While I’m bemoaning my newfound inability to write, I may as well share a few uncut gems I’ve found lurking in the depths of my WIPs folder while searching for something I can manage to work on.
Here’s a li’l bit of Bondlock I started in response to somebody’s (now-lost) prompt, and then realized wasn’t going anywhere because it would end up turning into yet-another-novel-I-can’t-finish.
***
It wasn’t that John was unhappy to see James. The man was an old and dear friend. They’d saved each other’s lives more than a couple of times, back in the day; on occasion, each other’s sanity too.
But James was dangerous in a way even Sherlock wasn’t. Never mind Mycroft and his grand proclamations; you’d never seen a battlefield till you worked an op with James Bond. You’d also never seen anyone drive a tank through the wall of a historic landmark, threaten a battleship with a robotic octopus, or destroy an enemy base by jamming a cargo plane loaded with a shipment of bombs down the mouth of the inert volcano it was hidden in.
It was fair to say John wasn’t in the mood.
John hurled himself into a chair and pressed a hand to his face. ”So you’ve heard about Sherlock.”
“I did.” James watched him from the sofa, cold blue eyes strangely compassionate. “I remember what you were like. You always did get dangerously attached.”
John slapped his hand down on the arm of the chair. “I’m a doctor! I’m supposed to care about human life!”
“You like to live dangerously.” James raised an eyebrow. “There’s not much more dangerous than wearing your heart on your sleeve. And I see it’s still there.” He pushed himself to his feet and went into the kitchen. John watched him move like he owned the place, already familiar with the contents of all the cabinets and drawers, as he pulled out two glasses and fetched the good scotch from the corner where John kept it hidden from scientific depredation.
Had kept it hidden. No need to tuck it away anymore. He swallowed.
James walked back over to him, hips swinging with that swagger that went far beyond cocky and into the realm of almost psychopathic arrogance. It was so familiar his heart twinged. Apparently John had a type. He took the offered alcohol and washed down the memories with it.
“I’m not here just to check on you,” James told him, looking down at him over the rim of his tumbler. “Someone like you hardly needs someone like me to take care of you. I was asked to come.”
John frowned and tore his eyes from the glint of light through the amber liquid. Who was there who would ask James to come visit him?
Mycroft? John’s eyes narrowed, about to snap out his thoughts on that before James cut him off.
“I have a job offer for you.”