fiception

how meta is carry on fanfiction though

like the Simon Snow series has a lot of deep Harry potter parallels and feels like (and probably is) is based off of it

and then carry on simon is fanfiction of simon snow

and then we have fanfiction of carry on simon 

which is like like fanfiction of fanfiction of fanfiction

AU for Two Two One Bravo Baker, Ch. 22

I don’t have LJ or AO3, so all fic is going to go here. 
This is a little angsty ficlet I wrote a while ago as a companion to AQ’s wonderful universe. This is not what’s going to happen in Ch. 22, but there’s been a hiatus in that story and with hiatus comes fanfic. As we all know.
Many thanks to suchanadorer and abundantlyqueer for the feedback and the OK.

They find an old bombed-out garage in what’s left of a village a mile or so away. The building is still solid, though part of roof and the front wall are scattered around the street. The wall gives decent though uneven cover, and it’s the closest thing to a safe structure in the area. Anyone living in the village has wisely moved on by now, so after a brief patrol through town they set up camp under the remains of the garage’s concrete roof. No one says much as the sky begins to turn red.

John has settled down with some maps he’s already memorized, Henn kneeling beside him re-asking the same questions. Sherlock listens halfheartedly and watches the two of them. Suddenly, a crash comes from the back of the building. The three grab their guns and rush out in time to see Blackwood heave another cinderblock over his head and launch it at the back wall.

“Blackwood, what the fuck?” Henn half-whispers, eyes darting down the darkened back street as the cement bounces off the wall and cracks in half.

Blackwood runs an arm across his face and turns to them, his lips a tight, white line. He shoves past them into the building as Henn begins to pace the area, gun to his shoulder.

“Henn. Hey, Henn, it’s all right. It’s fine.” John motions Henn back inside with a cock of his head, noticing the over-wideness of his eyes. Henn drops the gun to his side and obeys, jaw set and eyes unblinking. 

“I’ll take first watch,” he says, staring at John as if daring him to pull rank.

“I think we’ll probably eat first, Henn. Still pretty light, don’t you think?” Sherlock says cautiously, looking to John for confirmation. John nods, not taking his eyes of the younger man. Henn gives jerks his head once and turns into the alley.

“I’ll do another once-over of the town, then. We might have missed something.”

“Not on your own, you won’t,” says John firmly. “Come back inside.”

“I’ll go with him. It’s fine.” Sherlock looks to John again until he nods again and turns on his heel. They’re only gone about twenty-five minutes, during which time barely a word is spoken by anyone. John hands out MRE packages when they get back and they settle next to the gear. 

They eat in silence, broken once by Blackwood.

“We need to talk about this, John.”

“I know.” John looks older than he has in weeks.

“In the morning,” says Sherlock, with a look that does not welcome discussion. “I’ll take second watch, if that’s all right.” Blackwood looks as if he’s about to argue, then agrees tiredly.

They finish their MREs in silence, without the usual resigned complaining at the quality of the food. On unspoken agreement, they spread their  sleeping bags around the rest of their equipment, forming an uneven square with the wall at one side. Henn spreads his out, then grabs his gun and heads around the rubble to the front of the building. After a minute of silence, John curses, gets up and goes to him, tossing a blanket down beside him. 

“It’s cold,” he says, and Henn nods, taking it without looking away from the darkened street. John stares out at the dark for a moment, then turns to go back inside.

“Hey, Doc,” Henn says, barely more than a whisper. John stops, uncertain. He’d never describe any of the men as small–even taking differences in build or height into account, commandos are not small men–but Henn looks shrunken now, blanket tucked around his knees. John would almost say he looks like a kid, but then he turns his head and his eyes are hollow. “You love him. Holmes.”

“Yeah,” John answers, not hiding his surprise at the question. 

“He loves you back?”

“What does–?”

“Does he know?” And he stares at John with such intensity that he’s almost speechless for a second.

“I– Yeah. Yeah he does.” John waits for an explanation, but Henn doesn’t react, just nods once and turns back to the night. After another second of no response, John heads back inside, feeling uneven.

“How is he?” Blackwood’s voice comes across the pile of gear. 

“I don’t know. It’s going to be tough. I think he–” John trails off, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock shuts his eyes for a moment, grimacing.

“Shit.” Blackwood whispers and scrubs his hands across his face. “Shit, shit, oh shit." John looks to him, looking for something to say.

"George, I don’t–” but Sherlock stops him with a hand on his knee.

“In the morning,” he says, softly, and takes John’s hand to pull him down to their sleeping bags. He curls up with his back to Sherlock’s chest, grabbing his arms hard enough to leave bruises. The position isn’t comfortable, but they both manage to fall asleep.

Two hours later, Henn shakes Sherlock’s arm.

“Holmes, you’re up.”

Sherlock groans and uncurls from the sleeping bag. Henn passes him a gun and turns to his own spot on the ground. Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it and heads outside. John turns over. He can see the top half of Blackwood’s face around the pile of gear, eyes reflecting moonlight. Blackwood flicks his eyes down, where Henn is settling in perpendicular to both of their feet. John nods once. He’ll keep an eye out. Blackwood sighs and closes his eyes. 

John shifts himself just enough so that he can see Henn without being too obvious. Henn tosses and turns for about a half hour, finally lying on his back with the heels of his hands against his eyes. His breathing starts to get uneven and John looks away. When he looks back, Henn has settled on his side with his forehead pressed against his knees. John pretends to be asleep as Henn starts to shake, trying to be silent as he breathes little gasps around his own hands. John straightens back out and finds Blackwood’s eyes again, in the dark. Blackwood’s ask a question, and John shakes his head. Blackwood closes his eyes and John does the same, pretending not to notice as Henn shakes and shakes and finally falls asleep. 

John can’t sleep, however, and once he’s sure Henn is quiet he rises and joins Sherlock in the front of the buildings. Sherlock says nothing, just makes room for him on the shortest part of the half-demolished wall. It’s a tight squeeze, for which both of them are silently grateful. John looks back over his shoulder to where the moonlight illuminates part of their camp. He can just make out Blackwood and Henn, the uneven shadow of the wall reaching across them like fingers. John lets his eyes blur, just for a moment, and it almost looks like wings.