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Fic - Subject X - 1/1
Title: Subject X
Author: Evandar
Fandom: MCU/BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel Cinematic Universe or Sherlock and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Mycroft brings Sherlock in to study an individual in his custody. An individual who fell from the sky, and who is more than he appears.
AN: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
misura who won the bid for a fic from me on the 2014 Help Animals charity auction.
This fic is AU after Thor and ignores the events of The Avengers and Thor 2, and Sherlock-wise is set sometime in either Seasons 1 or 2.
He presses his hands palms together and leans forward, resting his chin on the ends of his fingers. The subject of his study returns his look with seeming impassiveness, but Sherlock is Sherlock and he observes - he sees the answering curiosity and the faint flicker of indignation as clear as day.
Believes himself superior, he thinks to himself. Does not like to be watched. Previously treated with suspicion. He narrows his eyes, studies the ends of the stranger’s hands; notes the ink smudges around manicured nails and the pattern of callouses on long fingers. Most likely warranted. Vain, scholarly – writes with a quill and ink, or an old fashioned fountain pen – but callouses imply some skill with small tools. Lockpicks?
He focusses on the vanity. It seems, in all, a little strained. The stains around the fingers imply a natural carelessness; the manicure, the plucked eyebrows, the neatly trimmed hair and the clean-shaven jaw suggest he’s been held to high standards of personal appearance. The clothes he wears - odd - seem designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Desires to appear of a more masculine stature. The stranger’s culture, then – because he’s not entirely disregarding Mycroft’s story about the man dropping out of the sky – is one that values stereotypical masculine traits in its men. This individual, this scholar and thief, is looked down on. Bullied? Almost certainly. Likely aware of the differences between himself and those that surrounded him.
He notes the traces of red around his eyes. The slight hints of scarlet flecks in his green irises are unusual, but the puffiness of the skin beneath them and the bloodshot tint to the sclera is all too familiar.
Emotional trauma in recent past, possibly an instigation of the incident that led to him falling. The connection is made in a split second, a firing of synapses that – for a moment – makes the world come sharply back into focus as Sherlock surprises himself.
He’s adopted. He was the least-favoured child – older…brother. Fits the ideal – but he wasn’t told until recently. Found out by accident? He didn’t fall. He jumped.
He feels a wave of something that might have been sympathy – it’s gone too quickly, shoved down and out of the way of his thought process, for him to tell. Certainly, he knows what it’s like to come in second place – third, if he counts Sherrinford, which his parents almost certainly do – in the sibling rivalry stakes. But to have the familial connection erased?
Altered. It should only have been altered. Why is it erased?
There’s no clue from his subject. Just the same, sullen curiosity that Sherlock has received since he entered the room. Honestly, he thinks he likes this one. He’s not trying to interfere with Sherlock’s studies by prattling endlessly; he would, he thinks, like to hear him speak, however, he’s been mute since he hit the ground.
Trauma. Adoption. He remembers that flicker of indignation. Superiority. Believes himself superior to humans – was raised to believe it. Adopted. Adopted from a different, ‘inferior’ race. Likely suffers from internalised racism due to the atmosphere he grew up in.
He lowers his hands and presses them flat to the table top. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says, and stands. He hesitates a moment. Just a moment, wanting to see if curiosity makes the man speak. It doesn’t. Instead, it’s Sherlock who breaks first, turning once he reaches the door; unable to stop himself from showing off.
He rattles off the list of his observations, aware that Mycroft has a minion behind the mirror recording everything he says right down to the way he says it, but he keeps his gaze locked on the subject. The subject who listens just as closely as Mycroft’s man, but with an expression that’s nothing like anything he’s seen on the people he’s analysed before. Most are offended; John was awed; the subject looks at him with green eyes that are suddenly alive with fury and hatred, and his mouth twists into a rictus grin as sharp as the knife in his gauntlet that Mycroft’s men missed.
“Clever,” the subject purrs, his voice low and deadly-sweet. “To get all that from how I look.” He tilts his head, smile vanishing beneath a haughty look; masculine features melting away in a flare of green light to form a female visage. He raises a hand to trace the neckline of his gown, drawing attention to the way it drapes over his breasts before he shifts again, green light rippling over him to reveal blue skin and markings and blood red eyes. Ice crawls down the legs of his chair, slicking the concrete floor. There’s a tap at the door – urgent; a message to leave immediately. Sherlock ignores it in favour of watching the subject as he changes back to his first form. The ice remains, glittering white. “What do you think I am now?” he asks.
“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathes. He wonders if Mycroft will let him come back, or if the subject will be hidden away from him. Mycroft always did like to keep the fun toys to himself.
But he seems to have said something right, because the glass-fragile expression on the subject’s face softens ever so slightly into something more genuine. There’s another tap at the door, and the subject nods. Regal. Raised in the upper classes, Sherlock thinks as this time, he answers it.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: MCU/BBC Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Gen
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel Cinematic Universe or Sherlock and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: Mycroft brings Sherlock in to study an individual in his custody. An individual who fell from the sky, and who is more than he appears.
AN: Written for
misura who won the bid for a fic from me on the 2014 Help Animals charity auction.This fic is AU after Thor and ignores the events of The Avengers and Thor 2, and Sherlock-wise is set sometime in either Seasons 1 or 2.
He presses his hands palms together and leans forward, resting his chin on the ends of his fingers. The subject of his study returns his look with seeming impassiveness, but Sherlock is Sherlock and he observes - he sees the answering curiosity and the faint flicker of indignation as clear as day.
Believes himself superior, he thinks to himself. Does not like to be watched. Previously treated with suspicion. He narrows his eyes, studies the ends of the stranger’s hands; notes the ink smudges around manicured nails and the pattern of callouses on long fingers. Most likely warranted. Vain, scholarly – writes with a quill and ink, or an old fashioned fountain pen – but callouses imply some skill with small tools. Lockpicks?
He focusses on the vanity. It seems, in all, a little strained. The stains around the fingers imply a natural carelessness; the manicure, the plucked eyebrows, the neatly trimmed hair and the clean-shaven jaw suggest he’s been held to high standards of personal appearance. The clothes he wears - odd - seem designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Desires to appear of a more masculine stature. The stranger’s culture, then – because he’s not entirely disregarding Mycroft’s story about the man dropping out of the sky – is one that values stereotypical masculine traits in its men. This individual, this scholar and thief, is looked down on. Bullied? Almost certainly. Likely aware of the differences between himself and those that surrounded him.
He notes the traces of red around his eyes. The slight hints of scarlet flecks in his green irises are unusual, but the puffiness of the skin beneath them and the bloodshot tint to the sclera is all too familiar.
Emotional trauma in recent past, possibly an instigation of the incident that led to him falling. The connection is made in a split second, a firing of synapses that – for a moment – makes the world come sharply back into focus as Sherlock surprises himself.
He’s adopted. He was the least-favoured child – older…brother. Fits the ideal – but he wasn’t told until recently. Found out by accident? He didn’t fall. He jumped.
He feels a wave of something that might have been sympathy – it’s gone too quickly, shoved down and out of the way of his thought process, for him to tell. Certainly, he knows what it’s like to come in second place – third, if he counts Sherrinford, which his parents almost certainly do – in the sibling rivalry stakes. But to have the familial connection erased?
Altered. It should only have been altered. Why is it erased?
There’s no clue from his subject. Just the same, sullen curiosity that Sherlock has received since he entered the room. Honestly, he thinks he likes this one. He’s not trying to interfere with Sherlock’s studies by prattling endlessly; he would, he thinks, like to hear him speak, however, he’s been mute since he hit the ground.
Trauma. Adoption. He remembers that flicker of indignation. Superiority. Believes himself superior to humans – was raised to believe it. Adopted. Adopted from a different, ‘inferior’ race. Likely suffers from internalised racism due to the atmosphere he grew up in.
He lowers his hands and presses them flat to the table top. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says, and stands. He hesitates a moment. Just a moment, wanting to see if curiosity makes the man speak. It doesn’t. Instead, it’s Sherlock who breaks first, turning once he reaches the door; unable to stop himself from showing off.
He rattles off the list of his observations, aware that Mycroft has a minion behind the mirror recording everything he says right down to the way he says it, but he keeps his gaze locked on the subject. The subject who listens just as closely as Mycroft’s man, but with an expression that’s nothing like anything he’s seen on the people he’s analysed before. Most are offended; John was awed; the subject looks at him with green eyes that are suddenly alive with fury and hatred, and his mouth twists into a rictus grin as sharp as the knife in his gauntlet that Mycroft’s men missed.
“Clever,” the subject purrs, his voice low and deadly-sweet. “To get all that from how I look.” He tilts his head, smile vanishing beneath a haughty look; masculine features melting away in a flare of green light to form a female visage. He raises a hand to trace the neckline of his gown, drawing attention to the way it drapes over his breasts before he shifts again, green light rippling over him to reveal blue skin and markings and blood red eyes. Ice crawls down the legs of his chair, slicking the concrete floor. There’s a tap at the door – urgent; a message to leave immediately. Sherlock ignores it in favour of watching the subject as he changes back to his first form. The ice remains, glittering white. “What do you think I am now?” he asks.
“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathes. He wonders if Mycroft will let him come back, or if the subject will be hidden away from him. Mycroft always did like to keep the fun toys to himself.
But he seems to have said something right, because the glass-fragile expression on the subject’s face softens ever so slightly into something more genuine. There’s another tap at the door, and the subject nods. Regal. Raised in the upper classes, Sherlock thinks as this time, he answers it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
I also loved the way these two characters clashed - how Sherlock's powers of observation do, indeed, even work on Loki, but how Loki in turn has the power to make Sherlock want to talk to him, to impress him, perhaps, even. Which he may or may not have succeeded in.
Thank you so very much for this lovely, shiny fun toy of a possibility!
no subject
I thought while I was writing that these two would either detest each other or be fascinated by one another, and really, it could still fall either way - though Sherlock's definitely leaning more towards fascination - because I wanted it to remain open-ended. Writing them interacting was definitely fun, so thank you for giving me prompts that led to that.