the little shadow that runs through the grass (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
mesmiranda) wrote2011-02-09 02:48 pm
mesmiranda) wrote2011-02-09 02:48 pm
Sherlockbbc_fic fills II: Electric Boogaloo
I have some time before study group starts and I've been meaning to do this, so what the heck.
Trust me, I'm a professional
Sherlock/John, PG-ish, 683 words (for most of which Sherlock remains in a very bad mood. Not undeservedly)
"You really don't like being naked, do you, Sherlock?"
Every bone in his body is turning to ice. "Give me back my clothing--"
"Nope." Jim saunters closer, hands folded behind his back. Sees Sherlock's face and starts laughing. "Really? I'm sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I have to say, you're not quite my type. No, Sherlock..."
They clink as they come out of his pocket, glinting silver in the light. Sherlock turns his head in a drugged daze, struggles to drag his legs into a sitting position--none of his limbs work, everything is wooden and nothing moves. His mind is shrilling like a siren, wordless, over and over.
"I think you'll do just like this," says Moriarty, with that boyish grin, and handcuffs him to the bed. Both arms spread wide, straining up above his head.
He puts a pillow on top of him as an afterthought, adjusting it just so, and draws back to reach into his pocket again. Sherlock can't even flinch as the mobile snaps a picture. Still laughing, Jim lightly pats his knee and leaves.
In the morning his arms are the first thing to wake him up, aching beyond sore. Sherlock tries to haul himself up and gasps out loud before he can stop himself.
He twists, feet kicking uselessly in the sheets as the headboard rocks back against the wall. No use--the handcuffs are locked secure, tight around his wrists. It is not very useful to swear at this point, but he does. Profusely. Some of the words aren't from the English language and a few of them aren't from any language.
Fingers curling up into fists. Shoulders pulling, protesting in agony. The door could open at any moment.
The only time Sherlock ever fully undresses is just before he climbs into the shower, and he ducks under the spray to wash mechanically without making any observations. The thought--the thought of someone's eyes on him--staring at him--
He has to breathe. He has to control himself. But there is no key, Jim didn't leave anything behind, and the headboard is solid.
The only option is to wait.
Unexpectedly, the first person who comes in isn't a maid. He can hear the cleaning staff down the hallway, starting their rounds with the trolley and vacuums, but they're at the opposite end. The first person who comes in--neatly pressed suit, knotted tie, still texting on his Blackberry--is Mycroft.
"What," says Mycroft, stopping short.
"Get your lockpicks!" Sherlock howls at him, trying not to cringe and failing. His skin is crawling and prickling, his breath is coming too short, he won't curl in on himself, he can't.
Because maybe there is some kind of benevolent God in the world, Mycroft leaves again without saying a single word.
Because maybe there isn't, the next person who comes in is John. "Mycroft, what is it--"
Sherlock closes his eyes. He can't. He can't.
There's no sound or movement that he can detect. Sherlock knows his face is burning, he's trying not to tremble and he can't stop, he's furious and ashamed and completely exposed. His heart is still inside his chest and it's too tense, too painful.
The bed dips, creaking, and Sherlock feels the covers underneath him being tugged. "Back against the board as far as you can," says John.
Sherlock obeys, wriggling backwards. John manages to pull the blanket out and drape it over as much of Sherlock as he can manage, over his hips and up to his chest. There's a gentle touch at his throat, his chin, and Sherlock's eyes fly open in spite of himself.
John is trying not to grin and failing. There is no mockery in his face, no scorn anywhere. "I think Molly would hate me forever if she saw me right now," he muses, pulling a face.
"That's not funny," Sherlock says, in the same curt voice, except something is breaking through that might be laughter. Something is punching a hole in his chest, starting up his heartbeat again, too loud and too fast.
"Although I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would do it herself, to get some peace from time to time--" John stops, seeing the look on Sherlock's face. He's not laughing, not really. His eyes are full of mischief but they're warm. Sherlock is extremely disconcerted by this, and this is making him tense all over with every muscle strained to the breaking point.
"How long have you been like this?" John reaches out to put a hand against Sherlock's shoulder, carefully, like he's reaching for a wild stray. Sherlock stares back at him with huge eyes, completely unmoving. Something inside him is going to snap--
Mycroft returns with his briefcase, shutting the door firmly. John looks over his shoulder but doesn't take his hand away until Mycroft bends over them to fiddle with the cuffs. The instant both cuffs are gone Sherlock frantically grabs the covers around himself in huge armfuls and retreats to the other side of the room.
"I'll see what I can do about a change of clothing," says John, being all reasonable and sensible, and excuses himself. Sherlock despises him.
They don't speak on the way back. At their flat Sherlock storms in, locks himself in his room and alternates between pacing and staring at the ceiling from his bed.
Later, he decides he needs a shower.
He doesn't look at himself as he undresses. He stands under the hot water and scrubs himself raw, nails digging into his skin, swallowing as he remembers the click of the phone. The hot prickly feeling is crawling up and down his back.
When he turns on the fan and opens the bathroom door, John is sitting propped up against the opposite wall.
"I assume you're here to talk about this morning, how wonderful," Sherlock says, more harshly than he means to. He moves to leave; John lifts his cane to block him. Sherlock lifts a foot to step over it; John lifts it higher. "What?"
"You really don't like being naked, do you?"
Sherlock stares down at him, brought up short. "It's not your business."
"I'm sorry about what he did."
"It's not your fault, and you can't do anything to fix the situation. Let me go."
"In a minute." John gets up, leaning on the cane, and takes Sherlock's wrist. There are still faint marks from the handcuffs, sore welts running over the creases and faint blue veins.
He presses his mouth to them, deliberately, turning Sherlock's hand over to find the edges of the marks with tongue and lips. Tasting, tracing, probing, eyes closed as he sucks at the pulsepoint and soothes the angry red lines biting into his skin. No teeth, no playfulness or pressure--careful, thorough attention; lingering kisses, his mouth hot and wet and purposeful. And when he lets the wrist fall from his grasp he takes up the other one, and does it all over again.
After a lifetime, or maybe a few minutes, John lets Sherlock's hand go.
"You have every right to be angry," he says, calmly. "But I don't think you have anything to be ashamed of."
And he steps back and leaves, hobbling along on his cane. When Sherlock remembers to breathe again, it comes out as a low gasp.
I'm worse than everybody's aunt
Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover, Sherlock/John, PG, 1428 words.
John wakes up, yawns, tries to ruffle his hair into some kind of order, grabs some clothing from the dresser, heads downstairs to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, starts making breakfast for two, gets the newspaper from outside, waves to Mrs. Hudson, walks back inside and stops.
He frowns. Then he drops the newspaper and starts rummaging through the living room, looking behind chairs, peering under the table, and staring around himself with his hands on hips.
Then he taps on Sherlock's door. "What is it?" comes the muffled voice--clear, precise, sharp as if Sherlock had been already awake for hours.
"Do you have your coat in there?" John calls, leaning against the doorway.
"No..." There's a question mark curled around the word.
"It's not out here. Or anywhere."
One, two, and then the door flies open.
--
"Who'd break in to steal your coat?" John is sitting in his chair, huddled forward, rubbing his hands over his face.
"Moriarty! It's part of some twisted game! Or my brother--" Sherlock is--pacing is not the right word, that implies some kind of rhythm. Jolting from one wall to the other, pinging like a rubber ball, tearing his hair apart. "It has to be him--he has the keys, the motive, the means--come on, we're going to his office!"
"You can't, it's freezing outside!" John stands up instantly. Sherlock makes an impatient noise, he's already looking for his shoes; John crosses the room and grabs them before Sherlock can react. "No. The last time you got a cold you tried to shoot a dinosaur eating the smiley face and Mrs. Hudson almost had a nervous breakdown."
"Anderson was bothering me," Sherlock mutters, making a grab for his shoes.
John deftly steps out of the way, holding the shoes out of reach. "No, Sherlock. I'd give you my coat but it'd never fit, so you're staying here and I'm going out to see Mycroft."
"But you won't kill him," whines Sherlock.
"No, because then you'd have no-one left to annoy." It really is like dealing with a five-year-old in a full-blown temper tantrum. A very tall, very lanky, very attractive five-year-old, and that line of thought is being safely braked at the station, thank you. "Except for me, obviously."
"I'm annoying you?" Sherlock looks genuinely taken aback. There's a flash of something behind that look.
"Every moment of my life," says John, all fondness, and chucks the shoes upstairs before making a break for it.
--
He says he didn't do it. --JW
Obviously he's lying. Hit him with your cane. --SH
I gave him a very light tap on the foot. He still says he didn't do it. --JW
He's the only one who could have, I'm coming down there. --SH
Stop it, Sherlock. I have better things to do with my time than steal your clothing. I would have thought John would have been well on that by now. --MH
SHUT UP MYCROFT
Comma after 'up', full stop after 'Mycroft'. Or exclamation point, although that seems redundant with the use of capslock. --MH
I'm coming down there to kill you with your own umbrella. --SH
He gave me my phone back, he's not listening anymore. What did he mean by me stealing your clothes? --JW
Sherlock? --JW
--
When John gets back to the flat, there's a goat on the doorstep.
He doesn't even blink anymore. "If you need directions to the grocery story, you turn right at the intersection up there and head straight three blocks, then turn left again," he tells it.
The goat bleats plaintively at him.
"There it is!" shrieks a voice, and John turns to find three people running up the street. One is a pretty young redhead, hair streaming out behind her, and one is a plainish chap with a pleasant face and a thick winter coat on.
The third is wearing Sherlock's Belstaff coat, and waving something that looks like a screwdriver in his hand.
"Oi!" John hurtles down the steps, flying towards the man. "Get that coat off--"
"I know, I know, I'm terribly sorry but there's been an awful mistake, you see there was a rogue Weevil running through London with a Defabricator, it's a very long story, Torchwood are complete idiots, and you see my clothes got disintegrated and so did Rory's, and Amy quite appreciated that but we couldn't run around London starkers, so I broke into your flat with the sonic screwdriver and grabbed the first thing on the wall that fit, but now I just need to get back to the TARDIS and I'll have your coat back to you in a minute." The man is grinning like a maniac, and his legs are bare under the Belstaff coat.
John stares at him, and then at the goat.
"The goat ate the Defabricator," the shorter man offers awkwardly, the redhead nodding vigorously. "Sorry."
The goat bleats again, morosely, and burps up a ball of light. Suddenly, John is standing on his doorstep wearing no clothing whatsoever.
He's beginning to get a very massive headache.
--
First Sherlock's eyes go wide at the sight of John naked, and John dashes past him and slams the door shut on his bedroom with a beet-red face.
When he's properly dressed, he comes back out to find Sherlock wrestling the tall man with the screwdriver, trying to tear his coat off. The redhead and the shorter man look horrified. The goat looks very interested.
"John, shoot him!" Sherlock bellows.
John is certain he's got a headache now as he separates the two, arms around Sherlock as he drags him backwards. "Take these," he orders the tall man, shoving his bathrobe and a pair of slippers at him.
"Oh, brilliant, thanks." The tall man instantly strips off the coat, tossing it to Sherlock with a beaming grin. The shorter man and the goat look completely nonplussed. The redhead looks very interested.
He looks absolutely ridiculous in John's bathrobe, his skinny legs flopping about in the slippers and his hair standing up in the wrong directions. "Fantastic, all I need is a fez," he proclaims cheerfully, and both the redhead and the shorter man are shouting at him for some reason. "All right, all right, settle down. Thank you, really, and sorry about the coat."
Sherlock glares. The tall man sticks out his hand. "Mr...?"
"Dr. John Watson," John offers, tentatively shaking it.
The man grins from ear to ear. "Really? I'm a doctor, too. Well, Dr. Watson, you have my word I'll be back with your bathrobe and slippers as soon as possible, but right now we've got a Weevil to catch. Come on!"
He hurtles back outside, where the shorter man and the redhead are chasing the goat as it decides to amble off. "Doctor of what?" John calls after him, and gets no reply.
Sherlock slams the door after them and stalks into the living room, cradling his coat like it's a finicky baby. "We'll get it dry-cleaned," says John as he follows after.
"God only knows what he's done to it," growls Sherlock, looking it over seam by seam. "He's insane. He's a madman. How the hell'd he break into the flat without any signs of force?"
"He said something about a sonic screwdriver..."
"Insane." Sherlock scowls and straightens the coat out with a sharp jerk, folding it up and stroking it protectively. "Bloody nuisance."
"Sherlock, my clothes disappeared on the doorstep and I have no idea how it happened." John feels it's very important to point this out.
"Yes, all right, but why my coat? Why didn't he get something of Mrs. Hudson's downstairs, one of her bathrobes--"
"Sherlock."
"What? What is it?"
"What did Mycroft mean in that text message?"
"Nothing," says Sherlock, far too quickly.
"Sherlock."
"I'm going out to the drycleaners," Sherlock announces, shrugging into his coat as he speaks.
John grabs onto both lapels, a firm grip, and stares Sherlock directly in the face. They're standing very close.
Sherlock's hands come down to John's, like he trying to loosen those fingers, and rest there. John breathes out before tipping his head up.
--
The bathrobe and the slippers arrive neatly folded on the doorstep, freshly laundered with a smell John can't quite place. He never quite gets the scent out of those clothes.
A week later John thinks he sees the goat standing at the intersection, blinking big eyes and looking in his direction, but then it's gone.
Trust me, I'm a professional
Sherlock/John, PG-ish, 683 words (for most of which Sherlock remains in a very bad mood. Not undeservedly)
"You really don't like being naked, do you, Sherlock?"
Every bone in his body is turning to ice. "Give me back my clothing--"
"Nope." Jim saunters closer, hands folded behind his back. Sees Sherlock's face and starts laughing. "Really? I'm sorry to disappoint you, darling, but I have to say, you're not quite my type. No, Sherlock..."
They clink as they come out of his pocket, glinting silver in the light. Sherlock turns his head in a drugged daze, struggles to drag his legs into a sitting position--none of his limbs work, everything is wooden and nothing moves. His mind is shrilling like a siren, wordless, over and over.
"I think you'll do just like this," says Moriarty, with that boyish grin, and handcuffs him to the bed. Both arms spread wide, straining up above his head.
He puts a pillow on top of him as an afterthought, adjusting it just so, and draws back to reach into his pocket again. Sherlock can't even flinch as the mobile snaps a picture. Still laughing, Jim lightly pats his knee and leaves.
In the morning his arms are the first thing to wake him up, aching beyond sore. Sherlock tries to haul himself up and gasps out loud before he can stop himself.
He twists, feet kicking uselessly in the sheets as the headboard rocks back against the wall. No use--the handcuffs are locked secure, tight around his wrists. It is not very useful to swear at this point, but he does. Profusely. Some of the words aren't from the English language and a few of them aren't from any language.
Fingers curling up into fists. Shoulders pulling, protesting in agony. The door could open at any moment.
The only time Sherlock ever fully undresses is just before he climbs into the shower, and he ducks under the spray to wash mechanically without making any observations. The thought--the thought of someone's eyes on him--staring at him--
He has to breathe. He has to control himself. But there is no key, Jim didn't leave anything behind, and the headboard is solid.
The only option is to wait.
Unexpectedly, the first person who comes in isn't a maid. He can hear the cleaning staff down the hallway, starting their rounds with the trolley and vacuums, but they're at the opposite end. The first person who comes in--neatly pressed suit, knotted tie, still texting on his Blackberry--is Mycroft.
"What," says Mycroft, stopping short.
"Get your lockpicks!" Sherlock howls at him, trying not to cringe and failing. His skin is crawling and prickling, his breath is coming too short, he won't curl in on himself, he can't.
Because maybe there is some kind of benevolent God in the world, Mycroft leaves again without saying a single word.
Because maybe there isn't, the next person who comes in is John. "Mycroft, what is it--"
Sherlock closes his eyes. He can't. He can't.
There's no sound or movement that he can detect. Sherlock knows his face is burning, he's trying not to tremble and he can't stop, he's furious and ashamed and completely exposed. His heart is still inside his chest and it's too tense, too painful.
The bed dips, creaking, and Sherlock feels the covers underneath him being tugged. "Back against the board as far as you can," says John.
Sherlock obeys, wriggling backwards. John manages to pull the blanket out and drape it over as much of Sherlock as he can manage, over his hips and up to his chest. There's a gentle touch at his throat, his chin, and Sherlock's eyes fly open in spite of himself.
John is trying not to grin and failing. There is no mockery in his face, no scorn anywhere. "I think Molly would hate me forever if she saw me right now," he muses, pulling a face.
"That's not funny," Sherlock says, in the same curt voice, except something is breaking through that might be laughter. Something is punching a hole in his chest, starting up his heartbeat again, too loud and too fast.
"Although I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would do it herself, to get some peace from time to time--" John stops, seeing the look on Sherlock's face. He's not laughing, not really. His eyes are full of mischief but they're warm. Sherlock is extremely disconcerted by this, and this is making him tense all over with every muscle strained to the breaking point.
"How long have you been like this?" John reaches out to put a hand against Sherlock's shoulder, carefully, like he's reaching for a wild stray. Sherlock stares back at him with huge eyes, completely unmoving. Something inside him is going to snap--
Mycroft returns with his briefcase, shutting the door firmly. John looks over his shoulder but doesn't take his hand away until Mycroft bends over them to fiddle with the cuffs. The instant both cuffs are gone Sherlock frantically grabs the covers around himself in huge armfuls and retreats to the other side of the room.
"I'll see what I can do about a change of clothing," says John, being all reasonable and sensible, and excuses himself. Sherlock despises him.
They don't speak on the way back. At their flat Sherlock storms in, locks himself in his room and alternates between pacing and staring at the ceiling from his bed.
Later, he decides he needs a shower.
He doesn't look at himself as he undresses. He stands under the hot water and scrubs himself raw, nails digging into his skin, swallowing as he remembers the click of the phone. The hot prickly feeling is crawling up and down his back.
When he turns on the fan and opens the bathroom door, John is sitting propped up against the opposite wall.
"I assume you're here to talk about this morning, how wonderful," Sherlock says, more harshly than he means to. He moves to leave; John lifts his cane to block him. Sherlock lifts a foot to step over it; John lifts it higher. "What?"
"You really don't like being naked, do you?"
Sherlock stares down at him, brought up short. "It's not your business."
"I'm sorry about what he did."
"It's not your fault, and you can't do anything to fix the situation. Let me go."
"In a minute." John gets up, leaning on the cane, and takes Sherlock's wrist. There are still faint marks from the handcuffs, sore welts running over the creases and faint blue veins.
He presses his mouth to them, deliberately, turning Sherlock's hand over to find the edges of the marks with tongue and lips. Tasting, tracing, probing, eyes closed as he sucks at the pulsepoint and soothes the angry red lines biting into his skin. No teeth, no playfulness or pressure--careful, thorough attention; lingering kisses, his mouth hot and wet and purposeful. And when he lets the wrist fall from his grasp he takes up the other one, and does it all over again.
After a lifetime, or maybe a few minutes, John lets Sherlock's hand go.
"You have every right to be angry," he says, calmly. "But I don't think you have anything to be ashamed of."
And he steps back and leaves, hobbling along on his cane. When Sherlock remembers to breathe again, it comes out as a low gasp.
I'm worse than everybody's aunt
Sherlock/Doctor Who crossover, Sherlock/John, PG, 1428 words.
John wakes up, yawns, tries to ruffle his hair into some kind of order, grabs some clothing from the dresser, heads downstairs to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, starts making breakfast for two, gets the newspaper from outside, waves to Mrs. Hudson, walks back inside and stops.
He frowns. Then he drops the newspaper and starts rummaging through the living room, looking behind chairs, peering under the table, and staring around himself with his hands on hips.
Then he taps on Sherlock's door. "What is it?" comes the muffled voice--clear, precise, sharp as if Sherlock had been already awake for hours.
"Do you have your coat in there?" John calls, leaning against the doorway.
"No..." There's a question mark curled around the word.
"It's not out here. Or anywhere."
One, two, and then the door flies open.
--
"Who'd break in to steal your coat?" John is sitting in his chair, huddled forward, rubbing his hands over his face.
"Moriarty! It's part of some twisted game! Or my brother--" Sherlock is--pacing is not the right word, that implies some kind of rhythm. Jolting from one wall to the other, pinging like a rubber ball, tearing his hair apart. "It has to be him--he has the keys, the motive, the means--come on, we're going to his office!"
"You can't, it's freezing outside!" John stands up instantly. Sherlock makes an impatient noise, he's already looking for his shoes; John crosses the room and grabs them before Sherlock can react. "No. The last time you got a cold you tried to shoot a dinosaur eating the smiley face and Mrs. Hudson almost had a nervous breakdown."
"Anderson was bothering me," Sherlock mutters, making a grab for his shoes.
John deftly steps out of the way, holding the shoes out of reach. "No, Sherlock. I'd give you my coat but it'd never fit, so you're staying here and I'm going out to see Mycroft."
"But you won't kill him," whines Sherlock.
"No, because then you'd have no-one left to annoy." It really is like dealing with a five-year-old in a full-blown temper tantrum. A very tall, very lanky, very attractive five-year-old, and that line of thought is being safely braked at the station, thank you. "Except for me, obviously."
"I'm annoying you?" Sherlock looks genuinely taken aback. There's a flash of something behind that look.
"Every moment of my life," says John, all fondness, and chucks the shoes upstairs before making a break for it.
--
He says he didn't do it. --JW
Obviously he's lying. Hit him with your cane. --SH
I gave him a very light tap on the foot. He still says he didn't do it. --JW
He's the only one who could have, I'm coming down there. --SH
Stop it, Sherlock. I have better things to do with my time than steal your clothing. I would have thought John would have been well on that by now. --MH
SHUT UP MYCROFT
Comma after 'up', full stop after 'Mycroft'. Or exclamation point, although that seems redundant with the use of capslock. --MH
I'm coming down there to kill you with your own umbrella. --SH
He gave me my phone back, he's not listening anymore. What did he mean by me stealing your clothes? --JW
Sherlock? --JW
--
When John gets back to the flat, there's a goat on the doorstep.
He doesn't even blink anymore. "If you need directions to the grocery story, you turn right at the intersection up there and head straight three blocks, then turn left again," he tells it.
The goat bleats plaintively at him.
"There it is!" shrieks a voice, and John turns to find three people running up the street. One is a pretty young redhead, hair streaming out behind her, and one is a plainish chap with a pleasant face and a thick winter coat on.
The third is wearing Sherlock's Belstaff coat, and waving something that looks like a screwdriver in his hand.
"Oi!" John hurtles down the steps, flying towards the man. "Get that coat off--"
"I know, I know, I'm terribly sorry but there's been an awful mistake, you see there was a rogue Weevil running through London with a Defabricator, it's a very long story, Torchwood are complete idiots, and you see my clothes got disintegrated and so did Rory's, and Amy quite appreciated that but we couldn't run around London starkers, so I broke into your flat with the sonic screwdriver and grabbed the first thing on the wall that fit, but now I just need to get back to the TARDIS and I'll have your coat back to you in a minute." The man is grinning like a maniac, and his legs are bare under the Belstaff coat.
John stares at him, and then at the goat.
"The goat ate the Defabricator," the shorter man offers awkwardly, the redhead nodding vigorously. "Sorry."
The goat bleats again, morosely, and burps up a ball of light. Suddenly, John is standing on his doorstep wearing no clothing whatsoever.
He's beginning to get a very massive headache.
--
First Sherlock's eyes go wide at the sight of John naked, and John dashes past him and slams the door shut on his bedroom with a beet-red face.
When he's properly dressed, he comes back out to find Sherlock wrestling the tall man with the screwdriver, trying to tear his coat off. The redhead and the shorter man look horrified. The goat looks very interested.
"John, shoot him!" Sherlock bellows.
John is certain he's got a headache now as he separates the two, arms around Sherlock as he drags him backwards. "Take these," he orders the tall man, shoving his bathrobe and a pair of slippers at him.
"Oh, brilliant, thanks." The tall man instantly strips off the coat, tossing it to Sherlock with a beaming grin. The shorter man and the goat look completely nonplussed. The redhead looks very interested.
He looks absolutely ridiculous in John's bathrobe, his skinny legs flopping about in the slippers and his hair standing up in the wrong directions. "Fantastic, all I need is a fez," he proclaims cheerfully, and both the redhead and the shorter man are shouting at him for some reason. "All right, all right, settle down. Thank you, really, and sorry about the coat."
Sherlock glares. The tall man sticks out his hand. "Mr...?"
"Dr. John Watson," John offers, tentatively shaking it.
The man grins from ear to ear. "Really? I'm a doctor, too. Well, Dr. Watson, you have my word I'll be back with your bathrobe and slippers as soon as possible, but right now we've got a Weevil to catch. Come on!"
He hurtles back outside, where the shorter man and the redhead are chasing the goat as it decides to amble off. "Doctor of what?" John calls after him, and gets no reply.
Sherlock slams the door after them and stalks into the living room, cradling his coat like it's a finicky baby. "We'll get it dry-cleaned," says John as he follows after.
"God only knows what he's done to it," growls Sherlock, looking it over seam by seam. "He's insane. He's a madman. How the hell'd he break into the flat without any signs of force?"
"He said something about a sonic screwdriver..."
"Insane." Sherlock scowls and straightens the coat out with a sharp jerk, folding it up and stroking it protectively. "Bloody nuisance."
"Sherlock, my clothes disappeared on the doorstep and I have no idea how it happened." John feels it's very important to point this out.
"Yes, all right, but why my coat? Why didn't he get something of Mrs. Hudson's downstairs, one of her bathrobes--"
"Sherlock."
"What? What is it?"
"What did Mycroft mean in that text message?"
"Nothing," says Sherlock, far too quickly.
"Sherlock."
"I'm going out to the drycleaners," Sherlock announces, shrugging into his coat as he speaks.
John grabs onto both lapels, a firm grip, and stares Sherlock directly in the face. They're standing very close.
Sherlock's hands come down to John's, like he trying to loosen those fingers, and rest there. John breathes out before tipping his head up.
--
The bathrobe and the slippers arrive neatly folded on the doorstep, freshly laundered with a smell John can't quite place. He never quite gets the scent out of those clothes.
A week later John thinks he sees the goat standing at the intersection, blinking big eyes and looking in his direction, but then it's gone.
nDoXgsGgOYCii
(Anonymous) 2012-11-01 08:30 pm (UTC)(link)