apple_pathways (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
apple_pathways) wrote2012-09-18 08:10 pm
apple_pathways) wrote2012-09-18 08:10 pm
Entry tags:
Fic Trope Meme, entries round 1
Here's my first round of responses to this meme. If you'd still like to make a prompt/request, please do so!
Here I have a short ficlet for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
girlingoldboots, and some...pointless rambling about gender and historical fiction for clare_dragonfly. I'll get to the rest of the requests throughout the week!
Fromgirlingoldboots:
"But why is it here?" Sherlock was using the same tone of voice most people reserved for discussing mangy, flea-ridden stray dogs and other people's rubbish. As he spoke, he prodded at the infant carrier carefully with the toe of his boot. "Are there not government services designed for this purpose?"
John rescued the sleeping baby from his flatmate's prodding, picking up the carrier and setting it gingerly on the end of the sofa before replying. "Yes, Sherlock, you're quite right: there are indeed services for looking after stray children. Unfortunately, there was a fire at one of the city's larger children's homes, and all available personnel are needed there: finding places for the children to sleep tonight, and tracking down relations to notify for the children who were only placed their temporarily. They'll send someone as soon as they can, but in the meantime, I told Lestrade we'd look after the baby here."
Sherlock scowled, still eyeing the sleeping bundle with suspicion. "Why on earth did you do that? You have no experience with infants, and you know how terrible you are in a crisis..."
John fought the urge to argue the point (no good in a crisis? What did he call their whole bloody living arrangement?!), and responded reasonably: "Sherlock, for God's sake, I'm a physician! I think I can keep a sleeping infant alive for an hour or so until a social worker can be dispatched."
The end of his speech was cut off by the ringing of his phone. Quickly, John darted into the kitchen so he could take the call without waking the baby.
In his absence, Sherlock continued to glare at his flat's unwanted interloper. He was just starting to ponder whether or not a human infant might make a suitable substitute for a chimpanzee in his latest experiment, when the baby awoke with a violent start: its eyes opened, its limbs flailed, and it emitted a high-pitched whining sound accompanied by an animal-like snuffling issued through flared nostrils. Sherlock flinched briefly in terror, and considered immediate flight. But just as quickly as the spasm began: it subsided. The infant's eyes drifted shut, its neck relaxed, and its limbs curled peacefully at its side. One more soft snort, and it was sleeping soundly once again.
"Better stick with the chimp," Sherlock mumbled.
"What was that?" John asked, re-entering the room. He moved immediately to check on his sleeping charge. He fussed with the baby's blankets a bit, needlessly tucking and untucking things, and very obviously avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
An observation Sherlock picked up immediately. "What was the phone call?"
John steeled himself before looking up. "That was Lestrade. Seems it's going to be a bit more than hour before they can send someone."
Sherlock was stuck between smirking and visible distress: he did not want this strange creature spending another instant in his flat, but the urge to tell John 'I told you so' was a competing interest.
John saved him from choosing by speaking again.
"They might not be able to send someone 'til morning. Which means we'll need supplies: formula, a bottle, some nappies...Sherlock, I'll make you a list. Just hand it to a store employee, they should be able to find everything for you. I'll give you an extra 10 quid to bribe them with."
There was a pause while Sherlock processed this new information. "You want me to go shopping?"
"Yes." John willed himself to careful patience, taking a deep breath before answering. "I need you to run to the shop while I stay here with Nicholas."
Sherlock's response was quick and direct. "I don't do shopping."
Patience was harder to come by this time, but John did his best. "I know you don't like to do the shopping, but surely you can see this is a special case."
"I'm not sure I do." From anyone else, the response might have been sarcastic. Sherlock's voice, however, sounded genuinely puzzled. He thought about it a moment longer, then shook his head. "No, John, you're the one who does the shopping."
Another deep breath, this time accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. "Sherlock, I know I'm the one who normally does the shopping, but I can't just leave the baby alone while I pop down to the shop, and..."
"Alone?" Sherlock interrupted John with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The child won't be alone! I'll be here."
John thought his eyes might pop out of his face. "You?"
In response, Sherlock adopted his talking-to-simpletons voice: "Yes: me. I will stay here, while you pop down to the shop."
There were a million reasons why Sherlock's suggestion was completely out of the question, chief among them the fact that John had caught him murmuring something about chimpanzees when he'd only left the man alone with the baby for three minutes while he took a phone call in the next room. Who knows what would happen if he left them for 10 minutes or more? He didn't like to think a human infant could be sold for parts, but if such a market existed, Sherlock would be the man with the connections.
And yet: he could see the stubborn set of his flatmate's jaw. Somehow, he had convinced himself that staying alone in the flat with someone else's child was preferable to navigating the vagueries of the corner Tesco. (And if John remembered correctly, they just might still have his picture posted behind the registers...) Sherlock's mind was clearly made up, and surely it wouldn't take John longer than 5, 10 minutes to get what he needed...
With a resigned sigh, John grabbed his keys and coat. "Don't take him out of the carrier: don't even touch him! Just sit in that chair, and I'll be back in 10 minutes."
Sherlock waved him off dismissively, settling in the chair with an inquisitive frown on his face.
John sprinted out the door.
*****
Ten minutes. How on earth had he convinced himself he could get in and out of a high street shop in 10 minutes?
For one thing, they didn't just sell infant formula, and bottles, and nappies. There were about a million different kinds of each: formula with and without soy, with added DHA, for newborns, preemies, and older infants. The nappies were sold by the weight of the child, and John hadn't even held the baby outside of its carrier: 15 pounds seemed a reasonable guess, but who could tell?
He didn't even want to think about rubber nipples that most closely approximated "mother's own"...
Then there was the queue. Had these people never been shopping before? Did they not expect they would need to pay for their shopping? And what was all this fuss over the bloody loyalty card?
By the time he was free of the bloody place and climbing the steps to his flat, it had been close to half an hour since he'd left.
Over the pounding of his own heart, John can hear: violin music? Just leave it to Sherlock to forget about the baby and carry on with his own plans...
He burst through the door in a panic, ready to call his flatmate's name.
Sherlock is sat in his appointed chair, violin tucked under his chin. The infant carrier has been moved so that it's sat on the table in front of him. He doesn't stop playing when John enters the flat.
For a moment, John just stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. The strains of the violin (a concerto by Bach, he knows from experience of his Sherlock's tastes) floated toward him.
He started to worry that perhaps Sherlock has done something with the baby and was using the noise of the violin to cover it up, but when he moved into the room to check, the baby was still in his carrier, chewing on his fist and staring up at Sherlock with wide eyes.
Sherlock reached the end of the piece, drawing out the final note of the concerto with an expert stroke of his bow. Then the room was silent.
Sherlock was the first to speak. "I knew you'd never get out of there in 10 minutes."
"No, I," John stumbled through his words. "I...everything was all right, then?"
When Sherlock answers, he's watching the baby, and not John. "Yes, yes, fine. He awoke soon after you left and was quite distressed--strange environment, I imagine. I remember something about infants enjoying music. Well, I had to do something to stop the awful noise."
"Huh." John just stared at Sherlock, who actually appeared to be smiling at the baby.
There's an unfamiliar note of tenderness in his voice when he speaks. "I think I'll call him Johann."
John blinked. "Johann?"
"After Bach."
"Sherlock...you can't call him anything! He's already got a name: it's Nicholas!"
Sherlock scowled. "Too pedestrian. I can't think of any noteworthy Nicholas's. Perhaps Nikola, after Tesla." John's brain was just working round to the implications of the current conversation, but Sherlock interrupted. "You did buy milk, didn't you? I imagine he's rather hungry."
Fromclare_dragonfly:
My reading comprehension is a bit lacking these days. Either that, or I just have Downton Abbey on the brain, because the first time I read this request, I interpreted Mansfield Park as Downton Abbey. Because they totally sound the same. And are set in the same time period. And exist in the same medium. Or...none of those.
So, you get to hear me ramble about my idea for genderswapped Downton Abbey before I get around to your actual request!
Downton Abbey would make a fantastic genderswapped drama if it were set in an alternate reality with a matriarchal society. Just imagine: the Lady of the manor has only sons, and so there comes along Lady Grantham's distant cousin Mary (Matthew), a middle class lawyer from London. In order to keep the estate in the family, everyone hopes she will fall for Matthew (Mary), their pretty eldest son, but his pride and a major indiscretion with a beautiful Turkish diplomat threaten their plans... Would also love to see Simon (Sybil) discovering that he can do things for himself, getting mixed up in politics and attending a Men's Suffrage rally, and Edward (Edith) being constantly looked-over, because he's just not as handsome as his brothers...
But now for Mansfield Park!
It's hard to genderswap historical fiction without also genderswapping the society in which the story is set, because so much of the characters and what they do are defined by the roles of their gender. Downton Abbey, for instance, makes absolutely no sense if you swap the genders of the characters, but don't change the laws of society. If Lord and Lady Grantham had three sons, we never would have even met Matthew. (Or his female equivalent, Mary.)
In a genderswapped Mansfield Park, Fanny (as Frank) would not have to change so much, I don't think: we meet him as a young child, doing what he can to help out his family when there are far too many mouths to feed. However, once he's taken in by his aristocratic relatives, they wouldn't have expected much more of him than they would of a girl: maybe just a bit more shooting. And Latin.
I've never made it much of a secret that I find the Crawfords to be much more interesting than the Bertrams. I've been sitting here trying to think of a scene to write with a genderswapped Edmund and Mary, but a genderswapped Edmund and Mary is pretty much: Fanny and Henry. :P
So I'll conclude this long ramble that doesn't actually include any fic (SORRY!) with this image: a male Fanny deflowering a female Edmund on their wedding night. And I ask you: is your mental picture that much different than if they had retained their original genders?
Here I have a short ficlet for
girlingoldboots, and some...pointless rambling about gender and historical fiction for clare_dragonfly. I'll get to the rest of the requests throughout the week!From
girlingoldboots: "But why is it here?" Sherlock was using the same tone of voice most people reserved for discussing mangy, flea-ridden stray dogs and other people's rubbish. As he spoke, he prodded at the infant carrier carefully with the toe of his boot. "Are there not government services designed for this purpose?"
John rescued the sleeping baby from his flatmate's prodding, picking up the carrier and setting it gingerly on the end of the sofa before replying. "Yes, Sherlock, you're quite right: there are indeed services for looking after stray children. Unfortunately, there was a fire at one of the city's larger children's homes, and all available personnel are needed there: finding places for the children to sleep tonight, and tracking down relations to notify for the children who were only placed their temporarily. They'll send someone as soon as they can, but in the meantime, I told Lestrade we'd look after the baby here."
Sherlock scowled, still eyeing the sleeping bundle with suspicion. "Why on earth did you do that? You have no experience with infants, and you know how terrible you are in a crisis..."
John fought the urge to argue the point (no good in a crisis? What did he call their whole bloody living arrangement?!), and responded reasonably: "Sherlock, for God's sake, I'm a physician! I think I can keep a sleeping infant alive for an hour or so until a social worker can be dispatched."
The end of his speech was cut off by the ringing of his phone. Quickly, John darted into the kitchen so he could take the call without waking the baby.
In his absence, Sherlock continued to glare at his flat's unwanted interloper. He was just starting to ponder whether or not a human infant might make a suitable substitute for a chimpanzee in his latest experiment, when the baby awoke with a violent start: its eyes opened, its limbs flailed, and it emitted a high-pitched whining sound accompanied by an animal-like snuffling issued through flared nostrils. Sherlock flinched briefly in terror, and considered immediate flight. But just as quickly as the spasm began: it subsided. The infant's eyes drifted shut, its neck relaxed, and its limbs curled peacefully at its side. One more soft snort, and it was sleeping soundly once again.
"Better stick with the chimp," Sherlock mumbled.
"What was that?" John asked, re-entering the room. He moved immediately to check on his sleeping charge. He fussed with the baby's blankets a bit, needlessly tucking and untucking things, and very obviously avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
An observation Sherlock picked up immediately. "What was the phone call?"
John steeled himself before looking up. "That was Lestrade. Seems it's going to be a bit more than hour before they can send someone."
Sherlock was stuck between smirking and visible distress: he did not want this strange creature spending another instant in his flat, but the urge to tell John 'I told you so' was a competing interest.
John saved him from choosing by speaking again.
"They might not be able to send someone 'til morning. Which means we'll need supplies: formula, a bottle, some nappies...Sherlock, I'll make you a list. Just hand it to a store employee, they should be able to find everything for you. I'll give you an extra 10 quid to bribe them with."
There was a pause while Sherlock processed this new information. "You want me to go shopping?"
"Yes." John willed himself to careful patience, taking a deep breath before answering. "I need you to run to the shop while I stay here with Nicholas."
Sherlock's response was quick and direct. "I don't do shopping."
Patience was harder to come by this time, but John did his best. "I know you don't like to do the shopping, but surely you can see this is a special case."
"I'm not sure I do." From anyone else, the response might have been sarcastic. Sherlock's voice, however, sounded genuinely puzzled. He thought about it a moment longer, then shook his head. "No, John, you're the one who does the shopping."
Another deep breath, this time accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. "Sherlock, I know I'm the one who normally does the shopping, but I can't just leave the baby alone while I pop down to the shop, and..."
"Alone?" Sherlock interrupted John with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The child won't be alone! I'll be here."
John thought his eyes might pop out of his face. "You?"
In response, Sherlock adopted his talking-to-simpletons voice: "Yes: me. I will stay here, while you pop down to the shop."
There were a million reasons why Sherlock's suggestion was completely out of the question, chief among them the fact that John had caught him murmuring something about chimpanzees when he'd only left the man alone with the baby for three minutes while he took a phone call in the next room. Who knows what would happen if he left them for 10 minutes or more? He didn't like to think a human infant could be sold for parts, but if such a market existed, Sherlock would be the man with the connections.
And yet: he could see the stubborn set of his flatmate's jaw. Somehow, he had convinced himself that staying alone in the flat with someone else's child was preferable to navigating the vagueries of the corner Tesco. (And if John remembered correctly, they just might still have his picture posted behind the registers...) Sherlock's mind was clearly made up, and surely it wouldn't take John longer than 5, 10 minutes to get what he needed...
With a resigned sigh, John grabbed his keys and coat. "Don't take him out of the carrier: don't even touch him! Just sit in that chair, and I'll be back in 10 minutes."
Sherlock waved him off dismissively, settling in the chair with an inquisitive frown on his face.
John sprinted out the door.
Ten minutes. How on earth had he convinced himself he could get in and out of a high street shop in 10 minutes?
For one thing, they didn't just sell infant formula, and bottles, and nappies. There were about a million different kinds of each: formula with and without soy, with added DHA, for newborns, preemies, and older infants. The nappies were sold by the weight of the child, and John hadn't even held the baby outside of its carrier: 15 pounds seemed a reasonable guess, but who could tell?
He didn't even want to think about rubber nipples that most closely approximated "mother's own"...
Then there was the queue. Had these people never been shopping before? Did they not expect they would need to pay for their shopping? And what was all this fuss over the bloody loyalty card?
By the time he was free of the bloody place and climbing the steps to his flat, it had been close to half an hour since he'd left.
Over the pounding of his own heart, John can hear: violin music? Just leave it to Sherlock to forget about the baby and carry on with his own plans...
He burst through the door in a panic, ready to call his flatmate's name.
Sherlock is sat in his appointed chair, violin tucked under his chin. The infant carrier has been moved so that it's sat on the table in front of him. He doesn't stop playing when John enters the flat.
For a moment, John just stood in the doorway, dumbfounded. The strains of the violin (a concerto by Bach, he knows from experience of his Sherlock's tastes) floated toward him.
He started to worry that perhaps Sherlock has done something with the baby and was using the noise of the violin to cover it up, but when he moved into the room to check, the baby was still in his carrier, chewing on his fist and staring up at Sherlock with wide eyes.
Sherlock reached the end of the piece, drawing out the final note of the concerto with an expert stroke of his bow. Then the room was silent.
Sherlock was the first to speak. "I knew you'd never get out of there in 10 minutes."
"No, I," John stumbled through his words. "I...everything was all right, then?"
When Sherlock answers, he's watching the baby, and not John. "Yes, yes, fine. He awoke soon after you left and was quite distressed--strange environment, I imagine. I remember something about infants enjoying music. Well, I had to do something to stop the awful noise."
"Huh." John just stared at Sherlock, who actually appeared to be smiling at the baby.
There's an unfamiliar note of tenderness in his voice when he speaks. "I think I'll call him Johann."
John blinked. "Johann?"
"After Bach."
"Sherlock...you can't call him anything! He's already got a name: it's Nicholas!"
Sherlock scowled. "Too pedestrian. I can't think of any noteworthy Nicholas's. Perhaps Nikola, after Tesla." John's brain was just working round to the implications of the current conversation, but Sherlock interrupted. "You did buy milk, didn't you? I imagine he's rather hungry."
From
clare_dragonfly: My reading comprehension is a bit lacking these days. Either that, or I just have Downton Abbey on the brain, because the first time I read this request, I interpreted Mansfield Park as Downton Abbey. Because they totally sound the same. And are set in the same time period. And exist in the same medium. Or...none of those.
So, you get to hear me ramble about my idea for genderswapped Downton Abbey before I get around to your actual request!
Downton Abbey would make a fantastic genderswapped drama if it were set in an alternate reality with a matriarchal society. Just imagine: the Lady of the manor has only sons, and so there comes along Lady Grantham's distant cousin Mary (Matthew), a middle class lawyer from London. In order to keep the estate in the family, everyone hopes she will fall for Matthew (Mary), their pretty eldest son, but his pride and a major indiscretion with a beautiful Turkish diplomat threaten their plans... Would also love to see Simon (Sybil) discovering that he can do things for himself, getting mixed up in politics and attending a Men's Suffrage rally, and Edward (Edith) being constantly looked-over, because he's just not as handsome as his brothers...
But now for Mansfield Park!
It's hard to genderswap historical fiction without also genderswapping the society in which the story is set, because so much of the characters and what they do are defined by the roles of their gender. Downton Abbey, for instance, makes absolutely no sense if you swap the genders of the characters, but don't change the laws of society. If Lord and Lady Grantham had three sons, we never would have even met Matthew. (Or his female equivalent, Mary.)
In a genderswapped Mansfield Park, Fanny (as Frank) would not have to change so much, I don't think: we meet him as a young child, doing what he can to help out his family when there are far too many mouths to feed. However, once he's taken in by his aristocratic relatives, they wouldn't have expected much more of him than they would of a girl: maybe just a bit more shooting. And Latin.
I've never made it much of a secret that I find the Crawfords to be much more interesting than the Bertrams. I've been sitting here trying to think of a scene to write with a genderswapped Edmund and Mary, but a genderswapped Edmund and Mary is pretty much: Fanny and Henry. :P
So I'll conclude this long ramble that doesn't actually include any fic (SORRY!) with this image: a male Fanny deflowering a female Edmund on their wedding night. And I ask you: is your mental picture that much different than if they had retained their original genders?