sickle_stories: (Crack fics)
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes, Ironman, House MD
A/N: I wrote this in comments to [livejournal.com profile] seschat, running with her idea and sprinkling liberally with crack along the way. Blame [livejournal.com profile] seschat and her entry for this, then, where she said, in a comment:
Also, have you ever pondered the similarites between Stark and Holmes? [...] Both are eccentric geniuses; both are supposedly heartless, but have a distinctly good core, a strong, brave, noble personality, a deeply rooted sense of right and wrong. And I'm totally realizing that could be said about a lot of fictional characters, but ... SOMETHING. Something was there that had me thinking all those thoughts, and considering writing crazy crossovers that wouldn't even be all that crazy because of the similarities!

ETA: crossposted to [livejournal.com profile] holmeswatson09 (here) on June 19, 2010

Eliminate the Impossible

See, once upon a time, Sherlock Holmes was tinkering with Science and got caught in a really bright, somewhat itchy light. Moments later, he was on hands and knees - skinned knees, thank you very much - on the sidewalk of an equally bright and somewhat stinky city. It was the year two thousand-and-something and Holmes had no way of getting home and no Watson by his side, either.

So he decided, to hell with it, I'm going to drink. Then, somewhat drunk, he decided, to hell with it, I'm going to philander. And then the betting started...

To make a long story short, Holmes earned a whole lot of money and a whole lot more of a reputation. He changed his name to Tony Stark - it's a long story, involving palindromes, a pyromaniac and a three-legged bulldog and, oh yes, more liquor - and decided to live it up. He still kept tinkering, though. Maybe he'd manage to whisk Watson into this bright new era...

***

The day that Holmes-aka-Stark managed to get his bright-and-itchy time machine thingy working and rigged it to bring across his faithful sidekick, a fatal misspelling occured.

"What the hell?!?"

"Oh."

"Who - you - what?!?"

"You're not Dr Watson."

"The hell I am - I'm Wilson, also Doctor. What am I doing here?"

"I was trying to sort of...fax my friend from someplace. Damn. I'll have to try again..."

"I was in the middle of a consult!"

"How about a drink?"

"You just faxed me!"

"A strong drink."
sickle_stories: (Original)
A/N: This is just a drabble I wrote in lieu of an entry for Blog Like It's the End of the World Day.


The poor bastard stabbed me, what with I didn't find out until later. It was a screwdriver, one of those flat ones with a yellow and black striped handle. My chest made a little hissing sound when I pulled it out, like an air mattress being squeezed flat. He must've hit a lung - the right one because he'd been left-handed.

I tugged down the neck of my shirt and squinted at the wound, a jagged horizontal line just off-center, making me look like some sort of coin-operated mannequin. It wasn't bleeding. I prodded it, digging in a little and feeling the air flow out. I chewed on a fingernail. I'd like to say I did so thoughtfully, at least, but my mind was pretty blank at that point.

Somewhere to my right I heard a crash and a shout - broken window, probably. I turned and shuffled in the direction of the comotion, stepping over the screwdriver and its owner. I couldn't help a gurgling sort of moan as I walked - my right lung's death rattle. I chewed on a finger as I went, wondering if maybe I should've gotten the man's right hand instead.


Deleted Lines:

This, more than the absence of pain, finally cemented in my mind what had happened to me, made me revise and accept the new self-image.
sickle_stories: (Default)
She was people-watching again. Read more... )

***

The walls are never white enough for you, and you worry at them long after your hands are raw and your nails cracked. Read more... )

***

“I would forget my own name sometimes; don’t be offended if I forget your own. I remember you, that’s what matters. Read more... )

***

That’s the Freedom Market, specializing in the slave trade. A bit of a poetic name if you ask me, touting about the “selling of freedom” and all that, but it serves its purpose. Of course, you can also buy your freedom, if you’re a slave. Just keep in mind that any owner can outbid your offer.
sickle_stories: (Default)
Lost

"So, how’s the island been since I left?"

Crossover:

Sherlock Homes / Iron Man / House: Eliminate the Impossible (See also: Completed Fics)
sickle_stories: (Default)
Sometimes I write short dialogue exchanges which aren't set in any sort of story or with any specific characters in mind, although they do have a very specific context in my mind. Perhaps some of these exchanges will find their way into a story, or give way to one. Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Original)
Drabbles to an original fic in progress.

Summary: Those from Above forgot the pact, and those from Below want to break it. This deals with Upworlders and Those of the Dark, the age-long pact that few remember and some want to break. It also deals with the unwritten pact that forms between one from Above and one from Below, and the blood shed between them.

The Pact - Do you know how we make pacts, bird?

The Doves - The candle did little to light the vast darkness: that was not its purpose.

The Guard's Candle - She would not sully her skin with a half-victory or mercy, place her word out for others to see.

Birdie in a Cage - It’s been such a long time since I had a new toy.

Truce - She is curious about colours. The red of blood, the velvet-blue of a night sky, the colours of a fire...

Fear The Stars - Those lights, they had moved, and they were brighter, sharper, than they had been.

Above Ground - Upstairs, outside, under the sky: here he was master of the two.

Turn-About - She was all speed now, ducking and weaving, cutting when she could.
sickle_stories: (Default)
What does it mean when no one misses you or gives you the time of day? Read more... )




Sean staggered, the stranger limp and heavy in his arms. Read more... )




The goat of Doom (Frank, to his friends, if he ever had any) was really getting tired of marauding the forest. Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Lost)
Pondering over how Lost's Ben's exile might work out, and considering that Richard seems to have a 'get off the Island free' card, I came up with a little crack dialogue. Because, man, awkward conversation much?

Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Plot bunny)
The first few seconds of the Fish Out of Water: Trapped in TV Land syndrome:

Everyone, at one point or other, has had the experience of falling whilst lying snuggly in their beds. One startled jerk later, and you sigh in relief to find yourself in bed.

But when the falling sensation is real, when instead of waking up to smooth sheets you wake up to gravel and mud, the burning sting of scraped skin and bruised limbs, a sigh of relief is that last thing on your mind.

The first thing on Constance’s mind, for example, was surprise at having fallen off the bed for the first time in her life. That’s the waking human mind for you. The thought didn’t last very long, being dashed by the sudden rush of sensory input – mainly pain – that washed over her. That woke her up the rest of the way. Constance pushed herself up from the ground, hissing sharply as her skinned palms pressed against the gravel.
sickle_stories: (Default)
The sudden intrusion of the doorbell jump-started Charlotte's heart into a mad tattoo. Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Original)
Well-Worn Hand (Track 10)
A/N: Something I wish I had.

Being friends, we took turns holding each others hands, took turns falling or pulling the other up, dusting each other off and telling reassuring lies. Our hands were always outstretched, gripped, fingers and life-lines melding into the other, curling and resting in time-honoured places, my thumb resting just so, your index pressing there, always the same. We've been holding hands for so long, one would think they'd be immune to the passage of time and blunders, wrapped up in mutual gloves of friendship. But our childhood grips gain strength and subtlety with experience, turn paper-dry or slippery-wet, callouses and scars decorating familiar skin. Still, it is your hand, your well-worn hand, in mine, and I'll keep holding it for the rest of our time.

When Anger Shows (Track 5)

There were scuff marks on the floor, deep gouges on the table, smeared footprints on the wall. Pens lay strewn on the ground like an abandoned game of pick-up sticks. The duvet lay in crumpled restlessness at the foot of the bed, a pillow half-consumed beneath it. The figure standing in the doorway took the room at a glance, a practiced reader of such cryptography, and quietly shut the door again.

Smokers Outside Hospital Doors (Track 1)
A/N: Sometimes you just need a break.

The smoke doesn't cover the ghost if the distinctly medical smell - all tepid green and listless blue - and the nicotine rush harly soothes the right nerves. They stand aroud, in twos or threes, swaying pendulously from one foot to the other or pacing slowly with great sweeping steps, feet hovering endlessly before coming down in defeat. Their faces are inexpressive beyond the basics of exhaustion, closed off and focued entirely on the column of ash, the column of smoke and the pillar at their backs. A couple minutes' peace, a moment of respite in which they give themselves entirely over to their bodies, their small habits and rituals done without thought, canceling out the need for thought. They put time at a standstill even as it burns, because some things will never wait for you, wait for you to be ready, to be strong, to be willing, to be there. They come outside and cup these small offerings of time, time spent not-waiting that might have instead been spent waiting, watching, hoping or breaking. These white cylinders of measured time, modern incense sticks, have no god in mind, but the prayer is clear: "Please", they whisper as they burn, "just give me a minute."
sickle_stories: (Crack fics)
AN: The last line is from TPratchett's Discworld series.


The troll charged through the hedges, club raised, hollering a string of consonants few would be able to imitate. The dwarves turned ‘round slowly. One let go of his red wheelbarrow, another stopped whistling mid-tune. The troll continued to advance on them, a hulking mass like a strone-wall on columns which suddenly decided to wobble forward.

As one, the dwarves raised their pick-axes and gave a battle cry. Surviving witnesses allow for the translation, which is this: “Today is a good day for someone else to die.”
sickle_stories: (Original)
Charles "Chip" northrup sank down into the driver's seat and thumbed the lock. The echoing clicks of the passenger- and backdoors locking mixed in with the thrumming of the rain on the roof. Chip glanced out the passenger window at the motel lights, distorted somewhat by the rain. Read more... )
sickle_stories: (Crack fics)
A/N: A sad little crack!fic about a lonely little goat, who just happens to be the personification of all things evil.

Warning: Do not take seriously.


Read more... )

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