March 28th excerpt:
Dean pushed himself back from John with his free hand, trying to inch backwards from the man and put some space between them. That is, until he ran up against the hand cupped behind and flinched away again.
“We don’t want your help,” Dean protested, clinging to Sam. “People can’t be trusted, what makes you any different?”
March 27th excerpt:
Dean was incensed past any rational anger, heating his face up as he turned it on his only target. “Why do you even care?!” he shouted up at John. “It’s not like it matters where we’re from!”
March 26th excerpt:
The cheerful greeting of “Afternoon, sir! ” on the other end unmistakably belonged to Agent Stan Baker.
“What do you want?” Sherlock sighed.
March 9th excerpt:
When a finger bigger than either brothers head brushed over Dean, melting some of the snow instantly on contact and knocking a few other flakes free from his flattened spike of hair, he jerked back on instinct, and dragged Sam along with him as he cringed from the hand that could scoop them both into a fist in seconds. Sam was limp, offering no resistance to Dean’s motion.
John sucked in a startled breath, jerking his hand back for a second. Before he could think about it, his hand shot back out and curled behind the moving figure’s back. His hand didn’t close, simply formed a barrier of warmth for the kid. They looked so small against his palm, and he took half a second to process the fact that they didn’t just look like tiny kids, they were real.
March 8th excerpt:
A few steps away was a crossing, which had just turned in the direction that John wasn’t heading, so he shoved his hands in his pockets with a sigh and waited patiently for the light.
Boredom struck quickly, and curiosity brought his attention sliding back the way he’d come, to that strange figure in the snow. He didn’t understand why until he thought about it; whatever it was, it was small enough to be a toy. But a fallen toy wouldn’t manipulate itself in such a position.
March 4th excerpt:
At 2 pm, the phone rang and Sherlock Holmes was the only one around to answer it.
Dr. John Watson had already left for his shift at a newly acquired job (evidently determined to make this one stick so they could “pay the damn rent”). Sam and Dean Winchester, the other flatmates standing at four inches tall at the most were hardly under obligation to answer the landline. That left the detective, who was too impatient to let it continue to ring any longer.
“Sherlock Holmes,” he answered curtly.
Aw, I love this AU!
We’re a little behind schedule for writing it due to rl things, and ended up tackling a bit of a different story for a bit that was easier to write at the time, but we’ll be getting back into it soon, and once we get moving again, we’ll be able to excerpt it.
For now, I’ll leave you with this:
Protectively pulling Sam half into his lap, Dean parted his frozen lips. He hadn’t talked since Sam dropped unconscious over an hour back, and his voice cracked. “P-please,” Dean pleaded. “Don’t take him.”
John’s heart sank to hear the desperation in the absolutely tiny voice. “I’m not going to,” he promised quietly.
He convinced himself to tear his eyes away, glancing up and down the street. It was dead quiet, no one around at this hour. He was alone with two absolutely tiny kids freezing in the snow.
“Where are your parents?” he asked gently, turning back to Dean. “Are they nearby? Did you get separated?”
The story continues for the Consulted crew in A Day of Duality!
Sam shifted in place as John stopped, blinking at the world around him. “Somethin’ wrong?” he asked blearily, pulled out of a daydream he’d fallen into during the walk.
Then Sam heard it too. A faint cry in the air, something easily overlooked. His ears pricked up, and he paid close attention to the back of his neck, alert for anyone other than John around the alley. “Sounds like someone’s hurt,” Sam said, glancing around. That didn’t sound like the call of an injured animal, and out in London that was less likely to happen.
“Yeah,” John agreed, stepping gingerly into the alley. For a voice to be that soft, one of two things had to be true. On the one hand, it could be an injured human in the far distance, in which case John would have to be incredibly careful with Sam.
No one would speak of it, but since Sam’s kidnapping all those weeks ago there was an enhanced sense of responsibility between John and Sherlock to protect their friends. There was a much greater risk to anything that ran the chance of Sam or Dean being seen. Other humans were always a wild card, especially strangers.
Then again, on the other hand, the voice could seem distant because the person it belonged to was a borrower, closer to Sam and Dean’s size.
John didn’t know which he dreaded more. Even so, something in him wouldn’t let him turn his back on someone who needed help.
Sam was attentive as John went, his ears tuned to the voice they’d heard on the wind. There was no sense that they were being watched, no feeling of eyes on him, so he frowned, wondering who could have called for help.
“Do you think–” Sam started, then cut himself off.
Down on the ground of the alley, he’d caught sight of motion against the ground. Just a flicker, but there.
Sam might have passed it off as a mouse hiding from John if he hadn’t spotted color.
Nudging John in the neck, Sam motioned at the ground. “Watch it, I think someone’s here.”
December 16th excerpt:
Dean smirked, not above the chance to brag on his accomplishments. “I’m a tracker,” he said proudly, jutting his chin out. “So long as Sherlock gives me some idea what we’re searching for, I can lead him right to it. Just like I coulda told him, if he asked me, that one of his missing glasses is in the back of that cupboard pushed behind everything else, the other is mixed into his lab equipment, and the last is right above our heads.”
Pointing in time with each of his declarations, Dean indicated where all the missing cups were in the flat, and on the last, with his arm pointing overhead, he nearly stumbled over, losing his balance when the room went sideways.
Lestrade and Sherlock followed Dean’s finger in each direction he pointed. While Lestrade was confused by the final location, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, knowing the glass hadn’t been left on the light overhead. That left the flat upstairs as the only remaining option, the place where John Watson slept. And evidently did more than sleep.
December 15th excerpt:
With a huff, Dean stalked back over to the hand and sat down on the offending finger, hard, crossing his arms and daring Lestrade to try it again.
Artwork by @wolfie180g!
Brothers Apart 