Mouse
In celebration of this fandom and how much fun I'm having right now, with the May prompts and the fic club, have a bonus ficlet set in my theatre universe . (Another one of my AUs ticked off the list) (short premise for those not familiar: John is a stage manager and Sherlock is an actor. Mary, Molly and Sally are all part of John's crew.)
This is especially for @totallysilvergirl and the members of the Johnlock fic club. You all know why.
Warning, mention of an accidental animal death.
Also, this is loosely based on a true story.
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“What on Earth are you doing?”
“Be quiet,” Molly shushes Sherlock as she drags him through the stage door into the green room area.
“Oh thank god.” John sighs in relief as he sees Sherlock enter the room. “Save me from this madness.”
“Sit back down, Watson, this is all your fault after all!” Mary snaps. She’s pregnant again and the glare she gives him is filled with the homicidal rage of the permanently uncomfortable.
John sits back down and sighs. “Okay, fine. Let’s get this over with.”
Molly pushes Sherlock into a chair. “You be quiet now, we’ll be done in five minutes.”
Molly sits on Mary’s other side on the floor and takes Sally’s hand, completing the circle.
Mary gestures to Molly. “Do you have the object?”
Molly produces the live mousetrap and puts it in the middle of the pentagram Mary has drawn on the floor.
“I hate to repeat myself, but what the actual fuck are you doing?” Sherlock asks, watching them with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.
They all turn their heads in surprise, because they all know how rarely Sherlock swears.
“We’re doing an exorcism,” Molly explains. “John killed a mouse and now we’re haunted.”
“I didn’t, I repeat, DID NOT kill a mouse!” John very nearly yells, sick and tired of this argument.
“You left the live trap open over a bank holiday weekend,” Mary growls. “The bloody mouse sprung it, died of thirst in it, and ever since we’ve had one accident after another. First my fucking brand new moving head blew on its second night, then Molly twisted her ankle, and yesterday you were nearly hit by a stage wall.”
“So did I understand this correctly? You, rational, adult, competent professionals, had a few easily explained accidents and then came to the inevitable conclusion that you’re being haunted by the angry spirit of a common house mouse?” Sherlock asks, steepling his hands under his chin.
“Duh,” Molly mutters, rolling her eyes.
“Anything to say, genius?” Mary asks, glaring at Sherlock in a way that makes John hope that Sherlock will consider the words that come out of his mouth next very, very carefully.
“You need sage,” Sherlock says after a moment of silent contemplation. “And candles.”
“You’re not fucking serious!” John stares at Sherlock as if he’s grown a second head, which would frankly have surprised John just a tiny bit more than the current development. “You’re superstitious? Since when?”
“All actors are superstitious,” Sherlock says, ducking into the tiny theatre kitchen. “It’s the better safe than sorry principle.” He comes back with mixed herb salt and some tealights. “This should do nicely. Budge over.”
He sits between Sally and Molly and takes their hands.
“This must be what going mad feels like,” John mutters, but he takes Mary’s and Sally’s hands and completes the circle.
Mary shushes him and lights the candles. Then she shakes a bit of the salt over the live trap. She turns to John and gestures to the trap. “Now apologise.”
“But I—”
“I said,” Mary says with a smile sharper than a battleax. “Apologise.”
John clears his throat. “Um.” The thing is, he is sorry. He never meant to cause an animal’s death, even indirectly. They only ever use live traps for a reason. But he feels slightly ridiculous all the same.
He knows this is necessary, though. Theatres are places where legends and superstitions and rituals live for generations. Case in point, no theatre person in their right mind would ever refer to the Scottish play by its actual name. Case in point, you never say good luck backstage. This is no different, he knows this.
Of course the knowledge doesn’t stop him from feeling completely ridiculous as he says, “I’m sorry, mouse spirit. I didn’t mean for you to die. Please forgive us and stop haunting our theatre. We’re really sorry.”
He puts a piece of cheese into the trap, and every member of his crew follows suit. Sherlock contributes another sprinkle of the herbal salt, and then Mary, in lieu of setting the trap on fire, which would trigger the smoke alarm, bashes it in with a cricket bat. It’s horribly loud, but the trap is unusable afterwards.
“Be at peace, little mouse,” Molly whispers, and John can see the tears in her eyes.
They all share a long look over the mouse trap, and then they burst out laughing.
“You’re all insane,” Sherlock says, but he’s laughing as well, and there’s a lot of affection in his voice.
“Yup,” John answers, still giggling a bit. This is my crew, he thinks. Dangerously foul-tempered, certifiably insane, scarily silly at times. And I couldn’t love them more for it. He looks at Sherlock, who’s watching him with sparkling eyes and so much unguarded affection, and he smiles. “And you fit right in.”
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Tags under the cut as usual.
@calaisreno @keirgreeneyes @lisbeth-kk @catlock-holmes @peanitbear @meetinginsamarra @friday411 @inevitably-johnlocked
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