Meme fills

Aug. 14th, 2011 08:21 pm
what_we_dream: (Saiyuuki dance)
[personal profile] what_we_dream
Meme Fills from Aug 10
Series: BBC Sherlock, Saiyuki, Hawaii Five-O
Pairings: Hakkai/Gojyo
Rating: PG

SHERLOCK for [ profile] ningen_demonai.

Sherlock knocks at the dead boy’s rooming house, the two of them standing on the doorstep in the cold November afternoon waiting for the sound of footsteps from inside the cheap set of flats. They come eventually, heavy and brisk, and the door is opened by an older woman with stiff grey hair and a hard face. Her eyes skim over the two of them but her expression doesn’t change.

“Aye?” There’s a long hallway behind her, with a hat stand and half-moon table cluttered with photo frames.

“We’re here to see Landow’s room,” says Sherlock, in his usual abrupt manner.

“Were ye friends of his?” Her thick Scotch burr doesn’t cover the hint of disapproving scepticism in her voice. John is reminded of a pit bull, guarding its territory. Or, more aptly, of a matron protecting one of her charges.

“No; my name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m looking into – ”

The door slams in their faces.

“Smooth,” comments John. Sherlock blinks, and then turns away sharply to begin walking down the street.

“That was unexpected.”

John gives him an are you daft? look. “Not really. She obviously liked the bloke.”

“Obviously?” demands Sherlock. “No pictures of him on the table, no care taken to move his shoes away from the radiator, a wet umbrella shoved in next to his suede jacket, no trace of tears on her face, no apparent distraction in her personal care routines.” He lists the points off rapid-fire, walking so quickly John has to work to keep up.

“People can like people without actively caring for them, Sherlock. Just because they don’t break down at a death doesn’t mean they’ll put up with a stranger poking through their pal’s things.”

The worst part is, he can see Sherlock actively filing the information away, and knows he’ll see it the next time they’re in this situation. Sherlock’s personal interactions come off as slightly awkward to people who don’t know him. To those who do, they look like someone reading a file on the correct course of action to achieved the desired end. He sighs.

“Surely detective work isn’t just about … finding evidence that proves people do or feel things. You have to read them, too.”

Sherlock snorts. “The police expound the need to identify the criminal based on motive. That’s sheer laziness – it’s much easier to build cases based on emotional linkages than by learning to recognize and read the facts correctly.”

“Maybe, but you can’t solve human puzzles without understanding why humans do what they do.”

“Of course you can, if you can see exactly what it is they did and how they did it. Taxi!” He darts into the road, hand raised.


John reminds him of his words the next time he gets slapped in the face; Sherlock pointedly ignores him.

SAIYUKI for [ profile] chomiji

The rain’s coursing down Gojyo’s face so heavily it pours into his open mouth, swilling over his tongue until he spits it out. His hair is stuck to the back of his neck, sliding over his skin like rat-tails while the water runs down it to soak the back of his shirt.

None of that matters, though. Because sprawled on his back on the black cobbles below, Hakkai is staring up at the dark sky, the lightning ripping through the clouds reflected in his lifeless eyes. Gojyo’s straddling his hips, hands crossed and pumping at Hakkai’s chest so hard he can feel the skin of his knees being scraped off by the rough stone even through his pants. Pumping with everything he has, to start Hakkai’s heart.


There won’t be any help this time. The monkey’s lying unconscious in the gutter, energy drained by the Seiten Taisei. Where the fuck Sanzo is is anyone’s guess, but he’s not here and the look on his face as he took off was enough to tell Gojyo he won’t be back anytime soon.


“Goddammit – Hakkai – don’t make me beg –”


He’s gotten better at this. The whole sole-saviour routine, pulling peoples’ asses out of the fire with nothing but his own two hands. There was a time he thought he was incapable of it – incapable of caring for anyone strongly enough to want to.


That indifference seemed like a weakness, then. It still did five minutes ago. In five more, he may be spending all the money he can beg, borrow or steal to find it again in a bottle.


“Breathe – Hakkai – breathe –”


He knows now that he was never broken. He just hadn’t found the right eyes, eyes that spoke his language without ever having met him.

They’re dull as sea-glass, now.


His breaths come in time with the compressions; he can’t tell if he’s panting or choking or sobbing.


“Please – please – please –”


Hakkai jolts beneath him, gives a great, shuddering cough, and blinks.

Gojyo falls back onto his knees, relief coursing like neat alcohol through his veins. It’s a sharper, purer kind of intoxication, cutting straight to his heart. It tells him caring is no weakness; it’s the one thing he needs to live. At least, until next time.

HAWAII FIVE-O for [ profile] ember_reads

Danny doesn’t know what it is that wakes him, whether it’s the acrid smell of smoke or some sound from next door, or just plain luck. For a moment, he’s back in his old college dorm, where waking to the smell of burnt toast was a weekly occurrence. But as he grasps hold of consciousness more firmly he knows college was years ago, and that there’s no one in his apartment to be burning toast.

Throwing off the light covers, Danny turns on the light to see a thin layer of smoke covering the carpet like pre-dawn mist. There’s no crackle of fire, though, no light from the hall. He runs out into the living room in his pyjama pants and finds the same smoke, with no flames. Mind racing, sleep already long forgotten, he lays a cautious hand on the front door. The wood is cool against his palm. He throws it open, and recoils.

Smoke is pouring upwards in thick, oily clouds from below. He can hear the flames here, and feel their heat on his bare chest and face. Taking in a deep breath and holding it, he steps out to the edge of the balcony and looks down.

With the darkness and the smoke it’s hard to judge, but he thinks the furnace-red glow of the fire must be on the second and third floors. Several apartments in the middle of the building are burning; the smoke is unbelievably thick. He can’t see the pale lights of the parking lot below, or of Honolulu beyond.

Danny doesn’t pause to think, he just moves. His apartment is closest to the south stairwell on the seventh floor. He closes the door behind him and heads north along the balcony, pounding on each door.

His building is comprised of small, cheap apartments, mostly inhabited by young families and elderly folks. On his floor he finds two doors ajar and two unresponsive – on holiday, he thinks. Running upstairs, the concrete reassuringly cool under his bare feet, he finds mostly empty apartments and wakes a young man who stares in horror at the waves of smoke rising behind Danny, before bolting for the stairs. Top floor done, Danny heads down.

The sixth floor is hot, but the fifth is hotter still, and he can feel his back baking as he runs along banging on doors and shouting. The smoke is becoming a read danger even in the open air, making his eyes water and his throat burn. He starts coughing at the second door, and can’t stop again.

There are no flames on the fourth floor, although the smoke is so black and thick he can hardly see. He passes the first apartment, empty for weeks, and stumbles on to pound at the second. There’s a noise from inside, a low creaking whine, and acting on instinct rather than thought he puts his shoulder to the door.

The flames inside burst outwards with explosive force, deep red roaring up to vivid blue with a deep whumph sound. Danny’s thrown back into the balcony railing, and drops to the ground, his retinas seared phosphorous-white. He lies there, stunned, for some amount of time he’s unable to measure. Eventually he regains his senses enough to start crawling for the stairs, coughing so hard he can’t keep his eyes open.

Danny knows he’s reached the relative safety of the stairwell when he feels the cool updraft of wind, and pauses on his hands and knees to rest. He’s just starting to pull himself to his feet when the firefighters arrive, charging up the stairwell single file. One peels off to take him firmly by the arm, and escort him down. They hurry past the hungry crackling of flames on the second and third floor, the silent first, and out into the parking lot.

Past the veil of smoke, Danny can see that the lot is a centre of activity. Cars are running all over, trying to pull in or out. People are standing in groups, some talking hysterically, some sobbing, some watching silently. Three ambulances have arrived already, paramedics treating people sitting on stretchers beside them. And, parked away to the side, are a pair of HPD cruisers with their lights flashing. Danny spots a blue uniform in the crowd, and reaches out to grab Dick Paoli. The young beat cop startles at the sight of him.

“Jesus, Williams – what’re you doing here?”

Danny starts to answer, and sets off a coughing fit. The fireman at his side starts to haul him towards the ambulance, and he lets go of Dick’s arm. “Call McGarrett – need a ride –” he manages, before he’s pulled away.

The paramedic is a little harassed-looking man. He makes Danny sit down on a stretcher and breathe from the oxygen mask while he takes Danny’s vitals and examines his face and torso under the beam of a flashlight. Whatever he finds must be satisfactory, because when the next patient is brought out he hurries over to check them, leaving Danny hunched on the stretcher with a tank of oxygen balanced on his knees.

Time gets a bit elastic again. Danny sits alone in the busy lot, watching the firemen pump unending streams of water on the flames as they spread upwards; they’re licking at the fifth floor, now. He knows his apartment is in serious risk, knows the whole building may collapse, and that he’ll lose everything in it. He knows the apartment he broke into on the fourth floor belonged to a family with two small kids who used to ride their bicycles in the parking lot. He knows most of the people around him have just lost everything they own. He knows he should feel something about all of this, but he doesn’t. It’s like looking at a picture of a tragedy – he understands everything in it, but it’s completely removed from him.

Eventually, Danny notices a new set of blue lights pulling into the lot. Turning, he sees the familiar black LTD pulling in past the confusion at the mouth of the lot. He puts the oxygen on the bed beside him and stands, legs slightly shaky but taking his weight without too much protest. Loose stones dig into his bare feet as he crosses towards his boss’s car.

Steve has moved with surprising speed – is already out and moving through the crowd. He clasps Danny’s shoulder hard, and despite the twinge of pain from his seared skin, it’s a welcome contact. “You okay, Danno?” Even with the spotlights and lighting rigs brought by HPD and HFD, Steve is more a collection of shadows than anything else. With most of the lights aimed at the burning building, there’s not a lot of visibility.

“Yeah. Just some smoke. Medics cleared me.” It’s not technically true, but it’s not technically a lie, either.

“Alright. I’m going to check with HPD, see what’s going on. Are you okay to wait in the car?”

“Sure, Steve.” He slips away from Steve’s hand and heads for the car, crossing the pavement gingerly.

The leather seats are cool, and he leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes. Even with the windows closed, he can still hear the crackling of the flames.

Steve’s return startles him out of a kind of deep stupor, not sleep, but not consciousness either. Steve gets in, and turns the engine over. “There’s no clear source for the fire, yet. Definitely second floor, but they’re not sure which apartment. HPD’s starting an arson investigation, until they find out more.” He puts the car into gear and slips through the parking lot, moving slowly past the small groups of residents in their nightclothes. Some are holding bags and boxes, but most are empty-handed. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” says Danny, words catching in his dry throat so that he almost chokes over them. He coughs once, and goes on. “Second and third floors were on fire when I woke up. I checked eight down to five – most people were gone. Four … went up when I checked on it.” He closes his eyes again; the lamp-posts overhead shine bright as the flames in the apartment, each one turning his vision red.

“The fire department think they might save your floor, and the eighth. Five’s a goner, and six doesn’t have much chance either.”

Danny sighs. “Guess it’s just as well I don’t own anything that’s worth anything.”

“Doesn’t means it matters less, Danno,” says Steve, quietly.

“Did they say anything about – about casualties?”

“No confirmed reports. The apartment manager gave a list of confirmed vacant apartments, but some people could have been gone for a couple of days, or out for the night. We’ll know more tomorrow.”


They drive the rest of the way in silence, Danny listening to the fragmented chatter on the box. Most of it’s about the fire.

Steve’s driveway isn’t any better than his apartment’s lot for gravel, but Danny hops hastily over it and onto the doorstep while Steve opens the door and flicks on the hall light. Danny follows him in.

“I’ll get you some fresh clothes, and something for tomorrow – do you want to –” Steve turns, and stops dead in the middle of his sentence. “My God, Danny – you need to see a doctor.”

Danny glances down, and sees that his chest is bright lobster-red, skin peeling in places. There are black char marks here and there, and in the still clean air of Steve’s house he can tell that he stinks of smoke and burnt hair. Running a hand over his head, he finds his hair wiry and dusty with what’s doubtless ash.

“It’s fine – the paramedic took a look at me. Just a light burn.”

“You look like you’ve been out on the beach for a week straight.”

Danny forces a grin – “Nothing I’m not used to.”

“Danno –”

“I’m fine, Steve, really.” He meets Steve’s eye. “I just need some rest.”

Steve stares for a long minute, so long Danny thinks he’s not going to agree, and then sighs. “Alright. But tomorrow you’re going into a clinic.”

“Okay,” Danny agrees, mildly, knowing he’s lucky to have won this minor victory.

“I’ll get you some clothes,” repeats Steve, motioning him towards the guest room. “If you need anything, you know where I am.”

“Sure. Thanks, Steve.”

“Don’t mention it, Danno.”

Date: 2011-08-15 04:16 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Oh My Goodness, I loved this! Danny's pov was so great, I could picture the fire and really enjoyed all of the action. And of course Steve coming to take Danny home was perfect.

So delightful. Thank you so much! :)

(I seriously need a classic 5-0 icon!)

Date: 2011-08-16 02:58 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
I'm just glad there are some old-school 5-Oers on LJ. Rock on :D

(I have yet to find any on the 'net. The quality of the eps I've been watching really doesn't lend itself to iconing, either.)

Date: 2011-08-15 07:30 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Oman, I dunno how you got that outta my prompt but I approve. I love fics delving into how Sherlock ticks. ♥


Date: 2011-08-16 02:56 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
^^ I was going to go with John trying to disabuse Sherlock of the idea he can recognize emotions by memorizing how they work ("what if someone tells you people in love make chicken noises?") but then I didn't. Good story.

Eeeh, fine, although kind of bored. Summertime and all that. Things are slow. How 'bout you?

aaaarg wrong account

Date: 2011-08-16 03:45 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Pfft. ♥

Hahah, hard to find that happy medium of "busy" and "bored", huh. And I'm on the other side of busy, bluh~


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