Sherlock fic: The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 14
Title: The Problem with Personal Blogs, Part 14/21
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, the BBC gang (Molly, Sarah, Donovan, Anderson)
Rating: PG to Strong Adult - this part PG-13
Warnings: Excessive estrogen, reciprocity
Summary: Sherlock finds himself the recipient of unwanted attention, thanks to the Internet.
Notes: Thank you winterstorrm for the beta and Britpick.
For a complete list of chapters, see: The Problem with Personal Blogs, chapter list.
14. The Morning After
John felt pretty pleased with
himself when he came down to the sitting room the next morning. He was still
relaxed from the pleasant evening yesterday- even more by the delightful
goodnight kisses that Sarah had favored him with. Yes, John was feeling very
good indeed.
The flat was unusually quiet.
Normally he heard some small sounds as Sherlock researched something in the
paper or on the Internet; his flatmate rarely slept in when he had a case. But
today the place sounded deserted. John entered the sitting room to find it
empty, and then glanced into the kitchen. No Sherlock. Usually John noticed, at
least on a semi-conscious level, when Sherlock crept to his room late at night.
Yet John had heard no such sounds. He could only conclude that Sherlock was out
and hadn't yet returned.
He wondered if the elusive author
had put in an appearance; that was one thing certain to keep Sherlock engaged.
John was just the tiniest bit regretful that this might be the case. That
enthusiastic blogger was definitely good for creating situations where Sherlock
had to be on his best behavior; John would be sorry to see the need for social
graces, however assumed, to vanish. Perhaps Lestrade had contacted him. John
hoped so; he would like to get at least one more enjoyable evening out of the elusive
stalker before Sherlock tracked her down and was free to assume his regular
abrasive personality.
He had made his tea and toast, and
was just sitting down at his laptop to check email, when he heard plodding footsteps
on the stairs. Sherlock? It must be. He hadn't heard a ring-yet that didn't
sound like Sherlock's step. It was far too heavy. The next moment the door
opened, removing all doubt.
It was Sherlock, but in such a state
as John had never seen him. His hair was wild, his scarf askew, his whole
expression thoroughly knackered. Without even a glance at John, Sherlock
dragged off his coat and scarf, draping them so carelessly over the tree that the
scarf fell to the floor. He didn't seem to observe it. When he turned back around,
John could see that his elegant suit was appallingly rumpled, with three
buttons ripped from his shirt.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Sherlock swayed slightly, caught
himself, then eyed John blearily. "Sex."
"Sorry?"
"Sex." Sherlock staggered
across the room and flopped onto his back on the sofa, flinging one arm across
his eyes to shield them from the weak morning light. "Oral sex. Vaginal
sex. Highly creative sex. Repetitive, energetic, nonstop sex. Basically... sex."
John felt lightheaded. "With...
Molly?"
"Of course with Molly! Who else
did you think- my blogger?"
"But... but..."
Bewilderment gave way to disapproval. "Sherlock, you only invited her out
as part of the ruse. You weren't supposed to sleep with her!"
"Then you can relax, because nothing
remotely resembling sleeping occurred."
"I thought you weren't
interested in Molly."
"I assure you, it wasn't my
idea! I admit, I rather lost my will after she pinned me to the sofa and got my
trousers down. I regret to say that apparently I'm human after all."
"She pinned... what?"
"I thought her flatmate was in,
or I never would have gone up. But it turns out she doesn't have one-at least
currently."
John was amazed. "She tricked
you. You."
"She set me up-the cunning
creature. Saying she'd seen someone in the street, and I had to play along, that
the stalker had to think we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and so forth. After
she finished me off- which she managed to do in record time; she really has
quite a technique- I had to reciprocate, didn't I? I'm not precisely sure about
the protocol in these matters, but I believe it's generally accepted that you
simply can't walk out on your partner after experiencing an explosive orgasm,
even though it was she who jumped me. I mean, reciprocity is expected,
isn't it? I'm not totally socially inept, you know."
John wanted to respond, but couldn't
think of a thing to say.
"But once we made it to her
bed, she kept dragging me back for more. Front entry, rear entry, up against
the wall. Six times, if I counted correctly. God, I'm actually sore. I didn't
you know could get sore there-did you? More of an ache. I suppose it's just
another muscle after all. Still, what a nuisance. I'm really not looking
forward to using the loo. No wonder I never have sex."
John listened with a growing sense
of unreality. Feebly, he said, "One date."
Sherlock muttered, "One long
date."
"One date," John repeated
louder, "and you get laid until you can hardly stand. And then you
complain about it!"
One of Sherlock's eyes glared at him
from under his eye-shielding arm. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Because it was my idea! The
whole thing- the dinner, the ruse, inviting Molly and Sarah. I arranged it from
the start! And here you get freaking fabulously laid, and I... I don't!"
He sputtered, his rage building to a head. "You don't even care
about Molly!"
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Well, I like her..."
"You didn't even want to
have sex, and here you got laid. Several times." John leaped to his feet
in his agitation. "Life is so amazingly unfair!"
Sherlock groaned.
John snapped shut his freshly booted
laptop and left it on the table. Agitated, he pulled his hip-length jacket from
underneath the voluminous mass that was Sherlock's coat. "I'm going."
"Where?" Sherlock grunted.
"The surgery. Any place where I
won't have to look at you moaning over a bout of mind-blowing sex."
Sherlock didn't move. "Check
your blog for me before you go."
John knotted his scarf with
irritation. "No, I will not check my blog. You can check my bloody
blog, if you're not too terribly worn out."
Sherlock cocked his head, so once
again one eye peeked out. "What are you so bothered about?"
"Nothing." John collected
his wallet, keys-anything he was likely to need during the day. "I just
haven't the stomach to hang around listening to you grumbling about being
forced to endure one of the peak experiences of human existence."
"I'll grant you, it wasn't completely
terrible..."
"Glad to hear it." John zipped
up his jacket, then faced his collapsed flatmate. "I'll tell you one
thing, though. You're going to make this right with Molly."
The glimmering eye was back. "What
do you mean?"
"I mean, you're not going to
disappear for days and days and let her wonder what the hell happened last
night."
Sherlock frowned. "I'll
probably see her anyway, in the course of one investigation or another-"
"No, Sherlock. You will go to
Bart's, today. You will abjectly apologize to Molly for your behavior last
night."
Sherlock stirred, partly sitting up.
"But she jumped me!"
"You will tell her," John
said, not in the least derailed, "that you were drunk and didn't know what
you were doing-"
"I wasn't drunk. You saw
me. I had half a glass-"
"-and that you sincerely regret
that things got out of hand. You will state this in such a manner as will carry
conviction. And then you will kindly, thoughtfully explain that you
think of her as a friend, that you value her friendship, and you will do
anything to preserve it, short of sleeping with her again."
Sherlock glowered. "That
I can do."
"And you'll say it with
flowers. Possibly chocolate, but definitely flowers." John glared at him.
"You owe her flowers, after last night."
"But she-"
"Goodbye, Sherlock." John
turned abruptly toward the door. "I'll be working all day. Try to manage
without me, because I have the feeling I won't be answering my phone."
"John-"
John barreled out the door and
plunged down the steps before Sherlock could call him back. His stride didn't
diminish once he hit the street. He needed to be going; motion was a tonic.
Molly. Molly and Sherlock. John
shook his head in amazement. How could that happen-and how much of it was his
fault?
In a dreadful agitation of spirits,
John hurried along toward the tube. Maybe, if he had enough time to think about
it, it would all make sense.
Continued in Part 15
Characters: Holmes, Watson, Lestrade, the BBC gang (Molly, Sarah, Donovan, Anderson)
Rating: PG to Strong Adult - this part PG-13
Warnings: Excessive estrogen, reciprocity
Summary: Sherlock finds himself the recipient of unwanted attention, thanks to the Internet.
Notes: Thank you winterstorrm for the beta and Britpick.
For a complete list of chapters, see: The Problem with Personal Blogs, chapter list.
14. The Morning After
John felt pretty pleased with
himself when he came down to the sitting room the next morning. He was still
relaxed from the pleasant evening yesterday- even more by the delightful
goodnight kisses that Sarah had favored him with. Yes, John was feeling very
good indeed.
The flat was unusually quiet.
Normally he heard some small sounds as Sherlock researched something in the
paper or on the Internet; his flatmate rarely slept in when he had a case. But
today the place sounded deserted. John entered the sitting room to find it
empty, and then glanced into the kitchen. No Sherlock. Usually John noticed, at
least on a semi-conscious level, when Sherlock crept to his room late at night.
Yet John had heard no such sounds. He could only conclude that Sherlock was out
and hadn't yet returned.
He wondered if the elusive author
had put in an appearance; that was one thing certain to keep Sherlock engaged.
John was just the tiniest bit regretful that this might be the case. That
enthusiastic blogger was definitely good for creating situations where Sherlock
had to be on his best behavior; John would be sorry to see the need for social
graces, however assumed, to vanish. Perhaps Lestrade had contacted him. John
hoped so; he would like to get at least one more enjoyable evening out of the elusive
stalker before Sherlock tracked her down and was free to assume his regular
abrasive personality.
He had made his tea and toast, and
was just sitting down at his laptop to check email, when he heard plodding footsteps
on the stairs. Sherlock? It must be. He hadn't heard a ring-yet that didn't
sound like Sherlock's step. It was far too heavy. The next moment the door
opened, removing all doubt.
It was Sherlock, but in such a state
as John had never seen him. His hair was wild, his scarf askew, his whole
expression thoroughly knackered. Without even a glance at John, Sherlock
dragged off his coat and scarf, draping them so carelessly over the tree that the
scarf fell to the floor. He didn't seem to observe it. When he turned back around,
John could see that his elegant suit was appallingly rumpled, with three
buttons ripped from his shirt.
"What the hell happened to you?"
Sherlock swayed slightly, caught
himself, then eyed John blearily. "Sex."
"Sorry?"
"Sex." Sherlock staggered
across the room and flopped onto his back on the sofa, flinging one arm across
his eyes to shield them from the weak morning light. "Oral sex. Vaginal
sex. Highly creative sex. Repetitive, energetic, nonstop sex. Basically... sex."
John felt lightheaded. "With...
Molly?"
"Of course with Molly! Who else
did you think- my blogger?"
"But... but..."
Bewilderment gave way to disapproval. "Sherlock, you only invited her out
as part of the ruse. You weren't supposed to sleep with her!"
"Then you can relax, because nothing
remotely resembling sleeping occurred."
"I thought you weren't
interested in Molly."
"I assure you, it wasn't my
idea! I admit, I rather lost my will after she pinned me to the sofa and got my
trousers down. I regret to say that apparently I'm human after all."
"She pinned... what?"
"I thought her flatmate was in,
or I never would have gone up. But it turns out she doesn't have one-at least
currently."
John was amazed. "She tricked
you. You."
"She set me up-the cunning
creature. Saying she'd seen someone in the street, and I had to play along, that
the stalker had to think we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and so forth. After
she finished me off- which she managed to do in record time; she really has
quite a technique- I had to reciprocate, didn't I? I'm not precisely sure about
the protocol in these matters, but I believe it's generally accepted that you
simply can't walk out on your partner after experiencing an explosive orgasm,
even though it was she who jumped me. I mean, reciprocity is expected,
isn't it? I'm not totally socially inept, you know."
John wanted to respond, but couldn't
think of a thing to say.
"But once we made it to her
bed, she kept dragging me back for more. Front entry, rear entry, up against
the wall. Six times, if I counted correctly. God, I'm actually sore. I didn't
you know could get sore there-did you? More of an ache. I suppose it's just
another muscle after all. Still, what a nuisance. I'm really not looking
forward to using the loo. No wonder I never have sex."
John listened with a growing sense
of unreality. Feebly, he said, "One date."
Sherlock muttered, "One long
date."
"One date," John repeated
louder, "and you get laid until you can hardly stand. And then you
complain about it!"
One of Sherlock's eyes glared at him
from under his eye-shielding arm. "Why shouldn't I?"
"Because it was my idea! The
whole thing- the dinner, the ruse, inviting Molly and Sarah. I arranged it from
the start! And here you get freaking fabulously laid, and I... I don't!"
He sputtered, his rage building to a head. "You don't even care
about Molly!"
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Well, I like her..."
"You didn't even want to
have sex, and here you got laid. Several times." John leaped to his feet
in his agitation. "Life is so amazingly unfair!"
Sherlock groaned.
John snapped shut his freshly booted
laptop and left it on the table. Agitated, he pulled his hip-length jacket from
underneath the voluminous mass that was Sherlock's coat. "I'm going."
"Where?" Sherlock grunted.
"The surgery. Any place where I
won't have to look at you moaning over a bout of mind-blowing sex."
Sherlock didn't move. "Check
your blog for me before you go."
John knotted his scarf with
irritation. "No, I will not check my blog. You can check my bloody
blog, if you're not too terribly worn out."
Sherlock cocked his head, so once
again one eye peeked out. "What are you so bothered about?"
"Nothing." John collected
his wallet, keys-anything he was likely to need during the day. "I just
haven't the stomach to hang around listening to you grumbling about being
forced to endure one of the peak experiences of human existence."
"I'll grant you, it wasn't completely
terrible..."
"Glad to hear it." John zipped
up his jacket, then faced his collapsed flatmate. "I'll tell you one
thing, though. You're going to make this right with Molly."
The glimmering eye was back. "What
do you mean?"
"I mean, you're not going to
disappear for days and days and let her wonder what the hell happened last
night."
Sherlock frowned. "I'll
probably see her anyway, in the course of one investigation or another-"
"No, Sherlock. You will go to
Bart's, today. You will abjectly apologize to Molly for your behavior last
night."
Sherlock stirred, partly sitting up.
"But she jumped me!"
"You will tell her," John
said, not in the least derailed, "that you were drunk and didn't know what
you were doing-"
"I wasn't drunk. You saw
me. I had half a glass-"
"-and that you sincerely regret
that things got out of hand. You will state this in such a manner as will carry
conviction. And then you will kindly, thoughtfully explain that you
think of her as a friend, that you value her friendship, and you will do
anything to preserve it, short of sleeping with her again."
Sherlock glowered. "That
I can do."
"And you'll say it with
flowers. Possibly chocolate, but definitely flowers." John glared at him.
"You owe her flowers, after last night."
"But she-"
"Goodbye, Sherlock." John
turned abruptly toward the door. "I'll be working all day. Try to manage
without me, because I have the feeling I won't be answering my phone."
"John-"
John barreled out the door and
plunged down the steps before Sherlock could call him back. His stride didn't
diminish once he hit the street. He needed to be going; motion was a tonic.
Molly. Molly and Sherlock. John
shook his head in amazement. How could that happen-and how much of it was his
fault?
In a dreadful agitation of spirits,
John hurried along toward the tube. Maybe, if he had enough time to think about
it, it would all make sense.
Continued in Part 15