Sherlock Bingo Card Drabbles Part 2 & 3
As I'm now on my second card, I thought I'd post my finished drabbles. The first line is here. The original card is here.
Warnings: Some slash, nothing too offensive.
Rating: Mostly PG.
100 Word Drabbles: Please, Elbow, Pill, On, Itch, Brush, Alone, Lace, October, Drink
1 Sentance Story: Lather, Gobble
200 Word Drabble: Extra
300 Word Drabble: Embargo
221b (221 Words, final word beginning with 'b'): Pounce
Pic Prompt: This
Bonus: Three blackouts (100 word drabble using every prompt on the card)
I make no apologies for the cracky nature of some of these...
Lace
“Here we are,” says Sherlock. He gestures to a seedy looking shop-front and steps inside with a confidence no man has ever displayed entering a knicker-shop.
“I believe Kathy-Ann Harper supplied underwear for you?” Sherlock asks the blonde at the counter.
“Yeah.” She glances Sherlock over. “She made this.”
With a lusty smile the girl opens her silk robe displaying some black lace and little else.
“May I...?”
The girl shrugs, giving Sherlock permission to do whatever he likes.
Sherlock whips out his magnifier and leans in to look closely.
“Lovely stitching,” he smiles, and saunters out of the shop.
Pill
“Viagra!” John howled. He was slightly hysterical - understandably - at the news that he had unknowingly ingested a sexual stimulant. “I’ve had some pretty dodgy pranks played on me in my time, but no-one has ever given me Viagra! Where did you even get it from?”
“I wrote out a prescription on your pad.” Sherlock looked bemused at John’s petty hysteria.
“WHY?”
“To see what would happen.”
“What did you bloody *think* would happen?!”
Sherlock rattled off a long explanation; apparently a suspect in a sex attack was relying on John’s data.
“Well forget it!” John snapped. “I’m going upstairs. ALONE.”
Elbow
“Ow,” John hissed. “Were you at the front of the queue when they handed out bony elbows?”
Sherlock looked mutinous. John had expected this. They’d been flying for six hours and John had already heard more facts about the people around him than he ever wanted to know. Sherlock had even solved a fraud case over the in-flight phone. It was only to be expected that Sherlock would now turn to physical abuse.
“I’m bored!”
“I’m not your mother! Figure something out.”
“What?”
“I dunno... the easiest way to join the mile-high club.”
Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Oh...that’s *easy*,” he breathed.
Please
Please. It wasn’t a word John would normally associate with Sherlock; he certainly never used it. But it was a word hardwired into life with him.
“Oh *please*...” Sally would scoff in the morning at the crime scene.
By lunch time, when Lestrade’s patience was wearing thin he would turn to John desperately. “Would you *please* explain to him why I can’t do that?” he’d huff.
In the evening Mrs. Hudson would sigh. “Oh really Sherlock, can you *please* stop putting industrial waste in the recycling?”
And then, at midnight, John would moan into Sherlock’s shoulder; “Sherlock... yeah... mmph... *please*.”
Alone
At first Anderson seemed like a good option. He was moderately intelligent (by normal standards) and his shirt collar and beard suggested marriage on the rocks - meaning he was happy to throw himself into work. For a while, he made an adequate assistant.
But then he invited Sherlock along to the pub. Sherlock merely stared at him.
When he started mentioning his marriage problems things had gone too far.
“Look, whatever ITV detective-duo you’ve imagined us to be, you’re wrong. There will be no sharing of personal details or socialising.”
Sherlock stalked off. He was better off alone, after all.
Drink
The first time Sherlock giggles at a crime scene it silences the entire room. Oh sure, there’s been mocking laughter before, and sarcastic barks, but never an honest-to-god giggle.
At that point it doesn’t matter exactly what has made Sherlock laugh (Lestrade thinks it was something John muttered) but the reason behind it.
“Have you been drinking?”
Sherlock frowns as if *Lestrade* is acting out of character. “Of course not.”
Every eye in the room flicks between John and Sherlock and as they realise there may be more to this friendship than it seemed; every eye focuses back on work.
Brush
“I don’t think they’re gay.”
Mrs. Hudson scowled at Mrs. Turner. They were sat by the window, with Mrs. Turner’s tea-set arranged between them like a complex battle-game. A veiled comment re;cheap-biscuits had just increased Mrs. Hudson’s lead. A chance spotting of John and Sherlock had caught Mrs. Turner’s eye.
“You haven’t heard the noises from their flat.” Mrs. Hudson was going to argue they were if she had to sit here all afternoon.
As the boys passed, they caught Sherlock’s hand brushing at John’s shoulder. Game. Set. Match.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Are there any more of those *charming* biscuits?”
On
*vague prompt is vague*
Just in case someone in Greater London didn’t know, when Sherlock was on a case he was wired. If there was an ‘off’ button the no-one knew where it was, least of all Sherlock.
The only thing that got Sherlock going when he wasn’t on a case (aside from a good murder) was sex, which brought back a little of his pent-up energy.
But the best thing, the very best, was the rare occasions he got turned on during a case. Wired Sherlock x turned on Sherlock = the single greatest rush known to man. And John just loved it.
Itch
She suspects that she’s like an itch in the back of his mind. Annoying, becoming more and more irritating as time goes on, and only ever dealt with when he has no other choice. She’s just as easily dealt with too - a few nice words (or at least, not outright cruel ones) and he can push Molly from his mind completely.
It’s a stupid thought, but it rings true so often that she finds herself reflecting on it at odd moments- filling in paperwork, watching tv, once while elbow deep inside Mr. Farrington.
If only she knew how to stop.
October
“I forbid this!”
John raised an eyebrow. “It’s a free country!”
“Then I’ll phone Mycroft and get him to change that.”
John scoffed. “It’s a bit of fun.”
“Fun. You’re writing a novel. about me. Next month.”
“It’s not about you, it’s about Gregory House*, a bitter, twisted, cantankerous, genius of a doctor who makes his friend’s lives miserable. However if you’re willing to say you’re those things, then yes, it’s about you.”
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. “What do you even get out of this... NaNoWriMo?”
John grinned. “The pleasure of winding you up for an entire month.”
*because in a world without Sherlock there would be no inspiration for House...and someone needs to invent him.
Double Drabble: Extra
Double Drabble: Extra
It was all very well Donovan saying ‘get a hobby’. She had never taken into account Sherlock’s extra-curricular activities. Fencing. Martial arts. Violin recitals. Concerts. Scientific lectures. Chess games.
He wondered whether Sherlock had had pushy parents, because his non puzzle-solving schedule was similar to that of Georgie Harper from school, whose parents had signed him up to MENSA aged four and who had eventually gone crazy and took off all his clothes in the middle of Maths.
On the rare occasions John wasn’t working, crime-fighting, or doing chores, he was hovering in the back of gymnasiums or halls looking like a cross between a proud parent and an embarrassed boyfriend.
Not to mention the concerts where Sherlock paused in-between rapt attention to explain complicated pieces (and annoy other listeners).
Then there were clothing shops - Sherlock was continually on the hunt for the right disguise and needed John’s opinion on everything (John preferred this to when Sherlock didn’t tell him and leapt out on him in disguise when he wasn’t expecting it.)
Sherlock showed no signs of flipping and ripping off his clothes (John had been tempted during a few more boring lectures.)
Get a hobby? John didn’t have time.
Triple Drabble: Embargo
“I’m telling you, this is going to be huge.”
A man and a woman sat in a cluttered office. The red-headed woman (Lola) has a photo of Sherlock Holmes in front of her and a copy of John Watson’s service record at her elbow. The wiry man (Dennis) is scrolling through The Science of Deduction website.
“Yeah Lo, but there’s a lot of high-ups involved. Rumour has it there’s going to be a news embargo until after Moriarty is convicted.”
“If he’s convicted,” Lola points out.
“When he’s convicted. This guy-” he taps Sherlock’s photo “-has influence. Had influence.”
“There isn’t a news embargo yet,” she wheedles. “I saw the wreckage of that pool and it wasn’t a gas explosion that caused it. Every contact I have has rumours of bomb vests, forgeries, kidnaps...you name it this guy’s done it. And these two-” she taps the folder, imitating him “-brought him down. They’re heroes.”
“They’re dead heroes.”
Lola grins. “Even better reason to tell the story. C’mon if we get the scoop before the embargo this’ll pay our pensions...not to mention our holiday home in Tuscany.” This last is whispered seductively in his ear.
“How long do you reckon we’ll live if we do?” Dennis raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t joking about Holmes’ contacts. His brother-”
The phone rings and Lola answers.
“Hello?”
She says nothing for a long while; just listens before dropping the receiver.
“Moriarty has just been found dead in his cell, horribly tortured and beaten. No one knows how the person got in or what happened to the CCTV.”
The two of them turn to look at another photo. They only have the one. Mycroft.
They share a look. “It’ll be the story of the century.”
“We’ll be killed,” says Dennis.
Lola kisses him. “Dead heroes.”
1 Sentance: Lather
They both step into the shower, drizzle the gel into their hands, lather it up, and wash - both convinced that they now smell like the other.
1 Sentance: Gobble
If ever John had proof that Sherlock was human it was the day that someone bought a (live) turkey into the flat (something to do with it swallowing a sapphire), unfortunately Sherlock was hindered by his irrational phobia of live poultry - and no amount of reasoning would get him down off the table until it was gone.
221b: Pounce
The Big Cat
A poem by Molly about absolutely no-one anyone would know.
Edited by Sherlock Holmes (technically without her permission, but as he found it in a Valentine’s Card addressed to him he feels entitled to do what he wants to it.)
---
I know that he’s wild
All elegant and sharp
I know that I’m mild
A meek bleeding heart [DID SOMEONE SEND YOU TO SOME SELF-AWARENESS CLASSES?]
He stalks through the jungle [FACTUALLY INCORRECT]
A panther in the night [A PANTHER?! WAIT, ACTUALLY I LIKE THAT. THOUGH IN REGARDS TO THE FIRST LINE, PANTHERS ALSO POPULATE SAVANNAHS AND WOODLANDS, NOT JUST JUNGLE.]
And I just stand there and mumble [YOU PUT YOURSELF DOWN...YOU HAVE A CLEAR SPEAKING VOICE.]
As if he might pounce and bite
I play with pet kittens
He fights with men in their prime
I stay home and knit mittens [DO YOU REALLY KNIT MITTENS, OR DID YOU JUST RUN OUT OF WORDS THAT RHYME WITH KITTENS?]
While he’s out stopping crime
He’s clever and witty and brilliant and more [THIS LINE ISN’T AS APALLING AS THE REST.]
I think I’m a genius until he walks through the door [REALLY? YOU DO?]
I should stop moping
That’s what my friends said
But I just can’t help hoping
I’ll find him curled up in my bed.
Picture Prompt
John had the ultimate faith in Sherlock. The man could kill someone and John would be there helping him hide the body (and probably doing the heavy lifting). But he sure as hell wasn’t eating anything the man put down in front of him.
Sherlock knew this, so why was he cooking?
John ran through every reason he might have pissed Sherlock off. His date the other night? Chucking out the toenails accidentally?
Oh.
“This is about what I wrote...isn’t it?”
Sherlock merely smiled and laid down a plate of eggs that had been through unspeakable torture.
“Eat up john.”
Blackout 1
It was October and John was alone on the sofa, high on pills, recovering from their quest. Sherlock had noctambulated to the shower to lather himself and brush out the blood flakes.
John stared at the lace nets as he recalled the case - the mob’s list of embargos, the jagged knife, the wound to his elbow which now itched like his rugby ones had.
Words had had no effect. If Sherlock hadn’t pounced on the greedy, gobbling men at the last minute (with no small amount of extra flair)...John didn’t deny he owed Sherlock.
Sherlock appeared.
“Drink?”
Sherlock nodded. “Please.”
Blackout 2
Sherlock doesn’t deny that this quest has taken a bizarre turn, not for a minute. Heexpected an embargo plot, not to end up alone on a rugby ground in October, tied to a jagged post with lace knickers in his mouth, a wounded elbow and an itch.
Please...a drunken night out hadn’t been on his to-do list.
Still, John had gobbled down various drinks and shown surprising flair on the dance-floor brushing amid a mob of noctambulating dancers on pills.
But no words were going to make up for pouncing on John at the foam-party and getting them extra lathery...
Blackout 3
This is worse than sudoku. It's addictive trying to squeeze 26 words into a hundred and have it make sense (I took some liberties with mob for mobile this time. And jagged - can cheekbones be jagged?).
--
John hated drinking with Sherlock, even more than his rugby mates. Girls got themselves into extra lathers over his jagged cheekbones and coat-swishing flair. This Miss. October in lace wanted to pounce and gobble him up. One hand on his elbow; the other brushing his chest.
Sherlock cut-short her quest in a minute by denial. “Please. With the pill you took and list on your mob. you won’t remember these words tomorrow when you noctambulate through a hangover.”
“And sorry to wound you but that itch you have should put an embargo on sex.”
From now on John drank alone.
Warnings: Some slash, nothing too offensive.
Rating: Mostly PG.
100 Word Drabbles: Please, Elbow, Pill, On, Itch, Brush, Alone, Lace, October, Drink
1 Sentance Story: Lather, Gobble
200 Word Drabble: Extra
300 Word Drabble: Embargo
221b (221 Words, final word beginning with 'b'): Pounce
Pic Prompt: This
Bonus: Three blackouts (100 word drabble using every prompt on the card)
I make no apologies for the cracky nature of some of these...
Lace
“Here we are,” says Sherlock. He gestures to a seedy looking shop-front and steps inside with a confidence no man has ever displayed entering a knicker-shop.
“I believe Kathy-Ann Harper supplied underwear for you?” Sherlock asks the blonde at the counter.
“Yeah.” She glances Sherlock over. “She made this.”
With a lusty smile the girl opens her silk robe displaying some black lace and little else.
“May I...?”
The girl shrugs, giving Sherlock permission to do whatever he likes.
Sherlock whips out his magnifier and leans in to look closely.
“Lovely stitching,” he smiles, and saunters out of the shop.
Pill
“Viagra!” John howled. He was slightly hysterical - understandably - at the news that he had unknowingly ingested a sexual stimulant. “I’ve had some pretty dodgy pranks played on me in my time, but no-one has ever given me Viagra! Where did you even get it from?”
“I wrote out a prescription on your pad.” Sherlock looked bemused at John’s petty hysteria.
“WHY?”
“To see what would happen.”
“What did you bloody *think* would happen?!”
Sherlock rattled off a long explanation; apparently a suspect in a sex attack was relying on John’s data.
“Well forget it!” John snapped. “I’m going upstairs. ALONE.”
Elbow
“Ow,” John hissed. “Were you at the front of the queue when they handed out bony elbows?”
Sherlock looked mutinous. John had expected this. They’d been flying for six hours and John had already heard more facts about the people around him than he ever wanted to know. Sherlock had even solved a fraud case over the in-flight phone. It was only to be expected that Sherlock would now turn to physical abuse.
“I’m bored!”
“I’m not your mother! Figure something out.”
“What?”
“I dunno... the easiest way to join the mile-high club.”
Sherlock’s eyes gleamed. “Oh...that’s *easy*,” he breathed.
Please
Please. It wasn’t a word John would normally associate with Sherlock; he certainly never used it. But it was a word hardwired into life with him.
“Oh *please*...” Sally would scoff in the morning at the crime scene.
By lunch time, when Lestrade’s patience was wearing thin he would turn to John desperately. “Would you *please* explain to him why I can’t do that?” he’d huff.
In the evening Mrs. Hudson would sigh. “Oh really Sherlock, can you *please* stop putting industrial waste in the recycling?”
And then, at midnight, John would moan into Sherlock’s shoulder; “Sherlock... yeah... mmph... *please*.”
Alone
At first Anderson seemed like a good option. He was moderately intelligent (by normal standards) and his shirt collar and beard suggested marriage on the rocks - meaning he was happy to throw himself into work. For a while, he made an adequate assistant.
But then he invited Sherlock along to the pub. Sherlock merely stared at him.
When he started mentioning his marriage problems things had gone too far.
“Look, whatever ITV detective-duo you’ve imagined us to be, you’re wrong. There will be no sharing of personal details or socialising.”
Sherlock stalked off. He was better off alone, after all.
Drink
The first time Sherlock giggles at a crime scene it silences the entire room. Oh sure, there’s been mocking laughter before, and sarcastic barks, but never an honest-to-god giggle.
At that point it doesn’t matter exactly what has made Sherlock laugh (Lestrade thinks it was something John muttered) but the reason behind it.
“Have you been drinking?”
Sherlock frowns as if *Lestrade* is acting out of character. “Of course not.”
Every eye in the room flicks between John and Sherlock and as they realise there may be more to this friendship than it seemed; every eye focuses back on work.
Brush
“I don’t think they’re gay.”
Mrs. Hudson scowled at Mrs. Turner. They were sat by the window, with Mrs. Turner’s tea-set arranged between them like a complex battle-game. A veiled comment re;cheap-biscuits had just increased Mrs. Hudson’s lead. A chance spotting of John and Sherlock had caught Mrs. Turner’s eye.
“You haven’t heard the noises from their flat.” Mrs. Hudson was going to argue they were if she had to sit here all afternoon.
As the boys passed, they caught Sherlock’s hand brushing at John’s shoulder. Game. Set. Match.
Mrs. Hudson smiled. “Are there any more of those *charming* biscuits?”
On
*vague prompt is vague*
Just in case someone in Greater London didn’t know, when Sherlock was on a case he was wired. If there was an ‘off’ button the no-one knew where it was, least of all Sherlock.
The only thing that got Sherlock going when he wasn’t on a case (aside from a good murder) was sex, which brought back a little of his pent-up energy.
But the best thing, the very best, was the rare occasions he got turned on during a case. Wired Sherlock x turned on Sherlock = the single greatest rush known to man. And John just loved it.
Itch
She suspects that she’s like an itch in the back of his mind. Annoying, becoming more and more irritating as time goes on, and only ever dealt with when he has no other choice. She’s just as easily dealt with too - a few nice words (or at least, not outright cruel ones) and he can push Molly from his mind completely.
It’s a stupid thought, but it rings true so often that she finds herself reflecting on it at odd moments- filling in paperwork, watching tv, once while elbow deep inside Mr. Farrington.
If only she knew how to stop.
October
“I forbid this!”
John raised an eyebrow. “It’s a free country!”
“Then I’ll phone Mycroft and get him to change that.”
John scoffed. “It’s a bit of fun.”
“Fun. You’re writing a novel. about me. Next month.”
“It’s not about you, it’s about Gregory House*, a bitter, twisted, cantankerous, genius of a doctor who makes his friend’s lives miserable. However if you’re willing to say you’re those things, then yes, it’s about you.”
Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. “What do you even get out of this... NaNoWriMo?”
John grinned. “The pleasure of winding you up for an entire month.”
*because in a world without Sherlock there would be no inspiration for House...and someone needs to invent him.
Double Drabble: Extra
Double Drabble: Extra
It was all very well Donovan saying ‘get a hobby’. She had never taken into account Sherlock’s extra-curricular activities. Fencing. Martial arts. Violin recitals. Concerts. Scientific lectures. Chess games.
He wondered whether Sherlock had had pushy parents, because his non puzzle-solving schedule was similar to that of Georgie Harper from school, whose parents had signed him up to MENSA aged four and who had eventually gone crazy and took off all his clothes in the middle of Maths.
On the rare occasions John wasn’t working, crime-fighting, or doing chores, he was hovering in the back of gymnasiums or halls looking like a cross between a proud parent and an embarrassed boyfriend.
Not to mention the concerts where Sherlock paused in-between rapt attention to explain complicated pieces (and annoy other listeners).
Then there were clothing shops - Sherlock was continually on the hunt for the right disguise and needed John’s opinion on everything (John preferred this to when Sherlock didn’t tell him and leapt out on him in disguise when he wasn’t expecting it.)
Sherlock showed no signs of flipping and ripping off his clothes (John had been tempted during a few more boring lectures.)
Get a hobby? John didn’t have time.
Triple Drabble: Embargo
“I’m telling you, this is going to be huge.”
A man and a woman sat in a cluttered office. The red-headed woman (Lola) has a photo of Sherlock Holmes in front of her and a copy of John Watson’s service record at her elbow. The wiry man (Dennis) is scrolling through The Science of Deduction website.
“Yeah Lo, but there’s a lot of high-ups involved. Rumour has it there’s going to be a news embargo until after Moriarty is convicted.”
“If he’s convicted,” Lola points out.
“When he’s convicted. This guy-” he taps Sherlock’s photo “-has influence. Had influence.”
“There isn’t a news embargo yet,” she wheedles. “I saw the wreckage of that pool and it wasn’t a gas explosion that caused it. Every contact I have has rumours of bomb vests, forgeries, kidnaps...you name it this guy’s done it. And these two-” she taps the folder, imitating him “-brought him down. They’re heroes.”
“They’re dead heroes.”
Lola grins. “Even better reason to tell the story. C’mon if we get the scoop before the embargo this’ll pay our pensions...not to mention our holiday home in Tuscany.” This last is whispered seductively in his ear.
“How long do you reckon we’ll live if we do?” Dennis raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t joking about Holmes’ contacts. His brother-”
The phone rings and Lola answers.
“Hello?”
She says nothing for a long while; just listens before dropping the receiver.
“Moriarty has just been found dead in his cell, horribly tortured and beaten. No one knows how the person got in or what happened to the CCTV.”
The two of them turn to look at another photo. They only have the one. Mycroft.
They share a look. “It’ll be the story of the century.”
“We’ll be killed,” says Dennis.
Lola kisses him. “Dead heroes.”
1 Sentance: Lather
They both step into the shower, drizzle the gel into their hands, lather it up, and wash - both convinced that they now smell like the other.
1 Sentance: Gobble
If ever John had proof that Sherlock was human it was the day that someone bought a (live) turkey into the flat (something to do with it swallowing a sapphire), unfortunately Sherlock was hindered by his irrational phobia of live poultry - and no amount of reasoning would get him down off the table until it was gone.
221b: Pounce
The Big Cat
A poem by Molly about absolutely no-one anyone would know.
Edited by Sherlock Holmes (technically without her permission, but as he found it in a Valentine’s Card addressed to him he feels entitled to do what he wants to it.)
---
I know that he’s wild
All elegant and sharp
I know that I’m mild
A meek bleeding heart [DID SOMEONE SEND YOU TO SOME SELF-AWARENESS CLASSES?]
He stalks through the jungle [FACTUALLY INCORRECT]
A panther in the night [A PANTHER?! WAIT, ACTUALLY I LIKE THAT. THOUGH IN REGARDS TO THE FIRST LINE, PANTHERS ALSO POPULATE SAVANNAHS AND WOODLANDS, NOT JUST JUNGLE.]
And I just stand there and mumble [YOU PUT YOURSELF DOWN...YOU HAVE A CLEAR SPEAKING VOICE.]
As if he might pounce and bite
I play with pet kittens
He fights with men in their prime
I stay home and knit mittens [DO YOU REALLY KNIT MITTENS, OR DID YOU JUST RUN OUT OF WORDS THAT RHYME WITH KITTENS?]
While he’s out stopping crime
He’s clever and witty and brilliant and more [THIS LINE ISN’T AS APALLING AS THE REST.]
I think I’m a genius until he walks through the door [REALLY? YOU DO?]
I should stop moping
That’s what my friends said
But I just can’t help hoping
I’ll find him curled up in my bed.
Picture Prompt
John had the ultimate faith in Sherlock. The man could kill someone and John would be there helping him hide the body (and probably doing the heavy lifting). But he sure as hell wasn’t eating anything the man put down in front of him.
Sherlock knew this, so why was he cooking?
John ran through every reason he might have pissed Sherlock off. His date the other night? Chucking out the toenails accidentally?
Oh.
“This is about what I wrote...isn’t it?”
Sherlock merely smiled and laid down a plate of eggs that had been through unspeakable torture.
“Eat up john.”
Blackout 1
It was October and John was alone on the sofa, high on pills, recovering from their quest. Sherlock had noctambulated to the shower to lather himself and brush out the blood flakes.
John stared at the lace nets as he recalled the case - the mob’s list of embargos, the jagged knife, the wound to his elbow which now itched like his rugby ones had.
Words had had no effect. If Sherlock hadn’t pounced on the greedy, gobbling men at the last minute (with no small amount of extra flair)...John didn’t deny he owed Sherlock.
Sherlock appeared.
“Drink?”
Sherlock nodded. “Please.”
Blackout 2
Sherlock doesn’t deny that this quest has taken a bizarre turn, not for a minute. Heexpected an embargo plot, not to end up alone on a rugby ground in October, tied to a jagged post with lace knickers in his mouth, a wounded elbow and an itch.
Please...a drunken night out hadn’t been on his to-do list.
Still, John had gobbled down various drinks and shown surprising flair on the dance-floor brushing amid a mob of noctambulating dancers on pills.
But no words were going to make up for pouncing on John at the foam-party and getting them extra lathery...
Blackout 3
This is worse than sudoku. It's addictive trying to squeeze 26 words into a hundred and have it make sense (I took some liberties with mob for mobile this time. And jagged - can cheekbones be jagged?).
--
John hated drinking with Sherlock, even more than his rugby mates. Girls got themselves into extra lathers over his jagged cheekbones and coat-swishing flair. This Miss. October in lace wanted to pounce and gobble him up. One hand on his elbow; the other brushing his chest.
Sherlock cut-short her quest in a minute by denial. “Please. With the pill you took and list on your mob. you won’t remember these words tomorrow when you noctambulate through a hangover.”
“And sorry to wound you but that itch you have should put an embargo on sex.”
From now on John drank alone.