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Title: The Wizard And The Warrior
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock BBC / Dungeons & Dragons
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Misc OCs
Word Count: 1,219
Disclaimer: Not owning, profiting, meaning any harm. Not stopping, either.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: Some fantasy-style non-graphic violence, Snark, Orc and Troll abuse, Reminder to wear your belief suspenders until the fic comes to a complete stop.
Original Prompt: "John and Sherlock, dungeons and dragon au! " - Dirtycorzaharkness
Summary: Sherlock, the consulting half-elf wizard and his companion, John, the half-dwarf not-quite-ex warrior are locked in a dungeon - hijinx inevitably ensue.
Author's Notes:I’ve done 3 Sentence Fics before, I have! Just… well… just not happening this time. I hope this is okay, my dear DirtyCorzaHarkness.
After the third go-round of his elven timer—three hours, three times the faintly-glowing blue sand trickled from one tiny glass chamber to the next—John gave a heavy sigh, catching up his dwarven-made bearded ax as he got wearily to his feet and limped over to the door. To be fair, he waited another dozen or so breaths before disturbing the man—well, half-man, half-elf—kneeling before the massive dungeon cell door and its equally massive lock. “If lockpicks, spells, and elven curses aren’t budging it, I think it’s time to try something else, yeah?”
Sherlock didn’t turn his head away from whatever his long, pale fingers were doing with the lock, and in a voice resonant and deep, though currently crisp with exasperated annoyance, he replied, “I am a master at all three of those things, as a matter of fact; if you’ve got those skills in any measure, I’m sure you would have mentioned it before now. This plate has been treated with a many-layered anti-magic spell. It’s too complicated to explain to someone without the intellect to understand. Now be quiet so I can concentrate. I’ve almost got this, dwarf.”
Sighing heavily, having travelled with the bloody-minded wizard for just long enough to know his mouth had no filter even vaguely related to common-sense, let alone manners, John hefted his ax to his good shoulder and grumbled softly, “half-dwarf, you pointy-eared prat,” before giving his companion a gentle—ish—shove to the side with one booted foot and hauling back, putting his whole strength and the additional energy of his frustration into the motion, to swing with a soft whistling of air being cleaved by the wickedly-sharp edge of the blade.
The sound of the ax impacting just above the lock was loud in the small stone chamber, echoing out through the grille in the door to the corridors beyond. Wood splinters pattered against both males, the floor, a few hit the far wall, and there was a soft whisper of a single impact on the ceiling. Sherlock, looking up at John in astonishment for a moment before his distinctive features shifted to something more like outrage, shook splinters out of his dark hair as he snarled, “I told you I almost had it!”
“And I told you I’m only half dwarf,” John replied irritably, bracing on his iffy leg—still weak from a bloody spell-trap; no physical damage, but all the pain of it—and giving the damaged door a mighty kick with his stronger leg. The thrumming boom told how hard he’d hit, the recoil of energy almost put him on his bum, but the door groaned and the lock plate shifted slightly; the gap between the metal-bound wooden door and the stone frame just a tiny bit wider.
“AHA!” Sherlock scrambled onto his knees, wedging the tips of the first two fingers of his right hand into that gap—barely—and all but growled words of power. There was a flash of violet light and the lock mechanism surrendered with a heavy thunk. “All I needed was a way past the bespelled plate!” He very nearly bounced to his feet, snatching up his black and silver staff from the stone floor. “I knew if you got irritated enough you’d be likely to cause commensurately more damage to the door.”
John took a moment to shoulder his pack and hauled open the door, glancing at Sherlock with a sarcastic expression. “You’re lucky I didn’t commensurately cause more damage to your elven arse!”
“Half-elven arse, thank you; since you have a burning need to be specific,” Sherlock rumbled, putting a staying hand to John’s chest when he would have gone through the now-open door first. He cocked one ear to the corridor outside their cell for a second before turning pale grey-blue-green eyes on John, his smile smugly delighted as the many-faceted crystal at the head of his staff started to glow. “Four… no, five orcs and a forest troll incoming.”
John made a courtly bow, tone still dry, “By all means, after you, O Master of Magic and Lockpicking!”
“And curses,” Sherlock corrected as he stepped through the door, directing his staff toward the murky darkness at the far end of the corridor. Just the faintest flicker of a glow was beginning to be visible, possibly the light of a torch held by someone still descending the stairwell.
Untying his helmet from his pack, John put it solidly on his head. “Yeah, yeah, and puzzles, and riddles. I know, Sherlock. Enough bragging, this is serious.”
Three magical blasts of power from the staff, one curse that turned one unfortunate orc inside out rather spectacularly, and an unending sleep spell for the troll, left John the limited satisfaction of hacking the last orc’s legs out from under him before beheading him on the return stroke. They stood in the corridor, John barely breathing heavy and Sherlock grinning like a child at a winter solstice feast—he enjoyed offensive magic with a slightly troubling manic edge. Of course, John was grinning, too, because his dwarven ancestry did lend itself to a certain fierce glee when faced with a good battle.
Clearing his throat and lifting his chin haughtily, Sherlock rested his staff on the floor with a solid thump. “It’s only bragging if it’s not true,” he said with pride and an incredible amount of joyous smugness.
Snorting and shaking his head, grin unabated, John then tilted his head in a ‘come on then’ gesture before beginning to pick his way through the carnage. “Yeah, well, I knew if I took the piss about your abilities, you’d be likely to work up a good bolus of magic and show off by doing most of the heavy lifting in our escape.”
Sherlock made a quiet sound of exasperation from behind John and a moment later a small spark of magical energy zapped John in the arse, like a sudden burst of static electricity.
“Oi!” John exclaimed, glaring at Sherlock over his shoulder.
“Sorry, just releasing some of that bolus of extra magic, no harm done.” Sherlock sounded not in the least sorry.
“What’re you, twelve? Can’t stand not having the last word somehow, eh?” John teased, dark blue eyes merry, instead of truly annoyed.
Sherlock let out an arrogant snort. “No, that’s not it at all.”
“Yeah, it is.” John glanced back, brows raised, and Sherlock—lips already parted to argue—snapped them shut as his nearly-glowing pale eyes narrowed. Chuckling, John continued on and Sherlock glared at him a little sulkily. As they neared the upper levels, John made a big show of apologising and offering to let Sherlock have first go at the next group of foes.
The fact that John vicariously enjoyed watching Sherlock do what he did best was left unsaid, and there was a great deal of enjoyment to be had; although, for the most part, the only other witnesses of Sherlock’s next spree of destruction weren’t in any condition to comment, being that they were reduced to grease-smears and ashes by an inferno spell which cracked the stone walls and blasted the front gate off the keep.
John did his best to hide his grin as he shouldered his ax and followed Sherlock’s proud stride through the smoke and out.
~~~
.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock BBC / Dungeons & Dragons
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Misc OCs
Word Count: 1,219
Disclaimer: Not owning, profiting, meaning any harm. Not stopping, either.
Spoilers: Nope.
Warnings: Some fantasy-style non-graphic violence, Snark, Orc and Troll abuse, Reminder to wear your belief suspenders until the fic comes to a complete stop.
Original Prompt: "John and Sherlock, dungeons and dragon au! " - Dirtycorzaharkness
Summary: Sherlock, the consulting half-elf wizard and his companion, John, the half-dwarf not-quite-ex warrior are locked in a dungeon - hijinx inevitably ensue.
Author's Notes:I’ve done 3 Sentence Fics before, I have! Just… well… just not happening this time. I hope this is okay, my dear DirtyCorzaHarkness.
After the third go-round of his elven timer—three hours, three times the faintly-glowing blue sand trickled from one tiny glass chamber to the next—John gave a heavy sigh, catching up his dwarven-made bearded ax as he got wearily to his feet and limped over to the door. To be fair, he waited another dozen or so breaths before disturbing the man—well, half-man, half-elf—kneeling before the massive dungeon cell door and its equally massive lock. “If lockpicks, spells, and elven curses aren’t budging it, I think it’s time to try something else, yeah?”
Sherlock didn’t turn his head away from whatever his long, pale fingers were doing with the lock, and in a voice resonant and deep, though currently crisp with exasperated annoyance, he replied, “I am a master at all three of those things, as a matter of fact; if you’ve got those skills in any measure, I’m sure you would have mentioned it before now. This plate has been treated with a many-layered anti-magic spell. It’s too complicated to explain to someone without the intellect to understand. Now be quiet so I can concentrate. I’ve almost got this, dwarf.”
Sighing heavily, having travelled with the bloody-minded wizard for just long enough to know his mouth had no filter even vaguely related to common-sense, let alone manners, John hefted his ax to his good shoulder and grumbled softly, “half-dwarf, you pointy-eared prat,” before giving his companion a gentle—ish—shove to the side with one booted foot and hauling back, putting his whole strength and the additional energy of his frustration into the motion, to swing with a soft whistling of air being cleaved by the wickedly-sharp edge of the blade.
The sound of the ax impacting just above the lock was loud in the small stone chamber, echoing out through the grille in the door to the corridors beyond. Wood splinters pattered against both males, the floor, a few hit the far wall, and there was a soft whisper of a single impact on the ceiling. Sherlock, looking up at John in astonishment for a moment before his distinctive features shifted to something more like outrage, shook splinters out of his dark hair as he snarled, “I told you I almost had it!”
“And I told you I’m only half dwarf,” John replied irritably, bracing on his iffy leg—still weak from a bloody spell-trap; no physical damage, but all the pain of it—and giving the damaged door a mighty kick with his stronger leg. The thrumming boom told how hard he’d hit, the recoil of energy almost put him on his bum, but the door groaned and the lock plate shifted slightly; the gap between the metal-bound wooden door and the stone frame just a tiny bit wider.
“AHA!” Sherlock scrambled onto his knees, wedging the tips of the first two fingers of his right hand into that gap—barely—and all but growled words of power. There was a flash of violet light and the lock mechanism surrendered with a heavy thunk. “All I needed was a way past the bespelled plate!” He very nearly bounced to his feet, snatching up his black and silver staff from the stone floor. “I knew if you got irritated enough you’d be likely to cause commensurately more damage to the door.”
John took a moment to shoulder his pack and hauled open the door, glancing at Sherlock with a sarcastic expression. “You’re lucky I didn’t commensurately cause more damage to your elven arse!”
“Half-elven arse, thank you; since you have a burning need to be specific,” Sherlock rumbled, putting a staying hand to John’s chest when he would have gone through the now-open door first. He cocked one ear to the corridor outside their cell for a second before turning pale grey-blue-green eyes on John, his smile smugly delighted as the many-faceted crystal at the head of his staff started to glow. “Four… no, five orcs and a forest troll incoming.”
John made a courtly bow, tone still dry, “By all means, after you, O Master of Magic and Lockpicking!”
“And curses,” Sherlock corrected as he stepped through the door, directing his staff toward the murky darkness at the far end of the corridor. Just the faintest flicker of a glow was beginning to be visible, possibly the light of a torch held by someone still descending the stairwell.
Untying his helmet from his pack, John put it solidly on his head. “Yeah, yeah, and puzzles, and riddles. I know, Sherlock. Enough bragging, this is serious.”
Three magical blasts of power from the staff, one curse that turned one unfortunate orc inside out rather spectacularly, and an unending sleep spell for the troll, left John the limited satisfaction of hacking the last orc’s legs out from under him before beheading him on the return stroke. They stood in the corridor, John barely breathing heavy and Sherlock grinning like a child at a winter solstice feast—he enjoyed offensive magic with a slightly troubling manic edge. Of course, John was grinning, too, because his dwarven ancestry did lend itself to a certain fierce glee when faced with a good battle.
Clearing his throat and lifting his chin haughtily, Sherlock rested his staff on the floor with a solid thump. “It’s only bragging if it’s not true,” he said with pride and an incredible amount of joyous smugness.
Snorting and shaking his head, grin unabated, John then tilted his head in a ‘come on then’ gesture before beginning to pick his way through the carnage. “Yeah, well, I knew if I took the piss about your abilities, you’d be likely to work up a good bolus of magic and show off by doing most of the heavy lifting in our escape.”
Sherlock made a quiet sound of exasperation from behind John and a moment later a small spark of magical energy zapped John in the arse, like a sudden burst of static electricity.
“Oi!” John exclaimed, glaring at Sherlock over his shoulder.
“Sorry, just releasing some of that bolus of extra magic, no harm done.” Sherlock sounded not in the least sorry.
“What’re you, twelve? Can’t stand not having the last word somehow, eh?” John teased, dark blue eyes merry, instead of truly annoyed.
Sherlock let out an arrogant snort. “No, that’s not it at all.”
“Yeah, it is.” John glanced back, brows raised, and Sherlock—lips already parted to argue—snapped them shut as his nearly-glowing pale eyes narrowed. Chuckling, John continued on and Sherlock glared at him a little sulkily. As they neared the upper levels, John made a big show of apologising and offering to let Sherlock have first go at the next group of foes.
The fact that John vicariously enjoyed watching Sherlock do what he did best was left unsaid, and there was a great deal of enjoyment to be had; although, for the most part, the only other witnesses of Sherlock’s next spree of destruction weren’t in any condition to comment, being that they were reduced to grease-smears and ashes by an inferno spell which cracked the stone walls and blasted the front gate off the keep.
John did his best to hide his grin as he shouldered his ax and followed Sherlock’s proud stride through the smoke and out.
~~~
.
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Date: 2013-07-15 01:56 am (UTC)From:It satisfies both my inner fangirl AND my inner nerd. Too awesome! ^.^