Title: Eggs
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Gen
Length: 1055
Content Notes: Metafic, John writes fanfic, AU, fluff, crack.
Summary: Sherlock interrupts while John is trying to decide what kind of eggs his fictional characters, Surecock Bones and Doctor Wantsome, have for breakfast.
Scrambled. Fluffy. Yellow-white. Leaning forward. Offering. Accepting. Feeding. Lips closing around fork.
Yes, scrambled.
Or maybe sunny side-up? Bright yellow yolks surrounded by white. Sliding onto a plate.
Or maybe—
“John.”
“ARGH!”
John started so violently that for a moment his entire body lost contact with the armchair. His laptop made an ominous clunk-clunk as it tumbled to the floor. “You said you were going to the lab!” he cried.
Sherlock plopped down in his armchair and crossed his legs. “I did. Five hours ago.”
John glanced at his watch, then murmured, “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s not the one about the aluminum crutch,” said Sherlock, nodding at fallen laptop.
John scooped the computer up and hugged it to his chest. “There’s been a bit of lull in cases so I branched out, into transformative works.”
“With a character named Surecock Bones whatever could you be transforming?”
“It’s fiction!”
“Obviously. So, pray tell, what scintillating plot point regarding Mister Bones and his companion, Doctor…?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Wantsome,” John supplied.
“Really, John? Okay, what has you so stymied about this cleverly named duo?”
“You mean you can’t deduce it?!” snapped John.
“Bricks and clay, John,” said Sherlock gently, his arms open in a gesture of mock surrender. “Please.”
John eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well if you must know, the particular genre I am working in is called PWP. The last two letters stand for ‘without plot’ or ‘what plot?’—“
“And the first?”
“There are two schools of thought.” John pressed his lips together.
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “So what non-plot point has you so enthralled that you miss the passing of an entire morning and my not-very-silent, not-very-pleasant-smelling arrival?”
John started again when he realised that Sherlock must have just showered as his hair was still slightly damp. And he’d thought he’d been alone in the flat! Stunned, he blurted out the truth.
“It’s about eggs.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched. He motioned for John to continue.
“I’m trying to decide what kind of eggs they have for breakfast.”
“Is it important?”
“Not really. Although you never know. It might end up representing something else, something pithier.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock dryly.
“If you’re just going to mock, then delete it!” John rose. “Not all of us elect to use our spare time diddling eyeballs or livers!”
“Speaking of which,” said Sherlock, “why don’t we do an experiment? We have eggs. And I’ve worked up a ravenous appetite at the lab. Why I could exterminate at least four!”
John studied his face for signs of ridicule, but finding none, conceded.
---
“Must it be eggs, John? Not, say, just tea and toast.”
“No. They’ve spent all night having vigorous sexual intercourse, so heartier fare is required.”
“Ah, yes. Protein.”
“Exactly. Of course, everyone makes scrambled eggs differently. Mine may be too dry. Here.” He pushed the yellow-white mass onto a plate. Then he placed the plate and two forks before Sherlock. “The nice thing about scrambled eggs is that you can do this.” He offered Sherlock a forkful. Sherlock leaned forward and ate. “See? Intimate. Romantic. And they’re simple. Even Doctor Wantsome could make them.”
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Does Mister Bones return the favour?”
John’s eyes drifted, but his hand continued to offer bit after bit of egg to Sherlock as he spoke. “He’s the Alpha, so probably not.”
“And Doctor Wantsome is a…beta?”
John laughed. “No, no. Doctor Wantsome is an Omega. They live in an alternate universe of secondary genders. Tea?”
Sherlock hummed.
“Omegas and Alphas give off pheromones that attract one another. Omegas go into heat, and they mate with Alphas. Sunny side-
up.”
“Interesting way of mating.”
“No. That’s the other way of eggs I was considering.” John washed and dried the pan. “Want some more?”
“Absolutely.”
---
“See? So pretty.” John slid the pair of eggs onto Sherlock’s plate. “The drawback is,” John cut across one egg; the yolk oozed.
“Not as pretty,” said Sherlock.
“No. And now you need toast to sop up the runny bit. Toast?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“But you aren’t writing a script, John, no matter how vivid and appealing you wish your descriptions to be.”
“True.”
“So Doctor Wantsome goes into heat?”
“Yes, his heat suppressant fail. Exceedingly common occurrence in this universe. Here’s your toast.”
“Thank you.”
“And they have pheromone-fuelled sex all night and then there’s the morning after and the big question: should they bond?
Dum-dum-DUM!”
“Which they decide over eggs.”
“Yes. Poached isn’t right. Neither are hard-boiled or soft-boiled.”
“No?”
“The cracking.” John made a tapping motion with his spoon. “And the oozing. They’ve had quite enough oozing. Omegas have
self-lubricating orifices.”
“Indeed. A frittata would be…”
“Pretentious. And not something Doctor Wantsome would be able to make.”
“But an omelette?”
John’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open for a moment. “Yes! We have three eggs left. And some mushrooms.” He turned back toward the refrigerator. “And a bit of spinach. And some tomatoes.”
“Those aren’t tomatoes.”
“No tomatoes. Okay, I think this might be perfect.” He began rooting about in the fridge.
“So bonding?” asked Sherlock.
“Involves the Alpha biting the Omega on the neck during heat.”
“Does the Alpha get bitten?”
“Rarely.”
“John.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s problematic, to say the least.”
---
“This is it. They decide to bond over an omelette,” said John as he fed Sherlock the last mouthful. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Doubtful that anyone actually reads your imaginings, John.” Sherlock’s voice was much softer than his words.
“Well, there you’re wrong,” said John as he dropped plates and cutlery in the sink. “My story has two subscribers! That means there are two souls out there,” he gestured to the sitting room windows, “who want to see what happens to my pair.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.”
John grabbed his laptop and headed for the stairs. “Find us a case, then! I’m off to finish the chapter.”
---
“Post a new chapter? Why, yes, I think I do want to post a new chapter! There!”
“John! Case!”
“Just in time!”
---
OmegaingMeCrazy left the following comment on Play Me Like a Stradivarius.
John smiled at his phone.
Three!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Gen
Length: 1055
Content Notes: Metafic, John writes fanfic, AU, fluff, crack.
Summary: Sherlock interrupts while John is trying to decide what kind of eggs his fictional characters, Surecock Bones and Doctor Wantsome, have for breakfast.
Scrambled. Fluffy. Yellow-white. Leaning forward. Offering. Accepting. Feeding. Lips closing around fork.
Yes, scrambled.
Or maybe sunny side-up? Bright yellow yolks surrounded by white. Sliding onto a plate.
Or maybe—
“John.”
“ARGH!”
John started so violently that for a moment his entire body lost contact with the armchair. His laptop made an ominous clunk-clunk as it tumbled to the floor. “You said you were going to the lab!” he cried.
Sherlock plopped down in his armchair and crossed his legs. “I did. Five hours ago.”
John glanced at his watch, then murmured, “Jesus Christ.”
“That’s not the one about the aluminum crutch,” said Sherlock, nodding at fallen laptop.
John scooped the computer up and hugged it to his chest. “There’s been a bit of lull in cases so I branched out, into transformative works.”
“With a character named Surecock Bones whatever could you be transforming?”
“It’s fiction!”
“Obviously. So, pray tell, what scintillating plot point regarding Mister Bones and his companion, Doctor…?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Wantsome,” John supplied.
“Really, John? Okay, what has you so stymied about this cleverly named duo?”
“You mean you can’t deduce it?!” snapped John.
“Bricks and clay, John,” said Sherlock gently, his arms open in a gesture of mock surrender. “Please.”
John eyed him for a moment, then shrugged. “Well if you must know, the particular genre I am working in is called PWP. The last two letters stand for ‘without plot’ or ‘what plot?’—“
“And the first?”
“There are two schools of thought.” John pressed his lips together.
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “So what non-plot point has you so enthralled that you miss the passing of an entire morning and my not-very-silent, not-very-pleasant-smelling arrival?”
John started again when he realised that Sherlock must have just showered as his hair was still slightly damp. And he’d thought he’d been alone in the flat! Stunned, he blurted out the truth.
“It’s about eggs.”
Sherlock’s lips twitched. He motioned for John to continue.
“I’m trying to decide what kind of eggs they have for breakfast.”
“Is it important?”
“Not really. Although you never know. It might end up representing something else, something pithier.”
“Of course,” said Sherlock dryly.
“If you’re just going to mock, then delete it!” John rose. “Not all of us elect to use our spare time diddling eyeballs or livers!”
“Speaking of which,” said Sherlock, “why don’t we do an experiment? We have eggs. And I’ve worked up a ravenous appetite at the lab. Why I could exterminate at least four!”
John studied his face for signs of ridicule, but finding none, conceded.
---
“Must it be eggs, John? Not, say, just tea and toast.”
“No. They’ve spent all night having vigorous sexual intercourse, so heartier fare is required.”
“Ah, yes. Protein.”
“Exactly. Of course, everyone makes scrambled eggs differently. Mine may be too dry. Here.” He pushed the yellow-white mass onto a plate. Then he placed the plate and two forks before Sherlock. “The nice thing about scrambled eggs is that you can do this.” He offered Sherlock a forkful. Sherlock leaned forward and ate. “See? Intimate. Romantic. And they’re simple. Even Doctor Wantsome could make them.”
Sherlock swallowed and nodded. “Does Mister Bones return the favour?”
John’s eyes drifted, but his hand continued to offer bit after bit of egg to Sherlock as he spoke. “He’s the Alpha, so probably not.”
“And Doctor Wantsome is a…beta?”
John laughed. “No, no. Doctor Wantsome is an Omega. They live in an alternate universe of secondary genders. Tea?”
Sherlock hummed.
“Omegas and Alphas give off pheromones that attract one another. Omegas go into heat, and they mate with Alphas. Sunny side-
up.”
“Interesting way of mating.”
“No. That’s the other way of eggs I was considering.” John washed and dried the pan. “Want some more?”
“Absolutely.”
---
“See? So pretty.” John slid the pair of eggs onto Sherlock’s plate. “The drawback is,” John cut across one egg; the yolk oozed.
“Not as pretty,” said Sherlock.
“No. And now you need toast to sop up the runny bit. Toast?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“But you aren’t writing a script, John, no matter how vivid and appealing you wish your descriptions to be.”
“True.”
“So Doctor Wantsome goes into heat?”
“Yes, his heat suppressant fail. Exceedingly common occurrence in this universe. Here’s your toast.”
“Thank you.”
“And they have pheromone-fuelled sex all night and then there’s the morning after and the big question: should they bond?
Dum-dum-DUM!”
“Which they decide over eggs.”
“Yes. Poached isn’t right. Neither are hard-boiled or soft-boiled.”
“No?”
“The cracking.” John made a tapping motion with his spoon. “And the oozing. They’ve had quite enough oozing. Omegas have
self-lubricating orifices.”
“Indeed. A frittata would be…”
“Pretentious. And not something Doctor Wantsome would be able to make.”
“But an omelette?”
John’s eyes widened and his mouth hung open for a moment. “Yes! We have three eggs left. And some mushrooms.” He turned back toward the refrigerator. “And a bit of spinach. And some tomatoes.”
“Those aren’t tomatoes.”
“No tomatoes. Okay, I think this might be perfect.” He began rooting about in the fridge.
“So bonding?” asked Sherlock.
“Involves the Alpha biting the Omega on the neck during heat.”
“Does the Alpha get bitten?”
“Rarely.”
“John.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s problematic, to say the least.”
---
“This is it. They decide to bond over an omelette,” said John as he fed Sherlock the last mouthful. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Doubtful that anyone actually reads your imaginings, John.” Sherlock’s voice was much softer than his words.
“Well, there you’re wrong,” said John as he dropped plates and cutlery in the sink. “My story has two subscribers! That means there are two souls out there,” he gestured to the sitting room windows, “who want to see what happens to my pair.”
“There’s no accounting for taste.”
John grabbed his laptop and headed for the stairs. “Find us a case, then! I’m off to finish the chapter.”
---
“Post a new chapter? Why, yes, I think I do want to post a new chapter! There!”
“John! Case!”
“Just in time!”
---
OmegaingMeCrazy left the following comment on Play Me Like a Stradivarius.
OMG! So hot! I’ll be in my bunk ;) Love the bit about the omelette! Subscribed!
John smiled at his phone.
Three!
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chasethestars
chasethestars
Comments
Never mind John's descriptions - I love your use of description in this one. It's very visual, considering the fic is mostly John and Sherlock talking to each other. And I love the exchange: "Sunny side-up.” “Interesting way of mating.” ^___^ As well as being very funny, the fic is so sweet - I love how pleased and proud John is at the end when he gets a comment and another subscriber ^_^
Thank you. Omegaverse really is quite ridiculous when you try to explain it in black-and-white. And I wanted Sherlock to be fundamentally kind in this one. He is interested and he does want to help. And there's a bit of flirtation that might lead to something, but I'm not in the mood to contemplate that right now.
And aren't we all tickled when you get that new subscriber? It's the best!