Posts tagged fowlock
Posts tagged fowlock
((I now have a new headcannon.
Artemis keeps tabs on Sherlock’s blog, and checks for updates whenever he can. He has even gotten into a conversation via internet with Sherlock more than once.))
Shameless self-promo guys!
Crossover fic between Artemis Fowl and BBC Sherlock :) It’s finally complete, giant plot twists and all!
Summary (rubbish): John can’t find Sherlock. Could there be one person who can? And what does Sherlock think?
Title: Hunting the Disappeared
Category: Books » Artemis Fowl
Language: English, Rating: Rated: T
Published: 01-26-13, Updated: 02-02-13
Chapters: 2, Words: 1,579
Status: Unfinished DX
I started my first proper fanfic :) It’s a Sherlock/AF crossover. Will update whenever I can be bothered XD
Another teaser. This one is a special shout-out to the few of you who lurk in the Fowlock Fandom… You are not alone.
Oh gosh wow, thank you! I love running this blog, I’ve definitely got no plans to stop!
More Fowlock love is always a good thing! The more, the better!
Ah gosh, thank you! I have to agree 100%, it’s such a wonderful combination, and there’s so much wonderful fanwork out there for it, it makes me so happy every time the tag updates!
Gosh wow yeah, thank you! And thanks to all the amazing contributors who make running this blog a total joy!
Because you know Sherlock’s ability to look at you and tell you what you’ve been doing wouldn’t surprise Artemis for long.
Written for Michele, who has been wonderful and wrote some Superlock for me. As promised, I am returning the favor and giving her Fowlock. Set in an AU where Artemis never met The People, while for Sherlock its post TRF. This is a mildly depressing drabble, so be warned.The gun is steady in John’s hand as he keeps it trained at the giant man in front of him. Most others, he knows, would have already been long scared off by the sheer size of this man, but then again John is not like most people. He has fought in Afghanistan and watched fellow soldiers fight to their death; he has seen all manner of gruesome injuries and the most violent deaths imaginable. Most importantly though, he has been with Sherlock Holmes, and the things that he has shown John are so much more terrifying and intense than this giant of a man who stands casually before him.
The large man shifts a little, and John carefully keeps his pistol pointed to him as the two properly meet each other eye to eye. From this distance, John can see the coolness of those calm, calculating blue eyes that watch him in a way very much like a hawk. Those are eyes which John has seen and know all too well—they are the eyes of a man dedicated to his task, a man who has given his all for nothing but one task and one task alone.
They are the eyes that stare back at John these days when he looks at the mirror these days.
“So,” the man starts, sounding very calm and composed. “You finally found me.” There’s nothing in his deep voice that betrays any sort of panic at all, and John can’t help but wonder for a moment if there is something that could frighten this man. Somehow, it feels like there is nothing in this world that could touch him at all.
Rather than voicing that thought out loud, John keeps his own composure and eyes the other as he starts to speak. “I take it that you have been expecting me.”
A shrug. “Sooner or later, yes. He told it to me.”
John narrows his eyes. “Who told it to you?”
The only response that he gets from the man in return is a small, amused smile. “Must you ask me such a needless question, Mr. Watson?” He says while he inclines his head, one hand gesturing around the large, empty room they were both currently standing in. “You should know well enough who it would be, if you’ve managed to hunt me down to all the way here.”
Dublin, Ireland. That’s where they are now, and indeed, John knows how and why Sebastian Moran would be hiding out in here. Mycroft had told him already before he set out for this place—the ruined castle that had once been known as the home for one of the greatest criminal families in history. The Fowls.
According to the records, the last heir, Artemis Fowl II, had perished many years ago in a violent shootout. But like how identities could be created, they could also be very well erased. Mycroft had taken a while to piece everything together, but eventually he had managed to find out the truth.
(“Even Jim Moriarty, apparently, had been a false identity by itself. His true name is…”)
“Artemis Fowl,” John breathes out, the answer echoing around the walls.
Sebastian’s smile didn’t fade. “He prefers to go by Jim Moriatry these days.”
John clenches he jaw and tightens his grip on the pistol. “He’s dead,” he says, nearly spitting out the words. Moriarty is dead, but then so is Sherlock. Sherlock died because of him, because of what Lestrande had discovered, and to know the reasons behind why he had jumped off from the rooftop then…
The only change in Sebastian’s expression is a small flicker of his eyes to the ground. “He is,” he replies after a pause, voice still as neutral as ever.
There is a short beat after that answer, but soon John breaks it with another question. “Are you going to follow your master to the grave now that he is gone?”
Sebastian simply looks straight at John again and smiles not too kindly. “You should know better than anyone else to never question the loyalty of a soldier, Mr. Watson. My name might have changed, but I am still a Butler through and through. If need be, I will follow him to the fires of Hell if I have to.”
— the almanac of last things
Sherlock looked at his clock, impatient. Where was he? He was late. Finally they had arranged a meeting, a meeting with the guy that had called his attention in a way so subtle it took the detective a week just to find his name.
But he had no face; in none of the archives he found a picture of the guy. But he did find a lot of information. The guy was a criminal mind. However there was no evidence to prove his guiltiness and he hadn’t been very active in the crime field these last months. When Sherlock was almost giving up he was contacted, a meeting at the pool, 8:00 pm, was suggested. The detective was curious of course, because even with his research, he couldn’t find a motive the criminal would want to talk to him and that killed him on the inside.
On the other side of the pool, a door opened slowly, Sherlock saw a part of a suit and stopped breathing for a moment. But when the individual entered the room he couldn’t be more surprised or disappointed.
A 15 year old boy stood there, probably waiting for the detective to speak, he had dark hair just like Sherlock, they shared the same pale skin and noble port too, the only differences were the height, the age, the eye colour and the fact that one had curly hair and the other did not.
“Hello, Mr Holmes.” Greeted the 15 year old criminal with a strong Irish accent. “I’m Artemis Fowl II”
Sherlock put himself together and sustained the boys dark blue eyes with his own.
“Tell me, Mr Fowl, what is happening in Ireland? Suddenly all criminal masterminds are coming from there.”
Artemis gave him his vampire smile.
“I quit this job some time ago, Mr Holmes, you know that.”
“You don’t fool me, Fowl.”
“I need your help, Mr Holmes, that’s all.”
Artemis made a pause, Sherlock’s grey orbs followed the boy as he walked to the left .
“Do you believe in fairies, Mr. Holmes?
Author’s Note: (Laziness, thy name is dialogue piece.) In any event, I was halfway through an actual Fowlock drabble when I was savagely brutalized by a plot-bunny that simply would not be sated until its potential was expended (or, rather, roughly mapped out into dialogue). As much as I am loathe to do so, I apologize in advance for any out-of-character moments— as much as I adore the characters themselves, I’m admittedly new to writing them. But I’m rambling.
“What did you do?”
“Artemis? And to what do I owe the unexpected pl—”
“Oh, do shut up, Mycroft, this is hardly the time your usual tedious formalities. What. Did. You. Do.”
“…It was necessary, Artemis, and I don’t expect you to understand—”
“You don’t expect me to understand what, exactly? Why Sherlock Holmes was accused of fraud and saw no escape outside of stepping off the edge of a hospital rooftop? By all means, then. Enlighten me.”
Oh gosh I KNOW!
This is actually along the lines of one of my favourite headcanons - I don’t know why it’s not more common!
People in the Fowlock fandom tend to focus more on the Artemis-Sherlock dynamic (understandable) but I’m really much more interested in the Artemis-Jim dynamic and the parallels between them and Butler/Moran oh god
I really need to dig out the notes I wrote months ago for an Artemis/Jim fic and actually write the fic sdfsdf
also artler yes gOOD 4 for you
Second Fowlock fic - I’ve been sitting around and wondering how Sherlock and Artemis would have met, short of being related, and this was what came to me. Also the Fowlock tag needs more love. Let me know what you think! Set eight years before Sherlock met John, shortly after the disappears of Artemis Fowl Senior, with mild assumptions and ammendations based on facts that evaded me.
Holly Short knew it would be a matter of time before Artemis Junior made another colossal mistake. After all, that conniving little mud boy couldn’t keep his filthy hands out of trouble. He was too restless, too desperate to seek accolade in the form of the next infamous endeavor. The LEPrecon captain had ominously foreboded what was to come for the criminal. It was beyond the commander’s and her control now; the Lower Elements police had reconciled on the boy’s fate. And although the thought made her bite her tongue and bawl her hands into fists, she felt… sadness. He had grown on her like poison ivy. Exactly like poison ivy.
Itching her shoulder subconsciously, she eyed the chief warlock apprehensively. He trotted back and forth in a nervous manner, hands embellishing his muttered, undistinguishable words. Behind him, bound to a unique type of chair designed by her favourite pompous centaur, lay her boy genius, entranced into a deep slumber. His breathing seemed abnormally slow, and apart from the soft rise and fall of his chest, he was still.
Watching him sleep, Holly felt a sense of doubt creep up on her spine. Surely it couldn’t be this easy? Surely Artemis would have seen this coming? Surely he would have put into motion a clever little plan to escape what was to come?
Apparently not. Soon, Artemis would have no recollection of the fairy race. He would wake up a different boy, with a different alias, in a different city. He would be someone else. There was the always the chance he would rediscover the underground race, but in Holly’s mind, she doubted it. He would go back to his sinister, sociopathic ways.
“What went wrong?” barked Root, face shining. “Don’t tell me your blasted group of grumbling pansies couldn’t even perform a simple mind wipe!”
The chief warlock’s face contorted in protest. “We.. we did, Commander! But something went wrong… and we’re not entirely sure what.”
Observing this heated banter with concern, Holly was distracted by the click-clop of hooves approaching from behind. With little grace, Foaly entered in her peripheral vision, face frowning.
“There was unusual activity in the brainwaves, Commander,” he said, interrupting before the warlock could say another word. “My machines have detected an imbalance in their transfer.”
Root snorted impatiently, snapping around. “In clear Gnommish, please.”
Foaly swallowed. Sensing that Foaly was indeed nervous, a sense of dread washed over her elvin self. This must be pretty serious.
“It means that Artemis’s mind has been damaged slightly.”
Root grimaced. “How?”
Foaly rocked back and forth on his hooves. “The frontal lobe took too much impact during the wipe. There’s a possibility his sense of empathy and altruism might be significantly affected.”
Root snorted in laughter, his stout gut rumbling. “Empathy? That mud boy doesn’t have a single nice bone in his body. Quit whining and go back to your machines.”
Huffing, Foaly reared around. He took one last glance at Artemis’s pale, strapped-down body before stalking off.
In his mind, the boy was dreaming. Strange, warped figures swirled across his eyes, small in stature, ambiguous in presence. He watched them fade away, lost in a nonsensical, meaningless jumble.
A sharp, beeping noise pierced his silent stupor. The boy’s eyes snapped open. Flooded with a basest urge to throttle the source of the sound, he rolled over, eyes narrowed and teeth barred. The alarm clock stopped abruptly as his fist slammed the snooze button.
Already, the remnants of his dream were retreating from his consciousness. By the time he had flung the covers off and crawled out of bed, tensed and impatiently disturbed, he could not recall a single thing.
“Mo-ther!” he sung, deliriously high-pitched. “I’ve warned you not to set my clock. You know what happens if you do-ooo!”
Jimmy wasn’t going to stand for this routine nonsense. He could get up whenever he damn well pleased.
((There. Finally, some Fowlock for Tumblr. It needed to be done.))