Oh, Arm in Arm We Are the Harmless Sociopaths

[couldbdangerous]

Who: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Kenzi
When: After this conversation.
Where: 20A - where else?
Summary: The weirdos humour each other and getting drunk is not a thing that Sherlock Holmes does, thank you very much.
Rating: Never can tell with these three. PG-13. Maybe R.
Warnings: Swearing and other such indecencies.

Comments

[doctorsoldier]

"Not funny." Was this some sort of test? John frowned, or rather, he pursed his lips, which really equated to the same thing. His eyebrows furrowed lightly and he put his hands on his hips.

John had just come back from the bathroom. He was in a pair of tight white boxer briefs and that was it. The tone of muscle, thank you military training, stood out in the cold florescent light, making a whole new set of bruises and hickies on his neck stand out in sharp relief to somewhat golden skin. The massive, spidering scar on his left shoulder from where he'd gotten shot in the war was more than visible. It ached him constantly but that never slowed him down and he very recently discovered that he enjoyed having it stroked immensely.

"Why would--" And then the knock. Still undressed, John tentatively reached for the knob. And there was Kenzi. "Bloody hell."

[onteamdyson]

"Hey. I'll be good." She raised a hand in timid greeting. Wow. John was already making it really hard to be good. Her gaze ghosted across his bare chest, resting on the scar for a split second before she stared at a very-interesting wall off to the side.

She cleared her throat, playing it cool, "-hhem. So... Sherlock and I were talking and there was apologizing and I'm clearly not drunk and we were just gonna hang out. I'll... uh... just wait until you put some pants on."

Those icy eyes flick back to hold his gaze, "Unless I'm not welcome anymore?"

[couldbdangerous]

Given that Sherlock's first instinct was to pounce John and wrap him in blankets and keep him hidden from everyone else forever, he thought that what he actually ended up doing was really quite acceptable. He slipped himself off of the bed and his hands onto John's shoulders in what was really a very proprietary gesture, yes, but still more subtle than the blankets, and steered him gently out of the doorway and towards his clothes before taking up the post himself

[doctorsoldier]

Technically, he was wearing pants but-- Oh, she meant trousers. Really, he had no idea why articles of clothing got so strange between English speaking countries. Underwear to Americans, pants to him. Vests were undershirts to him but the equivellent of the British 'waistcoat' and-- Oh, it didn't matter.

He and Sherlock had kept to themselves for the past few days, ever since that dreadful Sunday of dreadfulness. He slipped into his trousers and his black and white horizontal striped jumper (sweater for the North Americans, and not cute little coveralls) before hovering near the back of the room.

"How's your head, Kenzi?"