Of the use of fruit bowls
Author: eloquy
Title: Of the use of fruit bowls
Fandom: Sherlock (TV)
Word Count: 458
Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes
Pairings: Sherlock/Lestrade
Summary: The weather is hot. So is Lestrade. And Sherlock should keep out of the kitchen.
Rating: T
Author’s Note: Blaming the weather, the long cooking time of my nuggets and other things.
He pulls the fruit bowl from his head, adding a few droplets to the already growing puddle at his feet. Slams it on the counter. Tries to put on his most threatening voice.
Given the unapologetic smile Sherlock gives him from the other side of the kitchen, he already knows that it's not going to work.
Still, he is known for being stubborn, so he gives it a go.
“You do that ever again, you little sh-”
“No need to get foul-mouthed, now, Inspector.”
Lestrade purses his lips and glares at the half-clothed lanky thing sitting on the counter, just for good measure. After a few minutes, he realizes that he has been trying to wipe his dripping brow with his soaked sleeve, and it is not giving good results. He ditch the jacket and drops it on the floor.
“That, Sherlock, was my only suit for the week. Since you burnt and cut through all the others. So, tell me. What do you expect me to wear tomorrow?”
Sherlock's pointed look is enough to convey his position regarding Lestrade and clothes, or rather Lestrade and a preferable lack of clothes. Still, he knows he is expected to answer, as, apparently, that's what civilized people do, so he shrugs, throws an elegant hand in the air and offers:
“You were hot.”
“That is not a good reason to throw a bowl full of icy water on my head.”
The “Yes, it is” goes unspoken, but couldn't be clearer. Still sensing that he has to work a bit to gain full forgiveness, though, Sherlock hops off the counter, tea towel in hand and strides towards the drenched Inspector.
Lestrade lets him wipe his face rather summarily, before taking a step back, arms crossed and a vaguely smug look on his face.
“You said I was hot.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes. It was evident. Red cheeks, sweat across the brow, top two buttons of your shirt opened.”
“Oh, was that what you meant?”
The only answer he gets is a swat of the towel across his face. He is prepared to protest, really, but then Sherlock leans in, and licks a drop running across his jaw, and his carefully prepared words don't exactly make sense any more. He barely even hears the “You stupid man” that is murmured into his ear, because there are hands, and a tongue, and more hands, and really, has Sherlock more limbs that are commonly acceptable?
He knows he should care about the lump of clothes growing on the kitchen floor, because he has to wear something to go to work, but someone has set up its mind in showing him the various meanings of foul-mouthed and one just doesn't miss such a demonstration.