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last01standingTitle: Enforcer
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Dresden accidentally soulgazes Watson. [part of the hockey!AU]
Author's note: STANLEY CUP GAME 7 TONIGHT. I'm celebrating with completely self-indulgent hockey fic.
ENFORCER
It's not like I ever meant to be an enforcer. I'd been pushed into the game as a kid by a mentor who in retrospect definitely knew having a wizard in the NHL was going to be a bit of a boon. At the time he'd called it an outlet. A means of managing aggression and I'd eaten it up.
Of course, my style of hockey is a lot like my style of wizard.
I liked to hit things. Which wasn't so much managing anger as unleashing it. I'd contemplated changing it, but I'd spend most of my career fighting for my sweater and I most of my life fighting for monsters of some sort of monster so it was a hard habit to break. My position on the ice also explained a good half of why the council thought I was a complete head case. In my defense I didn't start fights unless the other person deserves it.
Or asked really nicely.
That's me, Harry Dresden, enforcer with a heart of gold.
Except the heart of gold part tended to fly out the window the second the puck dropped. The Atlanta Thrashers had been on a bit of a tear since February when their goaltender finally got his legs under him. They still weren't going to make the playoffs, but Chicago was not a team to take anyone lightly when the home ice advantage was at risk.
It happened only ten minutes into the game, on a face-off just to the left of Sherlock Holmes. Some guys in the league have a funny sort of thing about eye contact. I was generally adept at avoiding them, especially during a game. There was a trick to it. Focusing on a visor instead of eyes, staring just off center. Enough to save face, but not enough to get drawn into a soulgaze.
But John Watson made eye contact, and I didn't realize I'd returned it until I was already drawn in.
Every soulgaze was different. Every soulgaze was dangerous. The person looking back got just as good a look at me as I did at them. And Watson was steeped in history. The phrase old soul was coined for people like him. Look at John Watson was like a continuous echo, there was war, their was mystery and always, there was a Holmes.
The two men were linked in a way I'd never seen before, their faces always a little different, but the substance the same. Moustached, Victorian, bloodied, centuries old. A detective and a doctor. A goaltender and his defenseman.
The United Center swam back into focus, my legs leaden underneath me. Watson looked shaken. There was no way I could possibly focus on hockey this shift.
"Fight?" I asked Watson.
"Oh God, yes," Watson replied.
And we dropped the gloves.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Sherlock
Summary: Dresden accidentally soulgazes Watson. [part of the hockey!AU]
Author's note: STANLEY CUP GAME 7 TONIGHT. I'm celebrating with completely self-indulgent hockey fic.
It's not like I ever meant to be an enforcer. I'd been pushed into the game as a kid by a mentor who in retrospect definitely knew having a wizard in the NHL was going to be a bit of a boon. At the time he'd called it an outlet. A means of managing aggression and I'd eaten it up.
Of course, my style of hockey is a lot like my style of wizard.
I liked to hit things. Which wasn't so much managing anger as unleashing it. I'd contemplated changing it, but I'd spend most of my career fighting for my sweater and I most of my life fighting for monsters of some sort of monster so it was a hard habit to break. My position on the ice also explained a good half of why the council thought I was a complete head case. In my defense I didn't start fights unless the other person deserves it.
Or asked really nicely.
That's me, Harry Dresden, enforcer with a heart of gold.
Except the heart of gold part tended to fly out the window the second the puck dropped. The Atlanta Thrashers had been on a bit of a tear since February when their goaltender finally got his legs under him. They still weren't going to make the playoffs, but Chicago was not a team to take anyone lightly when the home ice advantage was at risk.
It happened only ten minutes into the game, on a face-off just to the left of Sherlock Holmes. Some guys in the league have a funny sort of thing about eye contact. I was generally adept at avoiding them, especially during a game. There was a trick to it. Focusing on a visor instead of eyes, staring just off center. Enough to save face, but not enough to get drawn into a soulgaze.
But John Watson made eye contact, and I didn't realize I'd returned it until I was already drawn in.
Every soulgaze was different. Every soulgaze was dangerous. The person looking back got just as good a look at me as I did at them. And Watson was steeped in history. The phrase old soul was coined for people like him. Look at John Watson was like a continuous echo, there was war, their was mystery and always, there was a Holmes.
The two men were linked in a way I'd never seen before, their faces always a little different, but the substance the same. Moustached, Victorian, bloodied, centuries old. A detective and a doctor. A goaltender and his defenseman.
The United Center swam back into focus, my legs leaden underneath me. Watson looked shaken. There was no way I could possibly focus on hockey this shift.
"Fight?" I asked Watson.
"Oh God, yes," Watson replied.
And we dropped the gloves.
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22/6/11 03:25 (UTC)