratches, the mud, the surprisingly piney-fresh scent of John’s knapsack. Even if Sherlock figured out what John was up to, he was just going to proceed as if he didn’t live with a super-genius. (But John really hoped he wouldn’t.)
John finally got his chance just a little bit before dawn on December 23rd, when Sherlock had finally succumbed to heavy post-research exhaustion and lay like a snuffling pile of rags on the living-room couch.
When Sherlock at last emerged from sleep and saw John’s handiwork on his vintage hearse, his poleaxed, horrified expression was everything John had hoped for. Pine and spruce and hemlock garlands festooned it, and sharp shiny holly was wedged into every outer crevice.
“You’ve desecrated it!” Sherlock roared.
“Close but not quite the right word. I think it’s festive.”
“Why did you imagine I would tolerate this for a second?”
“‘Cause I put the mistletoe inside. In the back.”
Happy Holidays, y'all!
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