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Feb. 18th, 2012 11:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellerkayTitle: The Case of the Reluctant Analysand
Rating: PG-13 for reference to drug use
Wordcount: 1,371
Disclaimer: All for fun, none for profit.
Summary: Crossover of BBC’s Sherlock and Nolanverse Batman, set well before the canon of either. University student Sherlock Holmes is not interested in undergoing therapy with Jonathan Crane.
***
“Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock looked up from the frightfully boring magazine which was the only reading material in the university health center. In five minutes he had spotted three inaccuracies and six altered photographs. He looked the man up and down; tall, thin, dark hair, intense blue eyes, high cheekbones (could have been describing himself). He rose and extended his hand.
“Jonathan Crane, I take it,” he replied, sliding into a charming smile. “Not ‘Doctor,’ though.”
“Not yet.” The smile Crane gave in return was a little forced, but it was a good fake. Sherlock might not have noticed it if he hadn’t been such an expert in them himself. If he had been the sort of person not to notice things.
Crane motioned him in and closed the door behind him.
“What brings you here?” he asked, seating himself. Sherlock glanced around the room; it was university property, not Crane’s private office, so there was little to observe. Boring.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?” Sherlock replied, affecting a joking manner. He sat down on the couch without removing his coat. “I thought it was your job to know things about people.”
“Yes, but I don’t usually start cold.” Sherlock snorted, just quietly enough not to be entirely rude.
“Why not? I’ve just met you and I already know all about you.”
“Oh?” Jonathan sat back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Please, tell me.”
“And here I thought we were supposed to be talking about me.” Sherlock smirked a little. “Very well. You’re American, of course, so you’re here on a student visa. Working at the student clinic is a requirement for your scholarship, or you wouldn’t be doing it. You live in a cheap flat which has more books than furniture. How am I doing so far?”
“Well enough, but you obviously checked up on me before this appointment. The rest of it you could extrapolate from what you learned.”
Sherlock glared at him. “I didn’t check up on you,” he said. “I simply observe things that most people don’t notice. Would you like some more? You didn’t sleep last night and you haven’t eaten for at least fourteen hours, but you’ve had three – no, four cups of coffee.”
Crane’s face didn’t change, and Sherlock was careful not to betray his surprise. This was the first time in years someone had failed to react to a demonstration of his skills.
“That’s quite a trick,” Crane said. “Do you do that to everyone you meet?”
“Not aloud. Well, not always.”
“Mm.” Crane was still studying him; Sherlock wondered all of a sudden if he looked like that when he was examining someone. Surely his gaze was less steady. It would have been unnerving, if he was the sort of person to be easily unnerved.
“Would you mind if I gave it a try?” Crane asked. Sherlock gestured.
“Be my guest,” he said.
“You’re here against your will. I’m guessing one of your professors insisted. Probably because he, or she, suspects you’ve been doing drugs; some kind of stimulant. Ritalin? Cocaine?”
Sherlock steepled his fingers and regarded Dr. Crane. “Interesting theory.”
“Am I wrong?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So, I’m right.”
“How did you come to these conclusions?”
“Your attitude is hostile; therefore, I conclude that you don’t want to be here, and you don’t particularly think you need help.”
“Haven’t I been perfectly polite?”
“Not perfectly, but even discounting that – well, give me a little credit. I’m a psychologist. And I know a thing or two about wearing masks.” That tight smile again.
“Hmm,” Sherlock said, noncommittally. “And what makes you think I’m using drugs?”
“You’re too thin. It could be your body type, but I think you’re too thin even for that. Your pupils are dilated, and you seem to think very quickly and observe everything with incredible energy.”
“I think very quickly because I am a genius, beyond the level of ordinary genius. And I observe because no one else ever seems to.”
“And your pupils? How do you explain them?”
Sherlock smiled sardonically. “As for my thinness, I rather think this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”
“I’m not on drugs – at least, nothing heavier than the caffeine, which you noted.”
“No. You have an eating disorder.”
Crane sat back in his chair. “My own possible issues are not what we’re here to discuss.”
Sherlock said nothing, and used the silence to catalogue the bland pictures on the wall and calculate the number of ceiling tiles.
“Why do you abuse stimulants?” Crane asked.
“I haven’t admitted that I do.”
“Must we play games, Mr. Holmes?”
“Why not? It’s a way to pass the time.”
“Are you often bored?”
“Always.” Sherlock realized he was grinding his teeth, and forced himself to relax his jaw.
“Your studies don’t occupy your time?”
Sherlock gave a short laugh. “My studies at the university are a joke. Well, that’s not entirely true. Some classes have proven useful, but my required courses are absurdly trivial. I would never have gone to university at all if Mother and Mycroft hadn’t banded together and insisted.”
“Mycroft – your brother? Older brother.”
Sherlock looked at the doctor again. “Not bad,” he said, with a cool nod. “I spend my free time pursuing my own course of study, which is considerably more interesting, with dozens of potential applications.”
“Then, why the drugs? Why the boredom?”
Sherlock sighed. “There is only so much time one can spend in the acquisition of knowledge, however fascinating, before becoming restless. I must have something to do. I can’t find anything that will occupy my full attention, nor allow me to use the full capacity of my mind. I need something to puzzle over.”
“I see.”
Sherlock gazed levelly at him. “You seem somewhat more intelligent than most people. How do you keep from going mad?”
“My clinical work provides some occupation, but my specialty is my true passion.”
“And that is?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and examined the doctor for a long moment. “Ah,” he said. “Psychopharmacology.”
“Not bad, yourself,” Crane said, with the shadow of a smile. Almost real, this time. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in psychology. I imagine you’d be an excellent experimental psychologist.”
“No. I can learn all I need to know in an amateur capacity. And I don’t like most people enough to try and help them. Not without some extra incentive.”
“I can only hope that misanthropy doesn’t make one ineligible for a career in psychology,” Crane said ironically. Sherlock gave a little laugh.
“They can be so dull, can’t they?” he said. Crane smiled coolly.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I suggest you find some career that can hold your interest,” he said, rising. “Otherwise, I think your mind will eat itself from the inside, and you’ll be dead or insane before your thirtieth birthday. And try to keep the drug use to a minimum. It’s not a real solution.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet as well. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions.”
“For your occupation?” Crane’s brow creased. “You said you like solving puzzles.”
“Please don’t suggest I write them for newspapers.”
“I wasn’t going to. I suppose your government needs code crackers.”
Sherlock sighed. “Dull, too dull. No scope in it.”
“You could solve crimes.”
Sherlock snorted. “Police officers are idiots. And my personality isn’t suited to their games. I wouldn’t last a week in a single precinct in England.”
“Then perhaps you can get them to look to you as a consultant.”
Sherlock stared at Crane, frowning. “A consultant.”
“Yes. Work with them, but not for them. And try to get a degree. Meaningless as they can be, people put stock in them. It will give you credibility.”
“I can pass the classes, if I try.”
“Then do it, and they won’t make you come see me anymore.” Crane put out his hand. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Homes.”
Sherlock shook it. “Thank you, Dr. Crane.”
“I’m not a doctor yet, Mr. Holmes.”
“But you will be.” Sherlock smiled slightly. “I’ll watch your career with interest.”
Crane’s smile was marginally warmer. “And I yours.”
Rating: PG-13 for reference to drug use
Wordcount: 1,371
Disclaimer: All for fun, none for profit.
Summary: Crossover of BBC’s Sherlock and Nolanverse Batman, set well before the canon of either. University student Sherlock Holmes is not interested in undergoing therapy with Jonathan Crane.
***
“Sherlock Holmes?”
Sherlock looked up from the frightfully boring magazine which was the only reading material in the university health center. In five minutes he had spotted three inaccuracies and six altered photographs. He looked the man up and down; tall, thin, dark hair, intense blue eyes, high cheekbones (could have been describing himself). He rose and extended his hand.
“Jonathan Crane, I take it,” he replied, sliding into a charming smile. “Not ‘Doctor,’ though.”
“Not yet.” The smile Crane gave in return was a little forced, but it was a good fake. Sherlock might not have noticed it if he hadn’t been such an expert in them himself. If he had been the sort of person not to notice things.
Crane motioned him in and closed the door behind him.
“What brings you here?” he asked, seating himself. Sherlock glanced around the room; it was university property, not Crane’s private office, so there was little to observe. Boring.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?” Sherlock replied, affecting a joking manner. He sat down on the couch without removing his coat. “I thought it was your job to know things about people.”
“Yes, but I don’t usually start cold.” Sherlock snorted, just quietly enough not to be entirely rude.
“Why not? I’ve just met you and I already know all about you.”
“Oh?” Jonathan sat back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. “Please, tell me.”
“And here I thought we were supposed to be talking about me.” Sherlock smirked a little. “Very well. You’re American, of course, so you’re here on a student visa. Working at the student clinic is a requirement for your scholarship, or you wouldn’t be doing it. You live in a cheap flat which has more books than furniture. How am I doing so far?”
“Well enough, but you obviously checked up on me before this appointment. The rest of it you could extrapolate from what you learned.”
Sherlock glared at him. “I didn’t check up on you,” he said. “I simply observe things that most people don’t notice. Would you like some more? You didn’t sleep last night and you haven’t eaten for at least fourteen hours, but you’ve had three – no, four cups of coffee.”
Crane’s face didn’t change, and Sherlock was careful not to betray his surprise. This was the first time in years someone had failed to react to a demonstration of his skills.
“That’s quite a trick,” Crane said. “Do you do that to everyone you meet?”
“Not aloud. Well, not always.”
“Mm.” Crane was still studying him; Sherlock wondered all of a sudden if he looked like that when he was examining someone. Surely his gaze was less steady. It would have been unnerving, if he was the sort of person to be easily unnerved.
“Would you mind if I gave it a try?” Crane asked. Sherlock gestured.
“Be my guest,” he said.
“You’re here against your will. I’m guessing one of your professors insisted. Probably because he, or she, suspects you’ve been doing drugs; some kind of stimulant. Ritalin? Cocaine?”
Sherlock steepled his fingers and regarded Dr. Crane. “Interesting theory.”
“Am I wrong?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So, I’m right.”
“How did you come to these conclusions?”
“Your attitude is hostile; therefore, I conclude that you don’t want to be here, and you don’t particularly think you need help.”
“Haven’t I been perfectly polite?”
“Not perfectly, but even discounting that – well, give me a little credit. I’m a psychologist. And I know a thing or two about wearing masks.” That tight smile again.
“Hmm,” Sherlock said, noncommittally. “And what makes you think I’m using drugs?”
“You’re too thin. It could be your body type, but I think you’re too thin even for that. Your pupils are dilated, and you seem to think very quickly and observe everything with incredible energy.”
“I think very quickly because I am a genius, beyond the level of ordinary genius. And I observe because no one else ever seems to.”
“And your pupils? How do you explain them?”
Sherlock smiled sardonically. “As for my thinness, I rather think this is a case of the pot calling the kettle black.”
“I’m not on drugs – at least, nothing heavier than the caffeine, which you noted.”
“No. You have an eating disorder.”
Crane sat back in his chair. “My own possible issues are not what we’re here to discuss.”
Sherlock said nothing, and used the silence to catalogue the bland pictures on the wall and calculate the number of ceiling tiles.
“Why do you abuse stimulants?” Crane asked.
“I haven’t admitted that I do.”
“Must we play games, Mr. Holmes?”
“Why not? It’s a way to pass the time.”
“Are you often bored?”
“Always.” Sherlock realized he was grinding his teeth, and forced himself to relax his jaw.
“Your studies don’t occupy your time?”
Sherlock gave a short laugh. “My studies at the university are a joke. Well, that’s not entirely true. Some classes have proven useful, but my required courses are absurdly trivial. I would never have gone to university at all if Mother and Mycroft hadn’t banded together and insisted.”
“Mycroft – your brother? Older brother.”
Sherlock looked at the doctor again. “Not bad,” he said, with a cool nod. “I spend my free time pursuing my own course of study, which is considerably more interesting, with dozens of potential applications.”
“Then, why the drugs? Why the boredom?”
Sherlock sighed. “There is only so much time one can spend in the acquisition of knowledge, however fascinating, before becoming restless. I must have something to do. I can’t find anything that will occupy my full attention, nor allow me to use the full capacity of my mind. I need something to puzzle over.”
“I see.”
Sherlock gazed levelly at him. “You seem somewhat more intelligent than most people. How do you keep from going mad?”
“My clinical work provides some occupation, but my specialty is my true passion.”
“And that is?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Sherlock narrowed his eyes and examined the doctor for a long moment. “Ah,” he said. “Psychopharmacology.”
“Not bad, yourself,” Crane said, with the shadow of a smile. Almost real, this time. “I don’t suppose you have any interest in psychology. I imagine you’d be an excellent experimental psychologist.”
“No. I can learn all I need to know in an amateur capacity. And I don’t like most people enough to try and help them. Not without some extra incentive.”
“I can only hope that misanthropy doesn’t make one ineligible for a career in psychology,” Crane said ironically. Sherlock gave a little laugh.
“They can be so dull, can’t they?” he said. Crane smiled coolly.
“Well, Mr. Holmes, I suggest you find some career that can hold your interest,” he said, rising. “Otherwise, I think your mind will eat itself from the inside, and you’ll be dead or insane before your thirtieth birthday. And try to keep the drug use to a minimum. It’s not a real solution.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet as well. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions.”
“For your occupation?” Crane’s brow creased. “You said you like solving puzzles.”
“Please don’t suggest I write them for newspapers.”
“I wasn’t going to. I suppose your government needs code crackers.”
Sherlock sighed. “Dull, too dull. No scope in it.”
“You could solve crimes.”
Sherlock snorted. “Police officers are idiots. And my personality isn’t suited to their games. I wouldn’t last a week in a single precinct in England.”
“Then perhaps you can get them to look to you as a consultant.”
Sherlock stared at Crane, frowning. “A consultant.”
“Yes. Work with them, but not for them. And try to get a degree. Meaningless as they can be, people put stock in them. It will give you credibility.”
“I can pass the classes, if I try.”
“Then do it, and they won’t make you come see me anymore.” Crane put out his hand. “Thank you for coming by, Mr. Homes.”
Sherlock shook it. “Thank you, Dr. Crane.”
“I’m not a doctor yet, Mr. Holmes.”
“But you will be.” Sherlock smiled slightly. “I’ll watch your career with interest.”
Crane’s smile was marginally warmer. “And I yours.”
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