So, Sherlock.
Jan. 15th, 2012 11:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
themegalooActually, when it comes down to writing anything like a reaction I have nothing. Unless you count "OH GOD" which I think basically everyone has done. Or I can describe how in preparation I grabbed the corner of the comfy couch and a big fluffy sweater, wrapped myself in it, and basically didn't move.
And then I ate dinner and braved tumblr and finally finished writing a silly fic for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aylathebunny that I said I would write back at the epic post-panel time at DCon. It is very silly. It's also on tumblr. But I don't UNDERSTAND TUMBLR THAT WELL STILL so it's also here.
(Sherlock/John, nothing too exciting, to date my only Sherlock ficlet, 740 words, Sherlock dressed as a priest)
The conversation had gone something like this:
“If you want to know so much about her and her supposedly religious homicidal tendencies, you can go talk to her yourself. She had so many cats in that flat that my histamines are going to be going mental for weeks.”
John had promptly taken himself to the kitchen after that announcement for some Zyrtec-D and a nice hot cuppa to cure all ills. Minus the milk, of course. He hadn’t thought anything of it when Sherlock had hummed in response before leaving the flat. Probably off to acquire more severed body parts (and not milk), John told himself as he sneezed a bit more of the cat fur out of his nose—being very careful to aim away from the experiments on the table. (The last time he’d done that, something had blown up and Sherlock had been disturbingly gleeful about the whole thing. Something about the way his mucus had interacted with…whatever it had been. Certain things were simply best forgotten.)
Of course, that had been hours ago, now. It was late, John was sat in front of the telly, watching something pleasantly mindless and eating some leftover takeout (it had been clearly marked in the fridge—JOHN’S DINNER, NOT AN EXPERIMENT—and they’d been through this enough times that he was reasonably certain that it was safe for consumption) when Sherlock waltzed in (John had given up on referring to what Sherlock did as something so pedestrian as walking. His coat twirled. It was waltzing. And he did so admire the view. And the view of what was under it. But that is another story.)
The coat came off, flung across the back of the couch as Sherlock spun to face John. Of course, that was when the costume became evident. Right after a delightful view of Sherlock’s spinning backside (always good for observing, it was a nice view). So of course, John was totally justified in having Inappropriate Thoughts About Sherlock before he recognized that there was a bit of something unexpected to his attire.
“Since when are you a priest?”
“Since it prompted a full confession from, as you put it, a woman with ‘supposedly religious homicidal tendencies, of course.”
“So you’re meaning to tell me you went out in possibly-blasphemous fancy dress to trick a poor old cat lady into confessing her sins?”
“Bit not good?”
“Just a bit.” Watson shifted in his armchair, pulling the takeout box over his lap. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the movement. “Shut up.” (Sherlock went to open his mouth--) “And yes I know you hadn’t said anything, but I also know you were thinking about it!”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in the approximation of a smirk. John rolled his eyes and pulled the carton closer, hoping that the sauce wouldn’t stain his jumper irreversibly. “Do you have a confession to make as well, John?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Really? Because the way you are shifting and clutching the takeaway would indicate a heightened state of arousal, as would the flush on your cheeks, though some of that could also be linked to embarrassment, which is abnormal as you have not been embarrassed at your arousal in my presence for some time now, so I can reliably say it is related to the particular cause of your arousal, in this case, my particular state of dress…”
“Yes, no, fine, I mean… Just shut up before I start throwing my prawns at you, you utter arse!” John huffed and relinquished the carton, placing it back on the table but still within easy reach, just in case the few remaining prawns were needed. Sherlock huffed something resembling a laugh, or possibly outrage, and glared briefly at the takeaway before looking back to John.
“Well? Did I miss anything?”
“No. No, of course you didn’t. Except for the fact that you’ve discovered a kink I didn’t even know I HAD. Now get over here and do something about it or the food really will start flying and I won’t be the one to blame, you’ll have driven me to it.”
“John.” Sherlock was moving now, pulling the table out of the way and out of reach, looming over the armchair. John swallowed. “Do shut up.”
And that, John thought as he grabbed the lapels on Sherlock’s suit to pull him in close, was better than being asked for a confession any day.
yup. that has been my day.
And then I ate dinner and braved tumblr and finally finished writing a silly fic for
aylathebunny that I said I would write back at the epic post-panel time at DCon. It is very silly. It's also on tumblr. But I don't UNDERSTAND TUMBLR THAT WELL STILL so it's also here.(Sherlock/John, nothing too exciting, to date my only Sherlock ficlet, 740 words, Sherlock dressed as a priest)
The conversation had gone something like this:
“If you want to know so much about her and her supposedly religious homicidal tendencies, you can go talk to her yourself. She had so many cats in that flat that my histamines are going to be going mental for weeks.”
John had promptly taken himself to the kitchen after that announcement for some Zyrtec-D and a nice hot cuppa to cure all ills. Minus the milk, of course. He hadn’t thought anything of it when Sherlock had hummed in response before leaving the flat. Probably off to acquire more severed body parts (and not milk), John told himself as he sneezed a bit more of the cat fur out of his nose—being very careful to aim away from the experiments on the table. (The last time he’d done that, something had blown up and Sherlock had been disturbingly gleeful about the whole thing. Something about the way his mucus had interacted with…whatever it had been. Certain things were simply best forgotten.)
Of course, that had been hours ago, now. It was late, John was sat in front of the telly, watching something pleasantly mindless and eating some leftover takeout (it had been clearly marked in the fridge—JOHN’S DINNER, NOT AN EXPERIMENT—and they’d been through this enough times that he was reasonably certain that it was safe for consumption) when Sherlock waltzed in (John had given up on referring to what Sherlock did as something so pedestrian as walking. His coat twirled. It was waltzing. And he did so admire the view. And the view of what was under it. But that is another story.)
The coat came off, flung across the back of the couch as Sherlock spun to face John. Of course, that was when the costume became evident. Right after a delightful view of Sherlock’s spinning backside (always good for observing, it was a nice view). So of course, John was totally justified in having Inappropriate Thoughts About Sherlock before he recognized that there was a bit of something unexpected to his attire.
“Since when are you a priest?”
“Since it prompted a full confession from, as you put it, a woman with ‘supposedly religious homicidal tendencies, of course.”
“So you’re meaning to tell me you went out in possibly-blasphemous fancy dress to trick a poor old cat lady into confessing her sins?”
“Bit not good?”
“Just a bit.” Watson shifted in his armchair, pulling the takeout box over his lap. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the movement. “Shut up.” (Sherlock went to open his mouth--) “And yes I know you hadn’t said anything, but I also know you were thinking about it!”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched in the approximation of a smirk. John rolled his eyes and pulled the carton closer, hoping that the sauce wouldn’t stain his jumper irreversibly. “Do you have a confession to make as well, John?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Really? Because the way you are shifting and clutching the takeaway would indicate a heightened state of arousal, as would the flush on your cheeks, though some of that could also be linked to embarrassment, which is abnormal as you have not been embarrassed at your arousal in my presence for some time now, so I can reliably say it is related to the particular cause of your arousal, in this case, my particular state of dress…”
“Yes, no, fine, I mean… Just shut up before I start throwing my prawns at you, you utter arse!” John huffed and relinquished the carton, placing it back on the table but still within easy reach, just in case the few remaining prawns were needed. Sherlock huffed something resembling a laugh, or possibly outrage, and glared briefly at the takeaway before looking back to John.
“Well? Did I miss anything?”
“No. No, of course you didn’t. Except for the fact that you’ve discovered a kink I didn’t even know I HAD. Now get over here and do something about it or the food really will start flying and I won’t be the one to blame, you’ll have driven me to it.”
“John.” Sherlock was moving now, pulling the table out of the way and out of reach, looming over the armchair. John swallowed. “Do shut up.”
And that, John thought as he grabbed the lapels on Sherlock’s suit to pull him in close, was better than being asked for a confession any day.
yup. that has been my day.
