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You: [Magical/Genie!AU] John made his way to his flat, limping down the busy London street. His cane hit the ground with every step, and people made sure to avoid him. Leave it to London to make him feel more out of place. He had just returned from the war, only two months before. And still, his life was nothing but a slow walk every morning, cleaning his handgun, and waking up from nightmares and attacks at four in the morning. As he walked, something suddenly caught his eye. It wasn’t the shop that had caught his attention, no; it was the thing he saw on one of the shelves. Furrowing his brow, he limped forwards; curious. The item on the shelf, was an old oil lamp. It wasn’t colourful, nor was it rather attractive to the normal eye. But somehow, John found it elegant. Without even thinking, he plucked it up in his hands and bought it, taking it to his small flat. It was a strange object, with faded contours and designs that quite amazed John. He decided, that he best clean off the dirt and the rust. It looked extremely old, and John figured it would look even more intriguing if it was cleaned.
So, he scrubbed it down, making sure the bits of rust were completely brushed away. Once it was cleaned, John stared at it in wonder. It had intricate designs over the sides, curves and complicated patterns. He started to caress the indentations, wondering how long such a thing had been around, and who might have carved such an object. There was a flash of light, suddenly, and John whipped his head to look at his bed. Unexpectedly, John saw a man sitting on his bed. His hair was dark, unruly curls. He wore baggy shorts, which were almost translucent. His white, silk shirt was splayed open most of the way, and his arms wore gold bands and faint tattoos. Who was this sudden stranger, and how had he gotten in the flat?! John was so shocked, his hand reached for his gun and he pointed it towards the stranger, poised and ready. “Who are you?!” John demanded, trying to ignore the fact that the stranger was rather…attractive.
Stranger: (reading)
You: ((Okay! Don't feel the need to write that much as a reply!))
Stranger: Sherlock smirked as he saw the man's expression when he saw him. That was always his favourite part - the expressions on people's faces when he appeared. He rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically as the man lifted the gun, not really caring for it. "Oh, charming," he muttered. "Is this how you try and make friends? By pointing a gun at them?"
You: John sucked in a breath, his eyes steady. But behind them was a sea of emotions and questions. How the hell had this man gotten in his flat? His gaze flicked the deadbolt on the door. No, he couldn't have gotten past that. He then looked to the window. No, he couldn't have gotten through that, either. It was shut, locked, and loud when it was opened. The blond would have noticed. "'Friends' don't exactly appear randomly in people's flats," he retorted, completely unsure of what else to say. "Where did you come from? And what the hell are you doing in my flat?" He lowered his gun just slightly, but kept it in his hands; wary. One could never be sure about the dangers, despite how calm London seemed. He hand twitched slightly, and he fought the tremors that wanted to envelope his bad leg.
Stranger: Sherlock watched in amusement as John tried to figure out where he came from. He put his palms back on the bed and leant back slightly, looking up at him through his fringe of curls. He crossed his legs and sighed again as John asked more questions. "Do you really need me to answer that? Are you really that stupid? Think about it. I didn't come in through the door or the window, so I must have already been inside here with you. Now. What's new?" He gave him a pointed look. "What's changed since the last time you were in here?"
You: John gulped and set the gun down, but kept it in close proximity in case he needed to retrieve it again. His eyes darted over the room again; both wanting and not to follow the strange man's comments. But, like he'd been told, every way to enter his flat was impossible. And, the only thing different about his bare bed-sit, was the lamp sitting on the desk next to him. His eyes came to rest on it, on the delicate swirls of gold and colour, and it took him much to long to come to the conclusion that the strange man wanted. "No," he breathed, in disbelief, turning to look at the man. "That's bloody impossible." There was no way a man could have come from a lamp. Magic was merely the thing of fairy tales. Stories that were told to children before they went to sleep. Christ, maybe his therapist was right about needing a hobby. He was going stark-raving mad, now.
Stranger: Sherlock smirked as it finally dawned on the man what was happening. "Mm. That's what everyone says." He chuckled. "Why do you think you wanted to buy that piece of junk so badly?" Sherlock said, nodding to the lamp. "Because I saw you needed help." He smiled, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees. "Hi." He smirked.
You: "I don't need help," John answered, defensively, though even his words sounded false in his mind. Embarrassment seemed to be all around him. Onlookers on the street looked at him with pity, as they watched the old man limp down the street like he was carrying dead meat. His sister had given him a mobile that he found confusing and didn't bother with, and then, she'd casually sent him to find his own home because her and Clara were moving and didn't have enough room. He hated to think of what he was, but it was true, he needed help. Something Ella really couldn't give him, because there was no bloody way he could write a journal. "I'm sure I can manage fine without your help. Besides, I'm considering the possibly that I've gone completely mad. Genies only exist in stories."
Stranger: Sherlock tilted his head slightly, completely ignoring his protests. "You have a psychosomatic limp, don't you?" Sherlock sighed. "If it was just damaged then I could fix it straight away but since the problem's up there," he poked John's head. "That'll take a little longer to fix." He paused. "That is, if you want it fixed." He smiled.
You: John licked his lips, habit, and kept still when he felt the other's finger touch his forehead. He considered defending from the poke, but found the idea to be fruitless, so he let the man continue. "You sound exactly like my Therapist," he answered, with a huff. "It bloody well hurts, and it's a bloody well pain in the ass. But before I just lay down and trust you, I'd like to get some answers, maybe." The blond clenched and unclenched his hand, shifting a bit in his chair. "How much do you know about me, then? And how the hell do you? Most importantly, I'd like the general run down of what and who you are. Give the old bugger a few minutes to process something that would normally be impossible, yeah?"
Stranger: Sherlock chuckled. "I only know what I can see," Sherlock admitted. "The limp is obvious, naturally, but the fact that you seem to forget about it when you stand indicates that it's psychosomatic. I'd say you got the limp from the army, then? I'd put my bet on that you returned from Afghanistan roughly... three months ago." He waited for his reaction.
You: John just stared. How the hell had he gotten all that? And more importantly, why wasn't he answering any questions? "You're correct. Somehow. Christ. But you're avoiding my questions. It's bloody brilliant, that; how you can see all that from a look. Still doesn't help me process this." John felt a tremor run through his leg and he shifted it slightly, gritting his teeth as the pain ran through and up. He gripped the arm of the chair under him, completely forgetting that this was insane. That this couldn't be real. That he was probably only talking to a figment of his imagination.
Stranger: Sherlock winced in sympathy as John was clearly in pain. He gave a heavy sigh. "Well, I always find explaining everything else rather boring. You must know how this works. You ask for something, I give it to you. Within limitations." He paused. "Oh, you were asking who- yes. My name's Sherlock."
You: "Sherlock, then. Is it the three wishes deal? That's always how the stories did it. People couldn't wish for world peace, or for someone to love them." The blond gave a sigh. This was absurd, but he had no other explanation. "I'm quite sure I can learn to live with the limp, or it'll fix on it's own. My bedsit's plenty fine. And despite living on the minimal army pension, I really don't think I could ask for enough riches to last me a lifetime." John reached for his cane, and pushed himself up, limping to his small kitchen that was more of a hotplate, a kettle, and a sink. He filled up the kettle and plugged it in, before looking back at Sherlock. "Don't you get tired of giving other people what they want? The lamp's old, I imagine you're old. Has anyone ever thought about /you/? Speaking of that, you want a cuppa?"
Stranger: Sherlock watched curiously as John ticked off things he would have thought John wanted fixed. Sherlock stood up as John moved to the kettle. He had to admit, he wasn't used to this situation. "I..." He was suddenly unsure. "A cuppa? As in tea? I've never had one."
You: "I'm surprised. You've got a thick accent; English. Everyone here loves tea." The kettle finished and John worked at making two cuppas. He added sugar to Sherlock's and none to his own, and then handed the mug over to the man/genie. Christ, that was a weird though. "Blow on it, it's hot," he instructed, as he did so himself. He took a small sip, the taste erupting in his mouth. Ah, the one thing that could calm him down in the most dangerous of situations. He could remember the rarity of tea in Afghanistan, while he was out fighting. He appreciated having it at good supply now. John limped back towards his desk chair, and he bent his wooden knees. "So, I imagine you're going to be around for a while. Especially if I don't know what to wish for yet. Or if I even want to wish for something. 'Suppose it'll be good company." The blond couldn't help but show the smallest signs of a chuckle and a smile.
You: *thought.
Stranger: Sherlock gave a polite smile as John handed him the mug of steaming liquid, and as instructed he blew on it before carefully taking a sip. His smile bloomed. "It's nice. It's good," Sherlock said with a nod. He looked up at him and nodded at his words. "I'm here for as long as you want me. Most people get bored of me once they've had their wishes granted. Then I move on." Sherlock paused. "I sometimes put a limit on the number of wishes someone can make, otherwise they'll become greedy, but I don't think you'll have that problem."
You: John finally came to the realization that the genie in front of him was bloody attractive. He kept his thoughts on the subject subdued, so Sherlock wouldn't notice, but it was the truth. He was a creature of grace, it seemed. His movement were cat-like, almost. Completely magical. There were tattoos and gold bands lining his arms, and John eyes inspected them all. They swirled and wound around his muscled arms, up his biceps and stopping at his bare chest. Well, almost bare chest. The white fabric did not hide much. His baggy shorts stopped at the knee, and there were curled shoes on his feet. Attire that suited every human impression of a genie. Under that, he had a lithe frame, stunning eyes, and a handsome face. They'd only just met, but John wondered if his personality was just as supreme as his exterior. "Glad you like it. I've got plenty," he began, with another smile. Maybe he'd come to like this genie. "If you're going to stay, best I think about getting you somewhere to rest. And some more food."
Stranger: Sherlock smiled as John suggested that he could stay. Maybe he'd last longer than just a few weeks with someone for once. "Right. I can take the sofa. Or I can just sleep in my lamp." He paused, looking down at his clothes. "I think this is rather conspicuous. My last owner had an... acquired taste." He clicked his fingers and there was a flash of bright light. When it faded, Sherlock was wearing smart black trousers, a tightly fitted white shirt with the top two buttons undone, and a black blazer jacket. He tugged at his shirt with a smile. "There."
You: John blinked in surprise. "Might take me a while to get used to that. To the fact that you're a genie." he shook his head a bit, and took a sip from his tea. The suit definitely did fit the man. It was tight in just the right places, hell, what was even thinking? He had no bloody chance with a creature like this. It was insane. But, he had already proved to be at least somewhat human. Sherlock seemed happy that he'd allowed him to stick around. John could only imagine that turning up in places all the time made someone tired of their job. "You must be tired of this. I couldn't do it. I've seen hell on Earth, but I don't think I could do it. Spend my life giving others what they want. Being stuck in a lamp, being forced to serve others."
Stranger: Sherlock only shrugged again, sipping his tea again. "I don't know anything different. I've done it since I was a child," Sherlock said. There was a pause as Sherlock watched John. He had a feeling that he'd have a good home here. "Tell me about the war," Sherlock said quietly. Humans had always fascinated him, always fighting over the most ridiculous of things. But it was certainly interesting, at least.
You: John gave a gentle nod, taking another sip of his tea. He didn't exactly like reliving the past, but he had to admit there were many good memories accompanying the bad ones about his time in service. "Afghanistan is sand. You go anywhere and it's all in your stuff. The desert is hot, sweaty, and the adrenaline, well, it's like a high. I was a doctor, out there. I've seen things no one should see, so I suppose that's a good reason for my issues. There are the soldiers, who fight with the various guns. I stayed back to treat the men. Sometimes the injuries could vary between stitches, and having to amputate an arm or leg. Sometimes we couldn't keep them alive, after they'd gotten caught in an explosion. On the cases that we helped a man survive, it was the best achievement. They sent me out onto the front lines a few times. That's were I got shot. And why I'm here," John explained, running a hand through his hair. "Captain John Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."
Stranger: Sherlock was seemingly captivated as John spoke, mug momentarily forgotten in his hands. He listened intently, trying to remember every word. It was - no, /John/ was fascinating. "That's incredible," Sherlock said after a long moment, smiling. "I feel like I should call you 'sir'," he teased, chuckling.
You: John couldn't help but chuckle at that, a smile erupting out on his face. It'd been a long time since he'd smiled like that. "No need," he answered, "Unless you like that sort of thing." The blond took a sip of his drink. He couldn't remember the last time he was able to open up to someone. To joke around with someone. "London's not too bad. Quiet. Peaceful. Except, I don't have much in the way of company. It'll be nice having you around. I'm still looking for a job. My doctor training goes to waste, but then I worry about having attacks while I'm treating someone." He gave a shrug and took the last sip of his tea. "May I ask, then, what it's like in the lamp? Any good experiences?"
Stranger: Sherlock gave a chuckle as John joked with him, and he sipped his tea as John talked about London. He was fairly sure he could listen to this man just talk about nothing in particular all day - his tone was rather pleasant. Sherlock blinked as John asked about life in his lamp. "Well, it's dark. Confined. But you don't really care about that sort of thing when you're asleep," Sherlock said with a chuckle. He finished his tea and set it down. "What do you mean by good experiences?" He asked.
You: "Maybe you should spice it up. Pillows, linens, the typical garb," he teased, "It is your home, you should make it the way you like it." John set his mug aside and continued, "well, have you ever had people you've liked? Or any strange wishes? I imagine seeing so many people granted you with the opportunity to at least have some humans you liked." John shrugged, unsure. "Or, good memories, maybe?" How was it this easy to open up to the Genie? Was this what normally happened? He could describe the way he felt. It was just the need to know everything he could about the strange man. For the sake of explanations, and curiosity. He felt a stab of pain thinking about how hard it must be to be a Genie, and it made him wonder how long he could have the brunet around. As long as he wanted, surely. He wouldn't dare treat the Genie as if he owned him.
You: *couldn't describe the way he felt.
Stranger: "Oh." Sherlock said and smiled slightly. "There was one man who used the only wish I gave him to make his privates larger," Sherlock said with a small chuckle. "I don't often come across people that I like. Most of them are idiots." Sherlock smiled. "But yes, I remember specifically a young man called Victor Trevor in the late eighteen hundreds. He was very likeable."
You: John couldn't help but laugh, and he shook his head in disbelief. "And you actually gave him what he wanted? That's odd, Christ." His smile stayed as he thought about what the Victor Trevor might have been like. He even wondered what it was like to travel across so many decades. "Well, see, there isn't all bad. Good people are rare to find, I suppose. I wouldn't even consider myself the definition of good. Anyhow, are you hungry, perchance? I'm sure I could make something if you are." he gave a small shrug and glanced to the window. It was already getting dark; how long had they been talking for? It felt like he'd known the Genie for years.
Stranger: Sherlock smiled. "I think you are a very good man, John," Sherlock said earnestly. "Anyway, yes, I am a little peckish. But I don't want to be a bother."
You: John smiled, softly. "Thanks, mate. And don't worry about it, I'm sure I've got something. Any chance you like left over Thai? I've got a bit of that left. I'm a pretty shite cook." He gave a soft laugh and pushed up from his chair again, limping towards his small fridge. "I've got the leftover takeout, some fruit, and some stuff to make a sandwich." He looked over his shoulder to the Genie, finding a slight fondness swelling up inside of him. He definitely liked him. There was something about him, past his almost arrogant demeanor, that was genuine. Under his mask, he seemed different. Unique.
Stranger: Sherlock blinked, blushing softly as John called him his 'mate'. Did John see them as friends, then? He'd never really had a friend before. But Victor had come very close to being a friend, he supposed. "Oh, right. Yes. That should be fine," Sherlock said, going to sit down at the table. He stayed quiet, simply looking around the small apartment as he tapped his fingers against the wood.
