The Writer They Call Tay (awanderingbard) wrote,
The Writer They Call Tay

WIP Meme

Taken from joonscribble:

Post a fragment from each WIP you have (or as many as you want to pick).

We woud be here for years if we did every WIP I have, so I'll do a few I've been working on most extensively of late. Unedited, please don't judge.

Abby 'verse fic where Gladstone is shot (but is totally okay in the end, it's me, we all know it's basically fluff anyway)

{TRIGGER WARNING for hurt dogs.}

"We need help," Sherlock demanded, in his most imperious voice.

The receptionist calmly pressed a button. A few moments later, some sort of nurse or orderly or whatever they had at animal hospitals came out, and gestured for John to come back with him.

"Sir, I need you to check in," the receptionist called, when Sherlock tried to follow.

John brought Gladstone to a trolley, and laid him on it.

"He's been shot," John explained. "He has an altered LOC, and he's tachypnoeic."

"Right," the man said.

"He's resposive to touch, and his name," John added. "And he's tachycardic, and probably in hypovolemic shock."

"Mate, I move the animals around and clean," the man said. "You ain't even speaking English."

"Sorry," John said. "He's...hurt. He's been shot and he's hurt."

"Yeah, figured," the man said.

"Thanks for your input, Trevor," a woman said, coming down the corridor. "I'm Dr Habib, sorry about that. Let's see..." she gently lifted Sherlock's scarf. "Okay. Not a through and through. It doesn't look to have hit anywhere vital. We'll take a proper look. What's his name?"

"Gladstone," John said.

"All right," Dr Habib said. "We'll take care of him. He's definitely top of the triage list. Please go back to the waiting area, and we'll keep you updated."

John hesitated in leaving Gladstone alone. It was like leaving Abby alone when she was sick. They weren't adults. They had to have a parent with them. They'd be scared. John rubbed Gladstone's neck.

"You're a good boy," he said. "Be a good boy, okay? Good boy."

Trevor rolled the trolley down the corridor. John went back to the waiting room, where Sherlock was talking with the receptionist.

"He's a dog, he doesn't have a surname!"

Well, yelling at the receptionist might be a better way to put it.

"Your surname, sir, then," she said.

"Holmes," Sherlock said.

She tapped at her keyboard. "How old is the patient?"

"I don't know that one," Sherlock said. "Next question."

"All right," the receptionist said, gamely. "Residence?"

"Mine or the dog's?" Sherlock asked.

"Are they different?" the receptionist asked.

"Sometimes," Sherlock said.

"Okay, we'll come back to that," the receptionist said. "When did the complaint start?"

"When he was shot!" Sherlock said. "He was hardly bleeding to death before then!"

"Sir, please remain calm," the receptionist said.

"I am calm," Sherlock snapped. "I am always calm." He stopped, and reflected. "I'm sorry, I am a little uncalm. Repeat your question."

"When was he shot?" the receptionist said.

Sherlock looked at his watch. "Seven minutes here, plus...time we spent at the flat, and he was there for...that would be...approximately nineteen minutes ago," he said. "Possibly twenty, I didn't get a good look at the blood spatter to see how dry it was."

"All right," the receptionist said. "Any previous complaints?"

"I don't--he's never been shot before," Sherlock said.

John stepped in here, remembering now that he actually knew all this information, and he didn't have to stand there and watch Sherlock flounder with it. "Hi, sorry, I'm Gladstone's co-owner," he said. "I can answer your questions, I think."

Trio verse fic where one of the cousins is missing (aka 'how did this turn into five chapters and counting?')

"We'll go to his [Lysander's] home here first," Sherlock declared, as they left the Diogenes Club. "He may have left a clue to what he was doing. He didn't contact you while he was here, did he?"

"No," Q said. "Not as far as I know, he might have tried but didn't get through for some reason. You?"

Sherlock shook his head. He flagged down a cab and hopped in, pulling down the backwards facing seat for himself. Q followed in behind him.

"Do you want to ring John?" Q asked.

"This is family business," Sherlock said. "He has enough secrets of mine to keep for now. You'll have to be John."

"I don't want to be John," Q said.

Sherlock gave an odd little laugh that Q thought might be affectionate. "'I don't want to be the First Mate, when do I get to be the Captain, Sherlock'?" he said, in what Q suspected was a very accurate mimic of his childhood voice.

"When do I get to be the captain?" Q asked.

"Never," Sherlock replied, as he always had.

Q grinned. "When did you last see Ly?" he asked.

Sherlock's smile dimmed a little. "When I was dead," he said. "I used his flat in Paris for half a day or so. I haven't seen him since. He e-mails sometimes. I never remember to reply."

This, if they were normal sort of people, would have been the time when Q would lean forward and say 'don't worry, we'll find him'. However, as they were not normal people, Q didn't. Because they might not find him, and if they did, he might not be alive, and Sherlock wouldn't want Q to imply he was worried about any of this. So, Q nodded sagely, and was grateful when his phone told him that he had several new e-mails from Mycroft. He'd sent all the data about Lysander. Q took his laptop out of his bag to look at it on a bigger screen.

"How are you getting a Wi-Fi signal on the move?" Sherlock asked.

Q undid one of his cuffs to show him his medical alert bracelet. "I have a hotspot in it," he said. "Work makes me wear it, so I thought I might as well make it do something useful."

Sherlock frowned in a 'huh' manner of approval. "Do you not have a spleen?" he said, reading the engraving.

"No, Sherlock, I don't," Q said.

"But you did at some point?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," Q said.

Sherlock nodded as though this was confirmation of a theory. "I thought so," he said.

"What a good big brother you are to know that I was born with a spleen," Q said. "I swear, you're going to win the trophy this year. Mycroft doesn't stand a--ouch!" His laptop lid had closed down on his fingers.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Sherlock said, innocently. "I didn't mean to do that. You should have the hinge checked; it's very sensitive."

Loki and Thor growing up with daemons fic

The door to the sick chambers opened, and Loki entered. He had been spared the illness, though all the other children of Thor's acquaintance had been struck by it. Galdra flew ahead of him, and landed next to Svana on the bed, offering a 'quork' hello in her raven's voice. Svana flopped over sideways and looked woebegone.

"I have brought you some more books, brother," Loki said.

"I grow tired of reading," Thor grumbled. "I have too many books already."

Loki hopped up on the foot of the bed, crossing his legs beneath him. "There is no such thing," he said. He handed the pile forward. "Are you feeling no better at all?"

"No," Thor said. "Are you not in the least ill?"

"No," Loki said. "I feel fine."

Thor hated Loki more than anything in the world at that moment. "I do not understand how you could have avoided it when all of us are sick," he said.

Loki shrugged. "Mother says I must be very strong," he said. Galdra puffed her chest in pride. Svana knocked her over with her paw. "Are you not going to even look at the books? I chose them for you. I chose my favourite ones."

Thor half-heartedly looked through the selection. They looked interesting enough, but he was bored of books. He wanted to be on his feet again. "I suppose it must be very quiet for you, you must be able to read all day long," he said.

"Not all day," Loki said. "I have been out with Father quite a bit. He's ordered me a new saddle for Skuggamynd. He said he did not realize the state my old one was in, and that I should have had a new one sooner. We have been out riding through the city, to oversee the repairs to the lower town. And he's been working with me on my quarterstaff skills."

Thor had hoped that Loki was having no fun without him, and did not enjoy hearing this account. Loki looked almost pleased. Svana would later point out that perhaps Loki was merely happy that he had time alone with Father, not that Thor was ill, but at the moment Thor felt it was quite the latter and not the former.

"Well, I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," Thor said.

"It's quite boring, really," Loki said, not quite believably. "But these are the sorts of things we need to know about, to be good rulers." He crawled up the bed a little and took back one of the books. "I don't know why I bothered being clever, I should have known you wouldn't look properly." He opened up the cover and then shoved several pages to one side, revealing that the middle had been cut out to make a hiding spot. "I snuck into the kitchens before I came. I stole a snúður right out from under Andhrímnir's nose."

Thor felt a spark of hope. "They have me on prisoner's rations," he said. "I haven't been fed anything good since I fell ill. Nothing with a flavour at all."

Loki handed the pastry over. "That was freshly made," he said. "I sent Galdra in to pretend to steal a loaf of rúgbrauð, and, while Andhrímnir watched Harith chase her off, I snuck a snúður off the cooling rack. They were only just iced."

Galdra hopped up and down with glee at their cleverness, and Svana let out a soft, tired titter. Thor took a bite and it was the most delicious snúður he'd ever eaten. Even Svana's face smiled at the warmth of it on his tongue.

"Thank you," Thor said, feeling somewhat chagrined at thinking Loki had been out for himself while Thor was ill.

Loki grinned. "It was fun," he said.

Trio Verse where Bond is shot and winds up at Baker Street

Bond awoke properly to the sun shining through the curtains. John was missing; Sherlock sat in a chair, his legs over the arm, reading. The laptop had been moved to another chair, and though the video feed was still open, the view was only of the painting in Q's office. It had belonged to the old Quartermaster, and survived the blast at M16 that had killed him. It was more of a tribute than anything the new Q would favour; far too old-fashioned for the very technophilic boy that now ran the department.

"He's gone to deal with something," Sherlock said. "Something's blown up somewhere in Africa. Apparently it's important. He told me if you woke up to assure you that you hadn't been forgotten."

"How do you know him?" Bond asked.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said.

"No one speaks to him like you do," Bond said. "No one refuses to do what he tells them to."

"Do they not? That's adorable," Sherlock said, with fake glee.

"His underlings respect him too much to talk back to him," Bond said. "And you aren't above him in rank, because I don't know you, and I've met everyone in the upper echelons. You're not an agent, you aren't discreet enough for that. You have to be someone he trusts, someone MI6 trusts, but who isn't employed officially. He uses your first name; he never remembers names. You have to be someone he respects. You must have known him before he was Quartermaster."

Sherlock gave him an amused smirk. "You have a brain," he said. "Look at that. I thought 00's were all mindless killing machines."

"Someone has to pull a trigger," Bond said. "It helps if you're smart enough to know the best way to do it. You didn't answer my question."

"I didn't," Sherlock agreed. "And I won't. But, points for effort. I suggest you save your energy for what's ahead, and stop using it to ask stupid questions."
Tags: memeage

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