Snowed-in, Sherlock & Joan, Joan/Sherlock hinted but a really tame PG-13
Joan woke to the sound of the snowplow in the street, the light beep of its machinery and the shouting voices of the men who manned the thing. She was used to being woken up before her alarm, it was rare she heard the buzz of it anymore, often Sherlock would be sitting beside her, unsettlingly-or if he was feeling kinder, standing at her doorway with a simple breakfast on a tray.
She flicked the switch on her clock, turning it off, laying back for one more minute to enjoy the silence before the 6am news and cartoons and infomercials on Sherlock's wall of televisions could be heard. Silence. Then the slam of a cabinet, the pop-up of the toaster, and the faintest aroma of the french press. Breakfast.
She turned back to the window watching impossibly large, wet snowflakes fall in the bright dawn of the morning. The forecast had predicted a blizzard, she was almost afraid to look at the snowfall. After all, while the police department doesn't stop its work during a blizzard, it can be hindered like any other place of work. Without a fresh, interesting, homicide, she dreaded what the first snow-in with Sherlock could entail. Sure, he'd be grateful to be free of N.A. meetings, but he could only be occupied by media for so long. Games were no use: chess was a disaster between them. Sherlock pushed for two boards at once, playing both so rapidly from an encyclopedia of memorized Grand Master games that he was bored in minutes. But there was...
Sherlock shoveled off a slightly imperfect omelet onto his dish, giving a stir to the egg batter left over for Watson's. He thought about waking her, but without a task to attend to in urgency he was afraid the gesture might appear childish. Most adults didn't find his affinity for winter weather to be something worth losing sleep over.
He pushed the plunger of the french press as Watson shuffled down the stairs, murmuring a good morning, tossing aside bed-headed hair. It was strange how little and how much their relationship had changed since Watson had completed her 'sober companionship' and ventured into something more like 'detective partnership' with a side of... -and though her deduction skills still left something to be desired and her office management could use a kinder touch-she no longer put any airs on around him. There was an intimacy about them now. Though they were still figuring out when exactly that intimacy could be an asset and when it was a distraction, she had grown comfortable with him and he with her.
Perhaps too comfortable, Sherlock observed as Joan placed a wrapped gift in front of him at the table before going about cooking her own breakfast.
"It's December twenty-third," he murmured, his eyes taking in the shape and size of the box, the wrapping was hasty, a bow unevenly glued to the corner with a stuck-on gift tag. "To: Sherlock. From: Watson."
"I know that," Joan murmured with just the hint of a mirthful smile, shuffling around the contents of the pan. Scrambled, he took note. "I thought it might be a good exercise. Guess what it is without opening it."
Sherlock felt a few hairs at the back of his neck stand up. He was intrigued, though it was a stupid game. At least she was making an effort. "May I touch it? Pick it up, that is?"
Joan nodded, her gaze still on the stove. "I suppose, sure, but no peeking at under the wrapping."
He pushed aside his breakfast, reaching for the gift with two careful hands. The box was a medium size, too large to be shoes, too heavy to be one item of clothing, too light to be a new police scanner, too thin to be any of the items of equipment he heavily requested for a gift. The box shifted with a metallic cling inside, lending weight to the hypothesis of equipment but he could only think a VCR might have the thin curved metal and wiring he seemed to hear. Then the shift of plastic pieces. He shook the box once, gingerly, and raised it to his nose to sniff.
Joan dumped her eggs onto an empty plate, pouring a cup of coffee for herself before she settled in beside him, clearly amused. "Any guesses yet?"
Sherlock let his fingers run along the edges of the box, pressing in the wrapping to feel the enclosure of the box.
"I think probing is cheating," Joan murmured, sprinkling her eggs with table salt, taking a confident bite.
"I clarified that touching was allowed," Sherlock responded, continuing his probe before putting down the present.
"Well?"
"Based on your level of glee, the fact that we are snowed in for the time being and that you didn't think to get me a present until this morning I can only hypothesize this is something you had in your room. A re-gift I believe it's called. Weighing approximately one and a quarter pounds, in a sealed box sized ten and a half by fifteen and a half inches, two inches deep... this is the Hasbro-produced children's board game Operation. A game I suspect an old colleague or perhaps your brother gave you in the hopes it would be taken with humor but judging by the disdain with which you shoved it in the back of your closet I'm not surprised you would choose to pass it on."
"Though why you thought I'd be a suitable recipient for it, I don't know. As I mentioned before it is not Christmas yet, though my best guess is that you intend for us to play the game."
Joan lowered her coffee cup and tapped her right pointer finger to the tip of her nose. "Open it, I'll set it up while you finish eating."
"I still don't understand..."
"Your brain works faster than your body. You take fitness somewhat seriously but not your motor skills. Since you refused to pick up the violin again, I think doing something dexterous would be good for you," Watson explained, opening the gift for him, tidying the paper into a ball, scrunching it hard between her hands until it was a tight ball.
"And you would like to keep your 'surgery skills' somewhat sharpened?" Sherlock supposed.
"If I wanted that I wouldn't practice on a game, I would practice in a skills laboratory or in a virtual simulator with real instruments, not a buzzer and fake maladies," Joan slid her finger along the lid of the box, tearing at the seam that held it sealed. She raised the box lid and set up the game, sliding in a pair of batteries from a stowed pocket, running the wired tweezer tool to the metal sides of an opening in the cartoon-man's abdomen, testing the shrill buzzer.
"With any luck, Captain Gregson will call and a gruesome murder will pull us away from this. Until then, we'll let our competitive sides get the better of us," she murmured, sliding the plastic pieces into their appropriate slots. Brain Freeze. Spare Ribs. Butterflies in the Stomach.
Sherlock watched her set up the game distractedly. She'd shoved up the sleeves of a ratty cable-knit sweater so her delicate wrists and hands were free, likely an old habit from medical school. His omelet: cold and unappealing now, sat abandoned as he rose to brew a second batch of coffee. He preferred observing her from afar on quiet mornings like this. As she finished her own meal, tucking a knee under her sweater for warmth, she set up the cards and paper money peripherals of the game.
"If Gregson fails to give notice, and the scanner stays silent," he interrupted the quiet. "And we finish the game, I think perhaps I could give you my Christmas present early as well," he proposed, washing out the used coffee grinds from the glass of the press. "Though I don't think a bow fits neatly on it, and I'd rather you not guess it."
"It's sex. And I think it's somewhat of a re-gift as well," Watson murmured dryly, holding in her smile, tapping the cards straight before placing them by the board.
There was an intimacy about them now. Though they were still figuring out when exactly that intimacy could be an asset and when it was a distraction, she had grown comfortable with him and he with her.
I AM REALLY BUMMED THAT PHOTOBUCKET SEEMS TO BE OUT OF COMMISSION RIGHT NOW, because I feel like a gif of someone's face while they freak out or cry with delight or something would be SO USEFUL right now! But man, this whole thing was such a delight! You have their voices down perfectly, and not just their voices, but the way you convey the body language between them and how they see each other -- augh, I loved it. I loved literally everything about this -- from the snow to them being snowed-in to him guessing that it was Operation to what he wants for Christmas lol to just allllllll the shared domestic details in this!
"It's sex. And I think it's somewhat of a re-gift as well," Watson murmured dryly, holding in her smile, tapping the cards straight before placing them by the board.
JUST PICTURE ZOOEY DESCHANEL CRYING OVER THAT PUPPY IN A CUP, OR ALEX KERKOVICH SOBBING INTO A MEATBALL SUB ABOUT HOW BEAUTIFUL THIS IS. That is me, right now, as I reread this for a third time.
For real though -- thank you so much for writing this! It's like a shocking graveyard of fic for these two and this was basically everything I ever wanted to read, dude! SO THANK YOU!
Joan woke to the sound of the snowplow in the street, the light beep of its machinery and the shouting voices of the men who manned the thing. She was used to being woken up before her alarm, it was rare she heard the buzz of it anymore, often Sherlock would be sitting beside her, unsettlingly-or if he was feeling kinder, standing at her doorway with a simple breakfast on a tray.
She flicked the switch on her clock, turning it off, laying back for one more minute to enjoy the silence before the 6am news and cartoons and infomercials on Sherlock's wall of televisions could be heard. Silence. Then the slam of a cabinet, the pop-up of the toaster, and the faintest aroma of the french press. Breakfast.
She turned back to the window watching impossibly large, wet snowflakes fall in the bright dawn of the morning. The forecast had predicted a blizzard, she was almost afraid to look at the snowfall. After all, while the police department doesn't stop its work during a blizzard, it can be hindered like any other place of work. Without a fresh, interesting, homicide, she dreaded what the first snow-in with Sherlock could entail. Sure, he'd be grateful to be free of N.A. meetings, but he could only be occupied by media for so long. Games were no use: chess was a disaster between them. Sherlock pushed for two boards at once, playing both so rapidly from an encyclopedia of memorized Grand Master games that he was bored in minutes. But there was...
Sherlock shoveled off a slightly imperfect omelet onto his dish, giving a stir to the egg batter left over for Watson's. He thought about waking her, but without a task to attend to in urgency he was afraid the gesture might appear childish. Most adults didn't find his affinity for winter weather to be something worth losing sleep over.
He pushed the plunger of the french press as Watson shuffled down the stairs, murmuring a good morning, tossing aside bed-headed hair. It was strange how little and how much their relationship had changed since Watson had completed her 'sober companionship' and ventured into something more like 'detective partnership' with a side of... -and though her deduction skills still left something to be desired and her office management could use a kinder touch-she no longer put any airs on around him. There was an intimacy about them now. Though they were still figuring out when exactly that intimacy could be an asset and when it was a distraction, she had grown comfortable with him and he with her.
Perhaps too comfortable, Sherlock observed as Joan placed a wrapped gift in front of him at the table before going about cooking her own breakfast.
"It's December twenty-third," he murmured, his eyes taking in the shape and size of the box, the wrapping was hasty, a bow unevenly glued to the corner with a stuck-on gift tag. "To: Sherlock. From: Watson."
"I know that," Joan murmured with just the hint of a mirthful smile, shuffling around the contents of the pan. Scrambled, he took note. "I thought it might be a good exercise. Guess what it is without opening it."
Sherlock felt a few hairs at the back of his neck stand up. He was intrigued, though it was a stupid game. At least she was making an effort. "May I touch it? Pick it up, that is?"
Joan nodded, her gaze still on the stove. "I suppose, sure, but no peeking at under the wrapping."
He pushed aside his breakfast, reaching for the gift with two careful hands. The box was a medium size, too large to be shoes, too heavy to be one item of clothing, too light to be a new police scanner, too thin to be any of the items of equipment he heavily requested for a gift. The box shifted with a metallic cling inside, lending weight to the hypothesis of equipment but he could only think a VCR might have the thin curved metal and wiring he seemed to hear. Then the shift of plastic pieces. He shook the box once, gingerly, and raised it to his nose to sniff.
Joan dumped her eggs onto an empty plate, pouring a cup of coffee for herself before she settled in beside him, clearly amused. "Any guesses yet?"
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"I think probing is cheating," Joan murmured, sprinkling her eggs with table salt, taking a confident bite.
"I clarified that touching was allowed," Sherlock responded, continuing his probe before putting down the present.
"Well?"
"Based on your level of glee, the fact that we are snowed in for the time being and that you didn't think to get me a present until this morning I can only hypothesize this is something you had in your room. A re-gift I believe it's called. Weighing approximately one and a quarter pounds, in a sealed box sized ten and a half by fifteen and a half inches, two inches deep... this is the Hasbro-produced children's board game Operation. A game I suspect an old colleague or perhaps your brother gave you in the hopes it would be taken with humor but judging by the disdain with which you shoved it in the back of your closet I'm not surprised you would choose to pass it on."
"Though why you thought I'd be a suitable recipient for it, I don't know. As I mentioned before it is not Christmas yet, though my best guess is that you intend for us to play the game."
Joan lowered her coffee cup and tapped her right pointer finger to the tip of her nose. "Open it, I'll set it up while you finish eating."
"I still don't understand..."
"Your brain works faster than your body. You take fitness somewhat seriously but not your motor skills. Since you refused to pick up the violin again, I think doing something dexterous would be good for you," Watson explained, opening the gift for him, tidying the paper into a ball, scrunching it hard between her hands until it was a tight ball.
"And you would like to keep your 'surgery skills' somewhat sharpened?" Sherlock supposed.
"If I wanted that I wouldn't practice on a game, I would practice in a skills laboratory or in a virtual simulator with real instruments, not a buzzer and fake maladies," Joan slid her finger along the lid of the box, tearing at the seam that held it sealed. She raised the box lid and set up the game, sliding in a pair of batteries from a stowed pocket, running the wired tweezer tool to the metal sides of an opening in the cartoon-man's abdomen, testing the shrill buzzer.
"With any luck, Captain Gregson will call and a gruesome murder will pull us away from this. Until then, we'll let our competitive sides get the better of us," she murmured, sliding the plastic pieces into their appropriate slots. Brain Freeze. Spare Ribs. Butterflies in the Stomach.
Sherlock watched her set up the game distractedly. She'd shoved up the sleeves of a ratty cable-knit sweater so her delicate wrists and hands were free, likely an old habit from medical school. His omelet: cold and unappealing now, sat abandoned as he rose to brew a second batch of coffee. He preferred observing her from afar on quiet mornings like this. As she finished her own meal, tucking a knee under her sweater for warmth, she set up the cards and paper money peripherals of the game.
"If Gregson fails to give notice, and the scanner stays silent," he interrupted the quiet. "And we finish the game, I think perhaps I could give you my Christmas present early as well," he proposed, washing out the used coffee grinds from the glass of the press. "Though I don't think a bow fits neatly on it, and I'd rather you not guess it."
"It's sex. And I think it's somewhat of a re-gift as well," Watson murmured dryly, holding in her smile, tapping the cards straight before placing them by the board.
"You first."
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I AM REALLY BUMMED THAT PHOTOBUCKET SEEMS TO BE OUT OF COMMISSION RIGHT NOW, because I feel like a gif of someone's face while they freak out or cry with delight or something would be SO USEFUL right now! But man, this whole thing was such a delight! You have their voices down perfectly, and not just their voices, but the way you convey the body language between them and how they see each other -- augh, I loved it. I loved literally everything about this -- from the snow to them being snowed-in to him guessing that it was Operation to what he wants for Christmas lol to just allllllll the shared domestic details in this!
"It's sex. And I think it's somewhat of a re-gift as well," Watson murmured dryly, holding in her smile, tapping the cards straight before placing them by the board.
JUST PICTURE ZOOEY DESCHANEL CRYING OVER THAT PUPPY IN A CUP, OR ALEX KERKOVICH SOBBING INTO A MEATBALL SUB ABOUT HOW BEAUTIFUL THIS IS. That is me, right now, as I reread this for a third time.
For real though -- thank you so much for writing this! It's like a shocking graveyard of fic for these two and this was basically everything I ever wanted to read, dude! SO THANK YOU!
Reply
No but seriously :D Thank you. This was my first time writing them and I thoroughly thoroughly enjoyed it so thank you for the opportunity to do so!
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