Sherlock/Gen Kill Fic: Balls of Steel
Nov. 29th, 2010 11:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
out_thereTitle: Balls of Steel
Fandom: Sherlock/Generation Kill
Rating: R but only for language
Word Count: 1,358
Notes: Thanks tooxoniensis for betaing and suggesting the title.
Summary:
"Typical organisation bullshit. If you need to unfuck a situation, send in the Marines. Wounded convoy needed a guard and apparently we had nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of limey idiots too stupid to remember the 'don't get fucking shot' rule of enemy engagement."
Brad nods, adding, "That's how we met John. And we're friends because of his huge cock."
Sherlock closes the door of 221B Baker Street behind him, and listens to the voices upstairs. It's a quiet, polite conversation, voices pitched too low for the words to be understood, but he knows the sound of John's voice and Mrs Hudson's reply. A third voice enters the conversation (male, standing near the couch from the way the sound travels) as Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time.
The most common reason for visitors is case-related but as soon as Sherlock steps into the room, he knows these are John's guests, not his. There are two of them (one with dark hair and dark eyes, average height; one tall with light brown hair and blue eyes) but it's what they have in common that tells the story. Short military haircuts and the straight-backed posture of soldiers. Honey-brown tan lines at their wrists, one hand darker than the other, suggesting a lot of time spent in half-shade or travelling in a vehicle. The tan fades at their temples and hairlines, suggesting a helmet was worn (a hat, even with a small brim, would offer more protection from the sun).
"You served in Afghanistan," Sherlock says, because they've served overseas in hot weather and they've come to visit John, so it's a fair assumption.
"This is Sherlock," John says. "We share the flat."
The shorter one lifts an eyebrow mockingly, but he doesn't say anything. It's the taller one who turns to Mrs Hudson, saying, "It's a lovely flat, ma'am." Sherlock doesn't pay any attention to Mrs Hudson's reply; he's too busy thinking about the man's American accent. Certainly, there were international forces sent to Afghanistan but it makes no sense for a British doctor to be visited by American soldiers.
Sherlock's curious.
When Mrs Hudson retreats downstairs to her flat, the taller one introduces himself as Brad and adds, "Ray and I are over here for training. We had a few days libo in London before it starts and thought we'd catch up with John here."
The shorter one – Ray – elbows John. It's a sharp movement that would cause discomfort if not pain, but John doesn't frown or complain. He grins and gives Ray a friendly shove back.
"What's up, homes? You promised if we ever came to this commie-loving city, you'd show us a good time. And the number for that vodka-swilling rugmuncher sister of yours," Ray says, barely stopping for breath. "Come on, we both love booze, we both love pussy, what more do you need for a long-term relationship?"
"More than one of you willing to touch your dick," Brad replies.
John laughs. (Not the reaction Sherlock was expecting. John's usually far more protective of Harry, defending her even when it's clearly a lie.) "Did you sleep on the plane at all, Ray?"
"Not a minute." Ray reaches his hands out in front of him (calluses on the first two fingers of each hand, Sherlock notes; lots of time spent using both hands equally) and mimes driving. "It's the vibrations on the plane. I start to drift and then I think Brad here's going to punch me for falling asleep at the wheel. He gets pissy about stupid shit like that."
"If I die in combat," Brad says, "I'd like the enemy to kill me. Call it a personal preference."
"What? Like Ray-Ray here isn't good enough to kill your middle-class, fake-Jew ass? Please. I'm a fucking death-dealing marine. You'd be lucky to have someone as good as me shoot you down where you fucking stand."
Sherlock looks to John for a reaction. He's seen John in action (quiet and serious with a gun) and he's seen John as a doctor (careful, considerate, so polite and friendly that Sherlock doubts any patient would believe him capable of shooting a man). John enjoys danger and cares about hostages, but John rarely swears and tries not to offend. These aren't the type of friends Sherlock expected him to have.
But John's clearly glad to have them visit. "We need to get you out of here before my landlady hears any of that. I can't afford to move."
They start heading towards the stairs and Sherlock grabs his coat. John raises an eyebrow and says, "Are you coming, Sherlock? It's likely to be war stories and it's really not going to get any less offensive."
John says it casually, like it doesn't matter, but he looks a little hopeful. John's giving him an excuse not to come, Sherlock realises, even though John's happy for him to join them. He's trying to be considerate. "I think it would be interesting to observe soldiers communicating amongst themselves."
"Aw, man! Did you hear that?" Ray asks from the stairs, looking from Brad to John with a wounded expression. "He called me 'soldier'! We come all the way over here, through pissing rain and fucking ridiculous accents - we don't even stop at a titty-bar on the way - just to be called a soldier."
"Sherlock, they're Recon Marines. It's a point of pride," John explains carefully, but there's a smile hiding in his expression. "And Ray, we're British. Our toughest nuts come through army ranks so take it as a fucking compliment. You're nowhere near as good as an English soldier."
"Now that's sorted," Brad says, with a long-suffering look towards Ray, "let's go find somewhere with alcohol where we can talk without John getting kicked out of his home."
At the pub, John orders Guinness for all of them. When he brings them to the table, Sherlock eyes his distastefully but John grins at him and moves Sherlock's just a bit closer to his.
Ray's distaste is far more verbal. "What the fuck, homes? I'm not drinking beer the colour of shit. Everybody knows English drink warm, disgusting beer and I'm prepared for the warm part -- I am happy to drink it just below boiling if that's what it takes to get trashed over here -- but I'm not drinking anything that colour. That's not right."
"It's Guinness," Brad and John reply at the same time, and Brad follows with, "Just drink it, Ray."
John seems completely at home with the complaints and insults. It's quite fascinating. "How did you become friends?" Sherlock asks.
John's caught by the need to swallow, and Ray jumps in, "Typical organisation bullshit. If you need to unfuck a situation, send in the Marines. Wounded convoy needed a guard and apparently we had nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of limey idiots too stupid to remember the 'don't get fucking shot' rule of enemy engagement."
Brad nods, adding, "That's how we met John. And we're friends because of his huge cock."
Sherlock blinks. He's almost certain that's metaphorical, not literal. Almost. "Really?"
Ray nods, almost bouncing in his seat. "Yeah, here we are, stuck in the desert with a bunch of guys we don't know. I introduce myself and make some polite conversation--"
"You insulted my entire country," John interrupts.
"I did not!"
Brad snorts. "Starting a conversation with, and I quote," he says, making air quotations with his fingers, "How is it you limey motherfuckers managed to colonialise most of the civilised world, and yet you're still known for your fucking terrible teeth? We took over running our country like two hundred years ago so that must have given you enough free time to at least figure out the basics of brushing and flossing, right?"
"And John here says," Ray hitches his thumb towards John, "'It's not as important to us.' So I ask why not, because a basic sense of hygiene really should be important to everyone, and he says, 'American guys need white teeth and big smiles to attract girls, we don't.'"
"And when Ray inevitably asks why," Brad says. He ignores Ray's spluttered comment ("Hey, I'm just curious and stupid. Makes me a perfect Marine.") and continues, "John says, 'We don't need great smiles, we all have huge cocks.' From that moment on, Ray was infatuated."
Ray smiles wide and pleased. "Balls of steel and a huge cock. How could I not fall in love with that?"
Fandom: Sherlock/Generation Kill
Rating: R but only for language
Word Count: 1,358
Notes: Thanks to
oxoniensis for betaing and suggesting the title.Summary:
"Typical organisation bullshit. If you need to unfuck a situation, send in the Marines. Wounded convoy needed a guard and apparently we had nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of limey idiots too stupid to remember the 'don't get fucking shot' rule of enemy engagement."
Brad nods, adding, "That's how we met John. And we're friends because of his huge cock."
Sherlock closes the door of 221B Baker Street behind him, and listens to the voices upstairs. It's a quiet, polite conversation, voices pitched too low for the words to be understood, but he knows the sound of John's voice and Mrs Hudson's reply. A third voice enters the conversation (male, standing near the couch from the way the sound travels) as Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time.
The most common reason for visitors is case-related but as soon as Sherlock steps into the room, he knows these are John's guests, not his. There are two of them (one with dark hair and dark eyes, average height; one tall with light brown hair and blue eyes) but it's what they have in common that tells the story. Short military haircuts and the straight-backed posture of soldiers. Honey-brown tan lines at their wrists, one hand darker than the other, suggesting a lot of time spent in half-shade or travelling in a vehicle. The tan fades at their temples and hairlines, suggesting a helmet was worn (a hat, even with a small brim, would offer more protection from the sun).
"You served in Afghanistan," Sherlock says, because they've served overseas in hot weather and they've come to visit John, so it's a fair assumption.
"This is Sherlock," John says. "We share the flat."
The shorter one lifts an eyebrow mockingly, but he doesn't say anything. It's the taller one who turns to Mrs Hudson, saying, "It's a lovely flat, ma'am." Sherlock doesn't pay any attention to Mrs Hudson's reply; he's too busy thinking about the man's American accent. Certainly, there were international forces sent to Afghanistan but it makes no sense for a British doctor to be visited by American soldiers.
Sherlock's curious.
When Mrs Hudson retreats downstairs to her flat, the taller one introduces himself as Brad and adds, "Ray and I are over here for training. We had a few days libo in London before it starts and thought we'd catch up with John here."
The shorter one – Ray – elbows John. It's a sharp movement that would cause discomfort if not pain, but John doesn't frown or complain. He grins and gives Ray a friendly shove back.
"What's up, homes? You promised if we ever came to this commie-loving city, you'd show us a good time. And the number for that vodka-swilling rugmuncher sister of yours," Ray says, barely stopping for breath. "Come on, we both love booze, we both love pussy, what more do you need for a long-term relationship?"
"More than one of you willing to touch your dick," Brad replies.
John laughs. (Not the reaction Sherlock was expecting. John's usually far more protective of Harry, defending her even when it's clearly a lie.) "Did you sleep on the plane at all, Ray?"
"Not a minute." Ray reaches his hands out in front of him (calluses on the first two fingers of each hand, Sherlock notes; lots of time spent using both hands equally) and mimes driving. "It's the vibrations on the plane. I start to drift and then I think Brad here's going to punch me for falling asleep at the wheel. He gets pissy about stupid shit like that."
"If I die in combat," Brad says, "I'd like the enemy to kill me. Call it a personal preference."
"What? Like Ray-Ray here isn't good enough to kill your middle-class, fake-Jew ass? Please. I'm a fucking death-dealing marine. You'd be lucky to have someone as good as me shoot you down where you fucking stand."
Sherlock looks to John for a reaction. He's seen John in action (quiet and serious with a gun) and he's seen John as a doctor (careful, considerate, so polite and friendly that Sherlock doubts any patient would believe him capable of shooting a man). John enjoys danger and cares about hostages, but John rarely swears and tries not to offend. These aren't the type of friends Sherlock expected him to have.
But John's clearly glad to have them visit. "We need to get you out of here before my landlady hears any of that. I can't afford to move."
They start heading towards the stairs and Sherlock grabs his coat. John raises an eyebrow and says, "Are you coming, Sherlock? It's likely to be war stories and it's really not going to get any less offensive."
John says it casually, like it doesn't matter, but he looks a little hopeful. John's giving him an excuse not to come, Sherlock realises, even though John's happy for him to join them. He's trying to be considerate. "I think it would be interesting to observe soldiers communicating amongst themselves."
"Aw, man! Did you hear that?" Ray asks from the stairs, looking from Brad to John with a wounded expression. "He called me 'soldier'! We come all the way over here, through pissing rain and fucking ridiculous accents - we don't even stop at a titty-bar on the way - just to be called a soldier."
"Sherlock, they're Recon Marines. It's a point of pride," John explains carefully, but there's a smile hiding in his expression. "And Ray, we're British. Our toughest nuts come through army ranks so take it as a fucking compliment. You're nowhere near as good as an English soldier."
"Now that's sorted," Brad says, with a long-suffering look towards Ray, "let's go find somewhere with alcohol where we can talk without John getting kicked out of his home."
At the pub, John orders Guinness for all of them. When he brings them to the table, Sherlock eyes his distastefully but John grins at him and moves Sherlock's just a bit closer to his.
Ray's distaste is far more verbal. "What the fuck, homes? I'm not drinking beer the colour of shit. Everybody knows English drink warm, disgusting beer and I'm prepared for the warm part -- I am happy to drink it just below boiling if that's what it takes to get trashed over here -- but I'm not drinking anything that colour. That's not right."
"It's Guinness," Brad and John reply at the same time, and Brad follows with, "Just drink it, Ray."
John seems completely at home with the complaints and insults. It's quite fascinating. "How did you become friends?" Sherlock asks.
John's caught by the need to swallow, and Ray jumps in, "Typical organisation bullshit. If you need to unfuck a situation, send in the Marines. Wounded convoy needed a guard and apparently we had nothing better to do than babysit a bunch of limey idiots too stupid to remember the 'don't get fucking shot' rule of enemy engagement."
Brad nods, adding, "That's how we met John. And we're friends because of his huge cock."
Sherlock blinks. He's almost certain that's metaphorical, not literal. Almost. "Really?"
Ray nods, almost bouncing in his seat. "Yeah, here we are, stuck in the desert with a bunch of guys we don't know. I introduce myself and make some polite conversation--"
"You insulted my entire country," John interrupts.
"I did not!"
Brad snorts. "Starting a conversation with, and I quote," he says, making air quotations with his fingers, "How is it you limey motherfuckers managed to colonialise most of the civilised world, and yet you're still known for your fucking terrible teeth? We took over running our country like two hundred years ago so that must have given you enough free time to at least figure out the basics of brushing and flossing, right?"
"And John here says," Ray hitches his thumb towards John, "'It's not as important to us.' So I ask why not, because a basic sense of hygiene really should be important to everyone, and he says, 'American guys need white teeth and big smiles to attract girls, we don't.'"
"And when Ray inevitably asks why," Brad says. He ignores Ray's spluttered comment ("Hey, I'm just curious and stupid. Makes me a perfect Marine.") and continues, "John says, 'We don't need great smiles, we all have huge cocks.' From that moment on, Ray was infatuated."
Ray smiles wide and pleased. "Balls of steel and a huge cock. How could I not fall in love with that?"
