#tfw you're torn between wanting more time to polish a thing and wanting to share ajfjfhj

[snickerdoodlles]

impossible things

the patpran elementary (the sherlock holmes TV adaptation) AU i meant to post the other day. edited most of this in the hospital so i apologize for any mistakes that slipped thru, but hope u enjoy this lil bit from a WIP i’ll probably never finish lol

impossible things (working title) (2201 words)

They’re ten and hiding together in the meadow by the river. There, there is a tree right along the bank with a trunk big enough to hide their covert meetings from spying eyes and knotted root networks perfect for hiding their treasures. Today, Pat’s brought a new item to add to their collection—an old, worn book gifted to him by his father, a collection of English stories titled The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

Currently, they’re in the midst of a fierce debate on whether it’s treasure or not.

Pat’s rather irritated by the whole thing. Pran had seemed equally engrossed in the stories earlier, pressed tight up against Pat’s side as he flipped through the pages slowly, right up until Pat had said he could be Sherlock and Pran could be Watson.

Pran’s stubborn dimple is showing as he sits obstinately on their treasure haul—a funny collection of odds and ends, from their old pair of can phones so they can still talk when the climb up the branches of the large tree, to a little box filled with Pran’s origami gifts to Pat, all tucked carefully away in a protective plastic shipping bag Pat had secreted away from Papa’s shop—and kicks Pat away from adding the book in with the rest.

“I don’t like it.”

Pat groans. They’d been having so much fun until Pran decided to be difficult. “Why not?! Watson’s the narrator!”

“I’m more clever than you.”

Pat snorts. “I’m more observant.”

“Are not.”

The two of them pout at each other. Pran juts his chin out stubbornly, and Pat yields with a mullish sigh. “Fine, then you can be my rival detective.”

Pran rolls his eyes. “That’s stupid,” he says matter-of-factly, “Sherlock doesn’t have a rival detective.”

“Pran,” Pat whines with a huff. He tosses the book away and pushes into Pran’s space. The other boy’s dark eyes go wide and his cheeks go dark as he backs away with a squeak, but Pat crawls after him until Pran’s pressed up against the trunk of the vast tree with nowhere to go. Pat smirks at the victory, Pran’s scowl a sweet prize.

“Then forget Sherlock and Watson. We’ll just be us.”

):)

“I can’t believe he did it,” Korn mutters beside him, voice low and thick with disbelief, “That crazy sonofabitch actually did it.”

Pat just hums as he examines Thada with detached, professional curiosity. The man had really given his all to his ‘Professor Moriarty’ charade, dressed like a proper professor, clothing and jewellery riddled with subtle spider motifs. Pity for him that Pat refuses to address anyone as something so dramatic as his nemesis, much less one named after a fictional character, of all things. Not that the man’s weakness for theatre or preferences for address matter much, not now when he’s dead.

Korn stands beside him and stares at the cooling body with an odd mix of disgust and horrified awe. Pat struggles to find similar interest in the man. A bullet to his head, delivered by his own hand just as promised, a thousand and one more little details Pat can observe and pick apart so he can slot them into the shape of the man’s life had he cared enough to do so.

“Why are you so calm?!” Korn demands. “This asshole’s been harassing us for months and now he’s dead—”

Pat hums and crouches down to get a closer look at the man’s hardwood floors. He feels Korn’s stare turn on him, but ignores it too.

“Dude—”

“He’s a dead sociopath Korn,” Pat cuts him off. He doesn’t turn away from his examination of the floor laminate, a far more interesting puzzle than the dead body of a suspiciously wealthy man who was by all accounts, a prick. “Who are we to say what his normal is or isn’t?” Pat’s eyes dart towards the body briefly. “Was.”

Korn stammers and fidgets for a minute, shuffling nervously between Pat and the body, before he pulls himself together. “Al-Alright.” Korn shifts uncomfortably. “When do you think Watson will be in?”

“Don’t call him that,” Pat says automatically.

Korn lets out a little huff. It probably would’ve been a snicker in any other circumstance—of everyone, Korn’s the one that’s gotten the most entertainment out of the stupid nicknames, even more than Pat’s supposed nemesis. “Fine, when will Pran be here?”

“Shortly. I didn’t text him.”

“Mhm—wait, what?”

Pat frowns and squats closer to examine a crack in the floor laminate. “We’re in a competition right now,” he explains.

He feels Korn’s stare on the back of his head, but Pat’s too busy to fill in the blanks for him. “O…kay?” Korn drawls uncertainly. He clears his throat and takes a step back. “I’ll go call this in, we’re supposed to let the police handle bodies.”

Pat snorts, mostly from habit, and Korn steps out onto the balcony so that Pat doesn’t have to listen to him try to pacify law enforcement. Pat waits by Thada’s body, fingers steepled together against his lips, and waits for another presence to join him in the room.

“Moriarty,” Pat says, and the presence stills behind him, “Are you here as yourself, or are you hiding behind another strawman? Actually, don’t answer that, I refuse to keep calling you by that stupid nickname, Pran.”

Pat turns and glares at Pran. He’s leaning casually against the doorway, hip cocked and hands in his pockets. “What’s so bad about it? You were the one that insisted on calling yourself Sherlock.”

“We were ten.”

Pran grins unrepentantly. “And you wanted me to be your rival, detective. I figured you’d like having a nemesis. You’ve certainly earned it.”

Pat pouts at him, but his heart’s not in it. He can’t keep this up, acting like they’re ten again and playing rivals on the playground so their parents won’t interrupt their time together, acting like seeing Pran confirm his worst suspicions with a grin on his face doesn’t drive needles into his heart. His breath hitches in his throat and Pat breathes out slowly, eyes itching with things he won’t allow to become tears.

“Aren’t you being a little smug right now?” Pat asks lightly. “Don’t you want to know how I figured you out?”

Pran’s smile fades into something stonier, something angry. “You already knew,” he accuses. “You’ve known for weeks, ever since the slip-up in the Rio case.”

Something in Pat eases, knowing the paint was indeed a mistake and not a cruel taunt. Still, his smile is brittle and full of glass shards. “Didn’t your mother teach you to count your blessings Pran? You know I trusted you. We solved that case completely, you weren’t tied to any of it.” Pat swallows harshly, throat tight. “You could’ve gotten away with it completely, all you had to do was stop.”

“Don’t do that,” Pran says, harsh like the crack of a whip. “Stop? And then what? Lie to you for the rest of our lives?” He snorts. “Don’t lie to yourself Pat. I don’t like it when you deny what you know.”

Pat takes a step towards Pran and a gun snaps out between them. Pat looks between the gun and Pran flatly, and takes another step towards him. The cock of the gun rings out between them, but another step and then Pat’s on him. The barrel digs into his sternum, hard and cold, but Pat just raises his eyebrow to match Pran’s cocky expression. “Either shoot me or admit the gun’s unloaded, but make it quick.”

Pran stares at him defiantly, eyes narrowed and mouth set in a harsh flat line, before a dimple flashes and cracks his facade down the middle. He pulls the trigger, and the gun lets out a dry click between them.

Pat snorts. Moriarty doesn’t like gun violence, and neither do you.”

Pran wiggles the gun with a grin. “No, but it does make a dramatic prop. I thought you’d appreciate the touch.”

“You seem to think I love drama,” Pat says drily, only whining a little bit. “What did I ever do to bring you to that conclusion?”

Pran presses the tip of the gun to his lips, as though in thought. “Would you like the list alphabetically, or chronologically?”

The harsh shtlick of handcuffs cuts Pran off. His smile falls away as his eyes sweep down to watch Pat cuff the other half of the handcuffs to his own wrist. Pran stares at them for a minute before his eyes slowly move back up to meet Pat’s.

Pat smiles sadly. “You know I can’t just let you go.”

Pran’s lips twist into a shadow of a smile. “I’d be insulted if you did.” Pran stares at him, eyes dark and shining beneath the thick sweep of his lashes, almost enough to distract from the hairline cracks in his poker face. “Pat—”

Pat kisses him.

It’s a terrible idea. He knows it’s a terrible idea, even before age old nerves and surging adrenaline mix together to make the world’s headiest cocktail. It’s not a deep kiss, just the firm press of their lips together, but Pran is finally, finally not running away from the growing elephant of their feelings for each other.

Pat pulls away first, heart in his throat. When he manages to open his eyes, he finds Pran already staring at him, something dark and yearning burning in the depths of his gaze.

Pat smiles faintly. “Couldn’t let you go to prison without doing that at least once.”

Pran’s lips twist into a stubborn moue, but Pat twines his fingers through both of Pran’s hands before he can do anything.

“Sorry, Mr. Pran,” he tuts, “but you can’t seduce me into letting you go.”

Pran snorts. “I wouldn’t, that’d be cheap,” he retorts before he presses to his toes and catches Pat’s lips in a kiss. A wild, ravenous, dangerous kiss, something sweet and passionate and heartbreaking.

Pat sinks into the kiss with a gasp and Pran swallows that down too, and it’s criminal Pat can’t cradle him close during this. Pran’s been holding back parts of himself for so long—now they only have moments left, and Pat’s determined to savour every one of them, even as his eyes sting with tears and the handcuffs dig into his wrist.

“Okay, they’re sending— FINALLY!”

Pat and Pran spring apart at Korn’s arrival, lips damningly slick and red. Pran pouts and too much of Pat’s brainpower is suddenly devoted to branding that image into every layer of his mind. Pat forces that into a box deep, deep within the recesses of his mind, and forces himself to focus back on his best friend, who’s looking excited and judgemental as his eyes dart between Pat, Pran, and the dead body still chilling in the room.

“We’ve been wondering for ages when the two of you would get your shit together,” Korn says gleefully, “I thought for sure I’d lose the bet with everything that’s been going on, but clearly I underestimated you horny dogs—”

“Nope, shut up,” Pat says, cheerful and brittle, because another two seconds of that will send him spiralling into what ifs and imaginations and other impossible things. Pat points his finger at Korn threateningly. “Not one word from you.”

Korn raises his hands in surrender, even as he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Pat snorts as he lowers his hand— wait.

Shit.

The handcuffs click open and Pran spins him as he darts out like a snake to snap his cuff around Korn’s wrist.

“Eh?!” Korn gasps right before Pran knees him in the gut and he goes down with a grunt. Korn’s deadweight and a calculated kick from Pran takes Pat down as well and in the space of the next few blinks, Pran has Korn’s other wrist handcuffed to the air conditioning unit and Pat to the furniture.

Pat rattles the handcuff uselessly. Pran had managed to trap Pat with his arms stretched out and his hand in an angle too awkward for him to easily pick the lock. “Pran—”

Pran drops into his lap and kisses him. Pat groans, unable to help himself. Not even the twinge at the base of his shoulder blade or Korn stuttering beside them can peel Pat’s focus away from the way Pran’s tongue licks across his teeth or his hands combing through his hair or Pran sucking on his lower lip until he whines. Pran backs off with a smug grin, stare hot and glittering as he takes in Pat’s dazed expression.

Pran taps his cheek, playfully scolding. “That won’t trick me into staying long enough to be caught.”

Pat’s kissed-dumb expression drops into a smug smile before he steals another kiss from Pran. “I’ll bring you in one day,” he promises. He’d chase Pran to the ends of the earth.

Pran grins fiercely at the challenge. Pat hears sirens wailing in the distance.

Pran leans closer—oh, how Pat aches—and Pat goes cross-eyed trying to hold his smug smile. “Sherlock and Moriarty, huh?” he murmurs against Pran’s lips.

“No.” Pran kisses him, too brief, too much like a goodbye. “Forget them. We’ll just be us.”

And then he’s gone, more elusive than smoke.

):)  (:(