“Sexism sucks,” the woman says. “I want to punch the patriarchy in the face.” Martha opens her mouth, but the woman starts talking again before she can even get a word out. “But only metaphorically, obviously. I don’t go round punching random societal concepts,” she winks, “even if they really deserve it.”
“What—” Martha starts.
“Oh!” the woman’s eyes narrow suddenly, forehead wrinkling. “But I understand that in some ways I still have the privileges of being white and educated and cis-passing and able-bodied.”
She says it flatly in one breath, as if it’s a speech that someone’s given her before, grinning proudly when she’s reached the end. And then her face firms again.
“I’m sorry,” she says, very gently. “I’m sorry that I didn’t understand before— And also that I talked over you a lot, that was very not cool of me to do. It feels awful. Like, yeah, I didn’t know how it felt but that’s still not an excuse for treating you like that.”
And then she stops, looking at Martha with an expectant look on her face. She seems to sway a bit, hands fluttering at her sides as she waits for a reply.
“You kind of talked over me there,” Martha points out, and the woman scrunches up her face with a groan, rolling her head to the side. “Also? Who are you and how did you get into my house?”
The woman blinks, eyes widening, before she hits herself on the forehead with a loud smack.
“Sorry! Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Each sorry is accompanied by another smack; Martha winces. “Didn’t even think of that, stupid, stupid me. And it is me, by the way.” She points at herself with both hands. “See? New face, new…everything, but still me.” She wiggles a little again, but nervously this time. “It’s the Doctor,” she pulls another face, “I’m the Doctor.”
Oh. Because, yeah. Martha can see it now, could always see it really. There’s a reason she hadn’t reached for a weapon when she’d walked into her living room to find a ridiculously dressed stranger awkwardly sprawled in her armchair.
“Doctor,” she says, and the Doctor beams. It’s the exact same smile she (he? they?) had back when Martha first called him the Doctor, all those years ago on the moon.
“Doctor Jones,” the Doctor says back, fondly, before wrinkling her nose. “Jones-Smith? Smith-Jones? Sorry, was a little…distracted at the wedding.”
Martha’s mouth drops open. “You came?”
She’d hoped he (…they?) would, but none of them had been able to see any sight of him.
“Uh? Of course I did?” she looks offended, mouthing forming a little o shape. “Couldn’t miss the wedding of two of my best friends now could I?”
“Oh,” Martha says, a little dazed. “And it’s Smith-Jones, but still Jones professionally.”
The Doctor hums. “Nice. Ace. Wicked.” Another little wiggle. “And…uh. I’m a woman.”
Martha doesn’t mean to laugh, but she can’t help the little snicker that escapes. “Yeah,” she says, drily, “I noticed. And the first thing you did was come and apologise for not believing me when I pointed out that men can be pretty awful?”
“Oi,” the Doctor says, “as a former man—” Martha raises an eyebrow; the Doctor huffs and runs a hand through her hair. “Yeah,” she says. “Okay. We can be pretty awful. Could be? Still are but now I’m not?” She shakes her head. “Ugh. English is so not helpful when it comes to past references to gender.” She mock glares. “Why’s your language so primitive?”
“Oi,” she mimics, “watch who you’re calling primitive, mister.”
“Nobody calls me mister anymore,” the Doctor says, a little sadly. She doesn’t apologise for the name calling, but, well. It’s not like Martha thought they’d changed that much.
Instead, she shrugs. “I’ll call you that until you tell me to stop,” and the Doctor laughs, delighted.
“Thanks, Martha,” she says, cheerfully. “For everythin’. Especially for the things I didn’t thank you for before,” she stops, suddenly, mouth twisting. “Do you want me to thank you for those things? Like, individually? Because I will, if you want that.”
And she believes her. This Doctor’s face is so expressive, so open and clear. She’s practically vibrating with how much she wants Martha to forgive her. And Martha already does, is the thing. She’d had to forgive him to leave him, had to put everything behind to move on with her life. But this? This is something she didn’t realise she needed.
No, she thinks. Not needed, deserved.
So she smiles at her, softens her expression. “I’m alright,” she says, and the Doctor’s whole being relaxes. “Do you want to stay for tea?”
“Nah,” and it doesn’t sting as much as it should, because Martha really hadn’t expected anything else. “Don’t really have the time.” And then, flippantly: “Do you wanna see the new Tardis interior?” and oh, she really didn’t expect that. “She’s redecorated. It’s—”
“Of course I do.”
“Yeah?” her whole body lights up. “Brilliant! You’ll love her,” and she tilts her head to the side, eyes creasing with happiness, “she already loves you.”
Yeah, Martha thinks, love you too, Doctor.
John buys Sherlock flowers.
It’s on a whim; he walks straight past the florist on the commute home every other day, doesn’t he? Only today the gaudy Easter arrangements and strands of faerie lights are something like a siren song, and he stops in front of the shop and bites his lip and stares at the window, and something in him says that this is a thing he ought to do.
He never bought his girlfriends flowers. They wilt and die, after all, and there’s all that awkward scrambling for water and a vase to put them in. Always seemed a sad waste of ten quid. Wine was a far more sound investment for an evening.
Sherlock won’t expect flowers, though, and there’s something about that that makes the idea infinitely more appealing. There’s no generic flowers-chocolates-wine-jewelry progression with Sherlock. There are instead ‘here, I saw this book on people who’ve been killed by their exotic pets and thought you’d enjoy it’ gifts and ‘here’s a Lucky Cat because I love making you laugh’ gifts, and he thinks flowers might be just the thing for a ‘here, I think you’re lovely and wanted you to have something lovely’ gift. It might even be a surprise, and it’s not often John gets the pleasure of surprising the World’s Most Observant Man.
He goes inside and stands there awkwardly, tries to browse casually and feels more awkward still. Eventually the shop-keep takes pity on him and strolls over and gives what sounds like a prepared sales pitch for straight blokes. Which is fair enough, John thinks, but he still appreciates how the man’s demeanor loosens up considerably when he tells him he’s looking for something for his partner, emphasis on the not-a-wife-or-girlfriend.
He leaves the shop with a recommendation for a pub he ought to check out, several enthusiastic well-wishes for his and Sherlock’s relationship, and a dramatic bundle of irises wrapped up in soft green paper.
They’re tall, and curly, and vibrantly purple. They make him smile.
He jogs up the stairs back at 221b to the bellow of Sherlock’s voice telling him he’s late, and that he shouldn’t have bothered stopping for bread on the way home because Mrs. Hudson already brought some.
John wears a small, knowing smirk that grows into a grin that grows into a wide, joyful smile at the sight of Sherlock’s furrowed brow and sudden, surprised silence. This is good; this is very good.
John clears his throat and ducks his head slightly, holding out the flowers and watching Sherlock as he stands there quietly in his pajamas. John thinks he can feel his face go red. He tells Sherlock the flowers are for him. He tells him he saw them and thought of him. He tells him lots of things, talks about the supportive shop-keep, makes a few awkward jokes, realizes he’s rambling nervously, and shuts up after a minute.
Sherlock takes the flowers.
He stares at them, blinks a few more times, then shifts into John’s space and leans down and gathers him into a hug with his free arm, dropping his face into the space between John’s neck and his jacket collar. There are muffled words spoken into his skin, something like ‘thank you, they’re beautiful’ and ‘no-one’s ever.’ John brings his arms around Sherlock’s waist and breathes into the curls at the nape of his neck. They smell dusty and warm, like an unwashed day spent in the flat.
He feels suddenly nauseous with how much he loves him. He does. He’d buy him flowers every damn day if it would make him happy, fill the flat with them; sod his pollen allergy.
He watches a few minutes later as Sherlock clatters through his lab supplies and rifles through the kitchen cupboards before finally holding up an enormous beaker with a triumphant flourish and filling the thing carefully with water and irises and the little packet of plant food that came with them, and John thinks the awkward scrambling for a vase didn’t turn out to be that bad after all.
Some mornings, now, Sherlock leaves his hair
ungelled, silky and loose, to savor the way John runs a careless hand
over it, passing by. He’ll let his stubble remain until he gets a chance
to rub his face roughly in John’s neck and hear his surprised giggle.
After a shower, he stands in front of the mirror and smooths his hands
over his naked belly, feeling the softening, and smiles, because John
cooks for them every night, magnificent food, and it’s good; it’s more
than good. They’re home.Meanwhile something’s happening to John
as he settles into the fact of Sherlock-and-John: he’s becoming clearer
around the edges, visible, vivid. His jeans hold him closer and his
shirts get brighter; jewel tones that set off the silver of his sculpted
hair. He steps out with wildly patterned socks peeking above his
sensible shoes. Sherlock never mentions the layers of John’s
self-protection coming off; but he looks his fill.One night
they’re reading together in the quiet of the living room when Rosie
peeks her head in; on her way out to meet friends. Sherlock reminds her
to take her pocketknife, and not to take drinks from people she doesn’t
know, and John asks her to text him in two hours and tell him how it’s
going. She smiles her reassurances, Yes, of course, yes, I will; asks
Sherlock if he likes her nail polish (teal with a subtle sparkle) and he
says he does. It goes nicely with her top. She leaves. It’s quiet.“I liked her polish too,” John says. “I wish she’d ask me what I think of her outfits.”
“She knows which of us has taste.“
“Hey!”
“All
right, your taste is fine. But no one would expect you to have a
passionate opinion on nail polish, John.” Sherlock’s tone is indulgent.“What if I do?” John’s blushing, but his chin rises bravely.
Sherlock gives him a good long stare and then starts to smile. “John. Do you?”
John’s
blush deepens. “I used to sneak into Harry’s room and try hers on when I
was six, seven years old.” He sighs. “Not stupid enough to leave it on
more than five minutes. If mum had caught me there’d have been hell to
pay.”“Your mother,” says Sherlock, clearly, “was an idiot. And
Rosie has an excellent array of nail colors in the catchall next to the
sink.”Rosie comes home at half ten to find her dads in the
kitchen, spiking their mugs of hot cocoa with the Christmas liquor, with
the third Star Wars movie on pause in the sitting room. Sherlock’s
nails are a deep, rich red, and John’s are a shimmery, starry blue, and
they’re both mussed and blushy enough that she says promptly, “Hi dads.
Bye dads,” grabs a tin of biscuits and heads straight upstairs. She
knows very well when to get out of their way.Downstairs, the Star Wars theme song starts up, and almost covers the sound of their laughter.
Somebody do some art of this. PUHLEEZE. 💖
Afdjgskflaualafahajfajaaaaaaaaaaa
Love this sooooooo much!
My brain is too fried to write properly, so instead I’m just daydreaming this: John Watson is asked to The Diogenes one evening while Sherlock is out. He’s surprised to actually be asked by Mycroft, rather than just kidnapped in a limo. He’s even more surprised when he gets there, and finds Mycroft is accompanied by Greg Lestrade.
John takes a seat at Mycroft’s desk, fearing the worst. He’s never seen Greg in a jumper and jeans before, nor Sherlock’s brother looking so unsettled.
The two of them awkwardly explain that they’re about to go public with something, and they’d like John’s support in managing Sherlock.
John – concerned – asks what it is.
With Greg’s hand on his shoulder, Mycroft explains that they’ve entered the committed stages of a personal relationship. They’d rather have continued to keep it private from Sherlock, but he’ll realise soon anyway. It seems better for someone to gently inform him now than to let him deduce it on his own.
A shocked John agrees to do what he can.
In the end, he just has to tell Sherlock point blank. Hinting it gently doesn’t trigger any reaction, nor does subtly fishing for a hypothetical opinion.
Sherlock scoffs, and remarks that Lestrade’s romantic judgement hasn’t improved at all since the divorce – but that’s the worst of it.
When John phones Mycroft to tell him the reaction, he hears Mycroft exhale with shaky relief.
Over the next few months, he sees more and more human hints filtering into Mycroft’s behaviour. It’s like Greg is rounding off all his edges. One Friday night John bumps into them both at the supermarket. It’s the most surreal experience in the world, and oddly touching, seeing them both there with a basket in the bread aisle. Greg is coaxing Mycroft fondly into almond croissants for breakfast in the morning. “I’ll bring you them in bed,” he says, and John can’t quite forget the thought of Mycroft Holmes having breakfast in bed – sitting there in his pyjamas, eating almond croissants. Orange juice and a folded newspaper.
He can’t stop thinking about some other things, too.
Not in a creepy way, he tells himself – he just can’t get his head around it.
Two weeks later in the pub, he buys Greg an extra couple of pints and dares to ask the question. Greg is tipsy enough to grin at him, bright-eyed, and answer.
“Yeah. ‘Course we do.”
“What – what’s that like, though? Sex with… a Holmes.”
Greg visibly fishes around in his head for an answer he can give. It takes him a while. “He… pays attention to everything,” he says. “He learns. It’s like being studied. Like I’m fascinating. It’s… really good.”
It takes John a while to get to sleep that night. He’s not sure why.
He realises the next morning when Sherlock brings him a cup of tea – just the right shade of coppery light brown, in his old regimental mug, with one of his favourite oat biscuits positioned perfectly so he can pick it up and dunk it.
Sherlock doesn’t say a word. He never does.
He just puts the tea down, like he does every morning, and goes off upstairs to get dressed.
Perfect. I’m not sure I’ve ever read a fic (I don’t think Colors counts) where Mycroft and Greg being together gives John a hankering for something similar. I like it!
I’m sooo down with this.
Sometimes John has bad days. He’s not as vocal or obvious about them as Sherlock, not as withdrawn as James, but he has them nonetheless. When the nightmares come despite the two men beside, or a scent just brings up memories, or he just gets lost a bit in his own head, James will often notice before Sherlock. He’s spent more time with John in combat. When that happens he’ll nudge Sherlock. They won’t comment on it, or smother, but there will be tea and soft touches and he knows he’s not alone
coloringthegreyscale-deactivate:
AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
This is so perfect!
I’m glad you like!
Aesthetic : Sherlock stretching on the bed, naked, barely awake and his hair ruffled, and John watching him, leaning against the doorway, two cups of tea in hands and not quite believing he’s this gorgeous man’s husband
@letthechoirsing, I love this. It always reminds me of the start of Where Else Would I Be? Our aesthetics belong together:
John stops in the threshold of their bedroom and leans against the door jamb, two mugs of tea in his hands, and takes in the scene before him. The simple room is filled with evidence of lazy morning lie-ins and cosy late nights, testament to the two of them lounging with books and newspapers, crossword puzzles, and back copies of the Scientific Beekeeping Journal. There are stacks of books on the bare, wide-plank floor, an antique dresser against one wall, and loosely folded jumpers in an open chest at the bottom of the wrought iron bed.
The room is bright with diffuse, early morning light, and two sunbeams fall diagonally across the bed and the man still sleeping in it. There’s a bee outside now, one solitary bee, bumping gently against the leaded glass windows above the bed. The bee knows, he thinks. The bee knows where Sherlock is, and he wants in. The bee probably has a message that only Sherlock will be able to decipher, something about honey saturation levels or feuding nurse bees.
Sherlock lies on his stomach, asleep, unaware of his little bee messenger. The sheets are twisted around his splayed thighs, his curved bottom half-exposed. His arms are flung out to the sides, and he’s managed to burrow his face in both his and John’s pillows. Sherlock’s hair is spread over the linens in every which direction, curls of silver and sable and all the shades between sticking out in an unruly mess. He wears it longer now, and even after all these years, John can never stop touching it. The hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck is still just as dark as when they first met, and John likes to burrow his nose there and imprint Sherlock’s scent in his memory. As if he could ever erase it.
He pads across the chilly floorboards now and sets the mugs down on the nightstand on Sherlock’s side of the bed, which isn’t really Sherlock’s side because Sherlock always takes up most of their bed, leaving John the sparse spaces that are left, usually curled around the taller man’s back or half underneath his star-fished form. God, this man, and all that he consumes.
Johnlock and either “things you said at 1 am” or “things you didn’t say at aall” (I can’t deciiiiiiiiiide) :D
Things you said at 1am
“Sherlock I am not sober enough for this conversation,” John giggled at the detective that had curled up into his lap.
“That’s precisely why I need to say it now. You’re just impaired enough that you won’t remember in the morning.”
“And what’s that, Sherlock?” John asked, carding fingers running through Sherlock’s hair.
“I think I’m in love with you,” said Sherlock softly.
“Oh.”
Johnlock #8 please :)
8. things you said when you were crying
You were pretending you weren’t crying, but I saw the tears in your eyes, the fear and the rage.
“It’s okay, Sherlock. I’m okay.” I reach out to touch you and you lean in so I can cup your cheek. I can feel the damp underneath my fingers.
“I can’t lose you, I can’t.”
I can hear the desperation in your voice. Wiping your tears away I meet your eyes.
“I love you too.”
the most implausible thing about superhero movies is that these guys make their own suits, like seriously those toxic chemicals did NOT give you the ability to sew stretch knits, do you even own a serger
I feel like there’s this little secret place in the middle of some seedy New York business neighborhood, back room, doesn’t even have a sign on the door, but within three days of using their powers in public or starting a pattern of vigilanteism, every budding superhero or supervillain gets discreetly handed a scrap of paper with that address written on it.
Inside there’s this little tea table with three chairs, woodstove, minifridge, work table, sewing machines, bolts and bolts of stretch fabrics and maybe some kevlar, and two middle-aged women with matching wedding rings and sketchbooks.
And they invite you to sit down, and give you tea and cookies, and start making sketches of what you want your costume to look like, and you get measured, and told to come back in a week, and there’s your costume, waiting for you.
The first one is free. They tell you the price of subsequent ones, and it’s based on what you can afford. You have no idea how they found out about your financial situation. You try it on, and it fits perfectly, and you have no idea how they managed that without measuring you a whole lot more thoroughly than they did.
They ask you to pose for a picture with them. For their album, they say. The camera is old, big, the sort film camera artists hunt down at antique stores and pay thousands for, and they come pose on either side of you and one of them clicks the camera remotely by way of one of those squeeze-things on a cable that you’ve seen depicted from olden times. That one (the tall one, you think, though she isn’t really, thin and reminiscent of a Greek marble statue) pulls the glass plate from the camera and scurries off to the basement, while the other one (shorter, round, all smiles, her shiny black hair pulled up into a bun) brings out a photo album to show you their work.
Inside it is … everyone. Superheroes. Supervillains. Household names and people you don’t recognize. She flips through pages at random, telling you little bits about the guy in the purple spangly costume, the lady in red and black, the mysterious cloaked figure whose mask reveals one eye. As she pages back, the costumes start looking really convincingly retro, and her descriptions start having references to the Space Race, the Depression, the Great War.
The other lady comes up, holding your picture. You’re sort of surprised to find it’s in color, and then you realize all the others were, too, even the earliest ones. There you are, and you look like a superhero. You look down at yourself, and feel like a superhero. You stand up straighter, and the costume suddenly fits a tiny bit better, and they both smile proudly.
*
The next time you come in, it’s because the person who’s probably going to be your nemesis has shredded your costume. You bring the agreed-upon price, and you bake cupcakes to share with them. There’s a third woman there, and you don’t recognize her, but the way she moves is familiar somehow, and the air seems to sparkle around her, on the edge of frost or the edge of flame. She’s carrying a wrapped brown paper package in her arms, and she smiles at you and moves to depart. You offer her a cupcake for the road.
The two seamstresses go into transports of delight over the cupcakes. You drink tea, and eat cookies and a piece of a pie someone brought around yesterday. They examine your costume and suggest a layer of kevlar around the shoulders and torso, since you’re facing off with someone who uses claws.
They ask you how the costume has worked, contemplate small design changes, make sketches. They tell you a story about their second wedding that has you falling off the chair in tears, laughing so hard your stomach hurts. They were married in 1906, they say, twice. They took turns being the man. They joke about how two one-ring ceremonies make one two-ring ceremony, and figure that they each had one wedding because it only counted when they were the bride.
They point you at three pictures on the wall. A short round man with an impressive beard grins next to a taller, white-gowned goddess; a thin man in top hat and tails looks adoringly down at a round and beaming bride; two women, in their wedding dresses, clasp each other close and smile dazzlingly at the camera. The other two pictures show the sanctuaries of different churches; this one was clearly taken in this room.
There’s a card next to what’s left of the pie. Elaborate silver curlicues on white, and it originally said “Happy 10th Anniversary,” only someone has taken a Sharpie and shoehorned in an extra 1, so it says “Happy 110th.” The tall one follows your gaze, tells you, morning wedding and evening wedding, same day. She picks up the card and sets it upright; you can see the name signed inside: Magneto.
You notice that scattered on their paperwork desk are many more envelopes and cards, and are glad you decided to bring the cupcakes.
*
When you pick up your costume the next time, it’s wrapped up in paper and string. You don’t need to try it on; there’s no way it won’t be perfect. You drink tea, eat candies like your grandmother used to make when you were small, talk about your nights out superheroing and your nemesis and your calculus homework and how today’s economy compares with the later years of the Depression.
When you leave, you meet a man in the alleyway. He’s big, and he radiates danger, but his eyes shift from you to the package in your arms, and he nods slightly and moves past you. You’re not the slightest bit surprised when he goes into the same door you came out of.
*
The next time you visit, there’s nothing wrong with your costume but you think it might be wise to have a spare. And also, you want to thank them for the kevlar. You bring artisan sodas, the kind you buy in glass bottles, and they give you stir fry, cooked on the wood-burning stove in a wok that looks a century old.
There’s no way they could possibly know that your day job cut your hours, but they give you a discount that suits you perfectly. Halfway through dinner, a cinderblock of a man comes in the door, and the shorter lady brings up an antique-looking bottle of liquor to pour into his tea. You catch a whiff and it makes your eyes water. The tall one sees your face, and grins, and says, Prohibition.
You’re not sure whether the liquor is that old, or whether they’ve got a still down in the basement with their photography darkroom. Either seems completely plausible. The four of you have a rousing conversation about the merits of various beverages over dinner, and then you leave him to do business with the seamstresses.
*
It’s almost a year later, and you’re on your fifth costume, when you see the gangly teenager chase off a trio of would-be purse-snatchers with a grace of movement that can only be called superhuman.
You take pen and paper from one of your multitude of convenient hidden pockets, and scribble down an address. With your own power and the advantage of practice, it’s easy to catch up with her, and the work of an instant to slip the paper into her hand.
*
A week or so later, you’re drinking tea and comparing Supreme Court Justices past and present when she comes into the shop, and her brow furrows a bit, like she remembers you but can’t figure out from where. The ladies welcome her, and you push the tray of cookies towards her and head out the door.
In the alleyway you meet that same giant menacing man you’ve seen once before. He’s got a bouquet of flowers in one hand, the banner saying Happy Anniversary, and a brown paper bag in the other.
You nod to him, and he offers you a cupcake.
err, i forgot a prompt: Tenth Doctor and Jack Harkness “Why do I always let you talk me into this?”
The Doctor raked his hands through his messier-than-usual hair.
“Why do I always let you talk me into this?” he groaned, casting a scathing look at the handsome man perched on the stool to his right.
At least, it was meant to be scathing: from the wide, toothy grin that he received in return, however, it seemed to have quite failed to do anything but amuse.
“Oh, come on, Doctor,” Jack replied gallantly, “I hardly dragged you here.”
“You called me up and said it was an emergency,” the Doctor accused.
“Yada yada, false pretenses, but you can’t pretend you haven’t been having a good time,”
Jack winked suggestively. “I had no idea you were such an… energetic dancer.”
The Doctor felt his cheeks burn pink.
“Besides,” Jack continued, “it was an emergency. You’ve been flying around by yourself for far too long. There’s only so long a man can keep up a pity party that intense before he drives himself batty. So really, I did you a favor.”
The Doctor was about to retort that Jack’s “favors” were rarely selfless when the bartender loomed up over them from the opposite side of the gleaming metal bar.
“Compliments of the lifeform at table three,” he grunted, sliding a thin, transluscent flute of purple liquer at the Doctor with one of his pale tentacles.
Jack clapped the Doctor heartily on the back, nearly making him spill the drink down his front.
“Look’ee there, old man,” he hooted, “I always knew you were a charmer!”
The Doctor considered flashing a rude hand sign he’d picked up from Rose’s mates at the chip shop, but he reconsidered when his eyes fell on the smiling Bolian at table three. Lifting his glass, the Doctor toasted silently and took an appreciative sip, closing his eyes to savor the flavor redolent of caramel and stardust.
“Don’t look now, Doc,” Jack whispered, “but I think your friend is coming this way.”
Sure enough, the blue-skinned creature was sauntering their way. Without a word, she (the low-cut, gold dress left no question that it was, in fact, a she) had plucked the Doctor from his barstool and spun him out onto the dance floor.
Despite having numerous helpless looks cast his way accompanied by silently-mouthed pleas for assistance, Jack leaned back against the bar and contented himself to watch his friend put through his paces to the sounds of a Silurian celestial funk band.