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Boredom is Dangerous

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This story is No. 13 in the series "Wishlist 2011". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: A bored Sherlock is a dangerous Sherlock, but Heaven help the person that interests him...

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Literature > Crime > Sherlock HolmesMissEFR1511,0616266,20012 Dec 1112 Dec 11Yes
Prompt/Prompter: buffy_chan85; Buffy/Sherlock (BBC 2010) [Buffy/Sherlock]

Warnings: … some British swearing?

Disclaimer: Don’t own or claim rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Sherlock (BBC, 2010)


John was never quite sure which was worse: bored Sherlock, or a Sherlock in the midst of a conundrum. On the one hand, a bored Sherlock moped, and was liable to shoot holes in the wall. And who the hell cared that they made a cheery smilie face, they were bullet holes in the bloody wall. When he came back from Afghanistan, he’d assumed that bullets flying in his general vicinity was finally in the past, but no, he had to room with a high-functioning sociopath (or was it psychopath; he could never get it right, and it would not do to ask Sherlock.) But an entranced Sherlock…

He lingered, and he watched, and he brooded; a Sherlock on the trail of a mystery was not a very easy person to live with, and now John had the fortune (oh, who was he kidding, the misery) to live in the same building as the person who had captured his flat-mate’s damned attention.

He thought of warning her off. No one should have to put up with Sherlock’s attention unless they were actual villains, and John very much doubted the lovely young blonde American had done anything so bad as to warrant Sherlock’s attention. But then, if he warned her off, then he would become the target of Sherlock’s ire, and he wasn’t quite that much of a gentleman.


Buffy knew she was being stalked. How someone that tall and skinny expected to stalk her without being noticed, she didn’t know, but there he was, lurking around the corner, just watching. She was on the verge of doing something unthinkable, like breaking in and smashing something of his into itty bitty bits, or, worse, getting Willow to mojo him into a turtle, and sticking him in a tank. If he didn’t back off – ooh… She’d get Xander to come and stay for a week, and aim him at Sherlock. She wouldn’t even need a sob story; just tell Xan the weirdly named, freakishly tall Brit was stalking her. She smiled smugly. Yep, she had her ultimate punishment for the man.


Sherlock lingered in the hallway, waiting for Buffy. (Honestly! Some people ought to be forced to pass some kind of test before being allowed to procreate. Buffy, indeed!) He had observed her crush a door handle, something that was patently impossible to anyone of any normal kind of stature, let alone someone with hands as small as the American, and yet he had the mangled door handle sitting on his coffee table, and it was crushed by an obviously small yet very powerful hand. Unfortunately, it was the only time he’d observed her do something so fantastical. He had been tracking her for the last two and a half months, and she had not done so much as walk with undue speed.

Although… That smile was unsettling.


Buffy mounted the steps, debating how long it would take to get Xander to Baker Street. And there he was: tall, skinny, and incredibly British, Sherlock (and people mocked her name!) was hovering on the landing, with a bag and a slingshot in his hand, glaring at her. She raised her eyebrows. “Well?” she demanded.

Sherlock handed over the bag and slingshot without a word.

Buffy checked the bag. Was that… “Paint balls?” she asked suspiciously. “Paint balls and a slingshot. And I’m supposed to do … what with these?”

Sherlock frowned in thought. “You are … five foot four, and seven stone seven, maybe a little over,” he suggested, “while I am a good eight inches taller and two stone heavier. I have the advantages of height and muscle mass, and yet I cannot crush a door handle, which is something I have seen you do,” he added expectantly.

Buffy’s eyes narrowed: so that’s where it went. “And?” she prompted.

“You’ve only been in London a short while: you cannot possibly know The City as well as I do,” Sherlock noted.

Buffy frowned. Anyone who knew her would be backing away at this point. “And?” she prompted again.

Sherlock smiled suddenly. “I suggest a hunt!”

Buffy looked at the seriously weird man standing in front of her, then at the items he’d given her. “Let me get this straight: you want me to hunt you all over London and, what? Splat you with paint balls?”

“If you can,” Sherlock nodded eagerly. “By rights, given the differences in our physiques and my knowledge of The City, there is no way you should be able to get near me.”

“This is stupid,” Buffy scowled.

“No, Miss Summers,” Sherlock grinned, leaning down close to her, “this is a hunt!” With that, he swirled out of the hallway all electric energy and manic determination to succeed.

Buffy looked at her supplies once again, then at her outfit. She smirked: she’d patrolled Sunnydale in less appropriate clothing. Brit-boy was going down!


John looked up to see a thoroughly filthy Sherlock saunter back into their shared flat. There were parts of him not covered by paint, but they were few and far between. “You sit down like that, and no one will be pleased by the result,” he remarked idly.

Sherlock looked down at his multi-coloured form, and nodded. “I suppose I really should have chosen older clothes to do this in,” he agreed absently.

“Do what?” John asked, not entirely sure he wanted the answer.

Sherlock grinned. “Challenge Miss Summers to a hunt. And I have discovered that, while she may not know London like I do, and, really, there are few who do, she is very good at trailing a subject when she puts her mind to it, and she is a very special person.”

“So are you done stalking the poor woman?” John asked cautiously.

“Yes, I think I am,” Sherlock nodded, frowning slightly. “For now, anyway. She said that it was fun, but if I continued then she would have to have me ‘Xandered’. Do you know what that means?” he asked. “I’m assuming it’s some kind of popular culture thing.”

John shook his head. “Never heard of it. But it does sound painful,” he added.

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully then took himself off to change. Maybe he had a new avenue of investigation for the next time things got too dull.

The End

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