Peep Wars!
YES ANOTHER SHERLOCK FIC. This will not be the last. You can all shut your faces, at least I'm WRITING. :P
This can be blamed on the lovely sirona_gs's highly intriguing icon.
Peep Wars: in which Sherlock discovers how microwaves and marshmallows can occupy an entire evening.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1681
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warning: Marshmallow homicides
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Come home. Am
covered in melted
marshmallow and
the spatula has
disappeared.
SH
John reread the text three times. Surely not. But how- no, I think Sherlock used the last vodka in that experiment with the- marshmallow?!
"John?" Lestrade looked at him over their pints, a slightly worried expression crossing his face. "What's he done now?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I don't believe him, and I read it." John sighed and downed the last of his beer. "I'd better go."
"Should I be worried?"
John shook his head, still slightly shell-shocked. Lestrade grinned at him suddenly, his teeth flashing white, and chuckled. "In that case, I want a full report next time, and you're buying."
"If you want to hear after the first sentence, done," John replied, throwing on his jacket and heading for the door.
His mind raced as he walked back to the flat, trying to find a reason - forget rational, any would do - why Sherlock would have marshmallow in the flat, and attempting to block images straight out of his fevered imagination that looked disturbingly like an introduction to gay porn. Granted, some of the stuff the boys found to tide them over in the desert was just weird, but he'd never fancied it; always looked like too much work. The occasional grapple with some of the more open-minded lads never looked like that, so why now did marshmallow start sounding like something you'd see in the Kama Sutra collection in some of the more adventurous shops, and images of ivory skin and inky hair with ropes of white creme start hazing into view-
Absolutely not. Married to his work and all that.
His keys shook a little in his hand as he unlocked the door, and the seventeen steps never looked dismayingly shorter. There were sounds of minor explosions, and "Ha!" echoed from the slightly-open door. "Sherlock, what on earth-" he called up, hoping the tremor in his voice was covered by the exasperation. His flatmate's curly head poked round the corner, marshmallow (as promised) smearing one cheek.
"John, where's the extra toothpicks?"
"What?" He was level with Sherlock now, and oh the plum-coloured shirt he'd been wearing this morning was missing, one of John's(!) t-shirts liberally coated with white-and-yellow goo in its place, and-
"Toothpicks, John, do keep up, I've saved some for you but we're running out," Sherlock fired off, dashing back to the kitchen. "The spatula can't be found, so I've taken to using newspapers to remove the losers - we'll have to purchase a new one, I believe the last one may have been dissolved by an experiment." John followed, things slowly starting to add up in his head, and the ding! of the microwave coincided with the sight of boxes and boxes of...Peeps?
"Oh god, you've found Peep Wars, haven't you," John half-moaned, slumping into a mostly-empty chair. Marshmallow was everywhere, and he foresaw a long day of cleaning - without Sherlock's help, of course - and suddenly everything clicked into a horrible sort of sense.
"It's brilliant, don't know why I hadn't thought of this before...John, get up, you have to arm your Peep!" Sherlock was practically bouncing now, and John couldn't help but smile at the sight of his flatmate acting like an overgrown five-year-old in his t-shirt.
"All right, all right, which box?"
~~~~~
It was a good thing John had ditched his jacket and jumper in the living room, as Sherlock and John were now both covered in marshmallow. Sherlock had apparently saved the purple ones for John, and the battles were vicious and mighty, cumulating in epic wars of marshmallow goo inside the not-for-experiments microwave ("I thought you wouldn't mind, I know you adore marshmallows, John"). Mrs. Hudson had come up after one particularly loud bang, and had sallied forth pink marshmallow bunnies in a three-way free-for-all for awhile before tripping downstairs for her 8 o'clock programme, leaving behind a teaset and admonishments to post the best battles to Youtube ("My grandchildren love this sort of thing!"). Munching on a biscuit, eyes glued to the microwave, John could hardly think of the last time he'd had this much fun related to Easter. "This really was a brilliant plan, Sherlock," he mumbled around Jaffa crumbs and watched his Peep soundly stick a gooey toothpick into Sherlock's at a rather obscene angle.
"Wasn't it?" Sherlock's baritone rumbled, a little closer to John's ear than he expected. John jerked a bit, surprise quickly giving way to mingled annoyance and appprehension; he hadn't heard the man pad up behind him (unusual, as he usually notices these things). "Easter does have some recompense..."
"Yes, well, our blood sugar won't thank us," he retorted, reaching for his teacup. Sherlock's fingers met his instead, curling and intertwining around the stockier man's, which quickly steadied at the cool touch. John's mind was suddenly a perfect blank as warm breath hit his ear and the toothpick sank steadily down, down, down into the gooey marshmallow, as long arms folded around him and warmth pressed against his back.
"I'm told exercise can burn off excess calories, if you're perturbed by that," the velvety rumble replied, a smile evident in the tone. Blood started pounding in John's ears. Why is this starting to sound like a bad porno? a slightly hysterical voice said in his head. They didn't move for a long minute, John's thoughts whirling like a sandstorm and almost as devastating, while Sherlock seemed content to stand pressed up against John with his arms wrapped round him and his breath warm in John's ear, softly ruffling his hair and making all the thoughts he'd been trying so hard to suppress boil up in his mind, different versions of what happens next flicking through his brain.
"Marshmallow reminds you of childhood Easters, before your dad left and your mum died and Harry had discovered alcohol," the detective suddenly started murmuring, one thumb beginning a light stroking motion over the hair on John's arm, soothing motion to the counterpoint of the disturbingly omniscient words. "Your eyes light up when you see Easter candy, but your expression is wistful, so probably memories of things long past replicating, or so you think. Same with egg dye, I'd guess, which is why there's a box currently sitting in the butter dish waiting for an afternoon when I'm out." A pause, while John's brain started to process this, interrupted by, "I'd rather you saved a few eggs and waited for me, if you'd rather."
"I...yes, I suppose..." John breathed, uncertain whether the note of longing in Sherlock's voice was just another experiment or...something real? Oh, please, something real, it would explain so much...
A soft "Hm" of pleasure, followed by the press of oh god, lips? on the nape of his neck. "Thank you, John," Sherlock said softly. "I...had thought this might please you."
When did Sherlock think of someone besides himself? John's mind raced, starting to check off things in the past few weeks, since The Pool - milk appearing in the fridge, the mess in the kitchen abating (but surely that was Mrs. Hudson?), increased dinner breaks during a case. Had this subtle courting? been going on since then? Longer? "Flattered by your interest," he says, and then- and had already been planning how to rid me of my limp? "Um...yes...yes, this was..." he stuttered.
The microwave dinged, and John jumped again, and Sherlock chuckled in his ear and tugged on his hand till John was facing him, eyes probably blown wide and staring, as the hand detached itself from John's and smoothly up to his chin, and-
Oh.
Sherlock might call himself a sociopath, but obviously this was NOT his first time, and John couldn't stop himself reacting anymore than the sea could resist the pull of the moon. His eyes fluttered shut and his arms went round his irritating, gorgeous, supremely frustrating flatmate, and nothing but surprisingly warm lips and teasing tongue and hot breath registered for a lifetime/a few seconds. Their lips parted but John's eyes remained closed, sharp, panting breaths escaping him, his forehead pressed to Sherlock's.
"I believe," Sherlock said, after a long moment of quiet, "that this would be called a result."
John giggled helplessly, his body trembling under Sherlock's long, articulate hands, one at the small of his back, one cupped around the back of his head. "You could call it that," he replied, slightly breathlessly, his knees feeling slightly weak. "Is that what all this was about?"
"Well, not really," Sherlock admitted, an artless smile ghosting his lips. "It seemed a good moment to try, though."
John pulled back a bit, his right arm snugging more comfortably along Sherlock's lean waist, allowing his left hand to trace the angular jaw of someone who was suddenly, possibly more than a flatmate, indulging in intense speculation of that gorgeous face he'd been trying so hard not to imagine in the shower. "Why?" he asked simply.
"Because you have intrigued me from the moment you walked into the lab," Sherlock replied, a smile tugging at his lips. "Most people would dismiss you at first glance as ordinary, quite ordinary - but you are anything but, and the longer I study you, the less ordinary you appear to be."
"And so...what, your work is turning a blind eye?" John half-teased, his hand sliding up into the dark, soft curls he'd been dying to touch for ages.
"It lacks certain qualities," Sherlock admitted, pulling John firmly against him, a hot pressure against John's increasing arousal, eliciting a soft gasp. "I believe it's referred to as an open relationship...it's asexual, and I fulfill my needs elsewhere. It helps that in a certain sense, you are...part of the work."
John let his head fall forward onto Sherlock's shoulder, laughter huffing against the thin t-shirt. "Well, does that mean you're partially married to me?" he asked, instantly regretting his question.
"Mm...I believe that can be discussed later," came the reply, and Sherlock tugged his chin up again, before any more questions could be asked.
~~~~~
This can have a sequel, if there are enough interested parties (or enough bribery is attempted!). ^_^ This just seemed a good endpoint for this part...also, it's late, and I just stripped my drains again, which means a good half of the sutures are burning and my painkillers are running out in a stupidly dramatic fashion. >_< Hard to write when I'm hurting.
EDIT: Sequel written! It's called Fragile Things. Go on, enjoy!
This can be blamed on the lovely sirona_gs's highly intriguing icon.
Peep Wars: in which Sherlock discovers how microwaves and marshmallows can occupy an entire evening.
Rating: PG
Word count: 1681
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warning: Marshmallow homicides
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
Come home. Am
covered in melted
marshmallow and
the spatula has
disappeared.
SH
John reread the text three times. Surely not. But how- no, I think Sherlock used the last vodka in that experiment with the- marshmallow?!
"John?" Lestrade looked at him over their pints, a slightly worried expression crossing his face. "What's he done now?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I don't believe him, and I read it." John sighed and downed the last of his beer. "I'd better go."
"Should I be worried?"
John shook his head, still slightly shell-shocked. Lestrade grinned at him suddenly, his teeth flashing white, and chuckled. "In that case, I want a full report next time, and you're buying."
"If you want to hear after the first sentence, done," John replied, throwing on his jacket and heading for the door.
His mind raced as he walked back to the flat, trying to find a reason - forget rational, any would do - why Sherlock would have marshmallow in the flat, and attempting to block images straight out of his fevered imagination that looked disturbingly like an introduction to gay porn. Granted, some of the stuff the boys found to tide them over in the desert was just weird, but he'd never fancied it; always looked like too much work. The occasional grapple with some of the more open-minded lads never looked like that, so why now did marshmallow start sounding like something you'd see in the Kama Sutra collection in some of the more adventurous shops, and images of ivory skin and inky hair with ropes of white creme start hazing into view-
Absolutely not. Married to his work and all that.
His keys shook a little in his hand as he unlocked the door, and the seventeen steps never looked dismayingly shorter. There were sounds of minor explosions, and "Ha!" echoed from the slightly-open door. "Sherlock, what on earth-" he called up, hoping the tremor in his voice was covered by the exasperation. His flatmate's curly head poked round the corner, marshmallow (as promised) smearing one cheek.
"John, where's the extra toothpicks?"
"What?" He was level with Sherlock now, and oh the plum-coloured shirt he'd been wearing this morning was missing, one of John's(!) t-shirts liberally coated with white-and-yellow goo in its place, and-
"Toothpicks, John, do keep up, I've saved some for you but we're running out," Sherlock fired off, dashing back to the kitchen. "The spatula can't be found, so I've taken to using newspapers to remove the losers - we'll have to purchase a new one, I believe the last one may have been dissolved by an experiment." John followed, things slowly starting to add up in his head, and the ding! of the microwave coincided with the sight of boxes and boxes of...Peeps?
"Oh god, you've found Peep Wars, haven't you," John half-moaned, slumping into a mostly-empty chair. Marshmallow was everywhere, and he foresaw a long day of cleaning - without Sherlock's help, of course - and suddenly everything clicked into a horrible sort of sense.
"It's brilliant, don't know why I hadn't thought of this before...John, get up, you have to arm your Peep!" Sherlock was practically bouncing now, and John couldn't help but smile at the sight of his flatmate acting like an overgrown five-year-old in his t-shirt.
"All right, all right, which box?"
~~~~~
It was a good thing John had ditched his jacket and jumper in the living room, as Sherlock and John were now both covered in marshmallow. Sherlock had apparently saved the purple ones for John, and the battles were vicious and mighty, cumulating in epic wars of marshmallow goo inside the not-for-experiments microwave ("I thought you wouldn't mind, I know you adore marshmallows, John"). Mrs. Hudson had come up after one particularly loud bang, and had sallied forth pink marshmallow bunnies in a three-way free-for-all for awhile before tripping downstairs for her 8 o'clock programme, leaving behind a teaset and admonishments to post the best battles to Youtube ("My grandchildren love this sort of thing!"). Munching on a biscuit, eyes glued to the microwave, John could hardly think of the last time he'd had this much fun related to Easter. "This really was a brilliant plan, Sherlock," he mumbled around Jaffa crumbs and watched his Peep soundly stick a gooey toothpick into Sherlock's at a rather obscene angle.
"Wasn't it?" Sherlock's baritone rumbled, a little closer to John's ear than he expected. John jerked a bit, surprise quickly giving way to mingled annoyance and appprehension; he hadn't heard the man pad up behind him (unusual, as he usually notices these things). "Easter does have some recompense..."
"Yes, well, our blood sugar won't thank us," he retorted, reaching for his teacup. Sherlock's fingers met his instead, curling and intertwining around the stockier man's, which quickly steadied at the cool touch. John's mind was suddenly a perfect blank as warm breath hit his ear and the toothpick sank steadily down, down, down into the gooey marshmallow, as long arms folded around him and warmth pressed against his back.
"I'm told exercise can burn off excess calories, if you're perturbed by that," the velvety rumble replied, a smile evident in the tone. Blood started pounding in John's ears. Why is this starting to sound like a bad porno? a slightly hysterical voice said in his head. They didn't move for a long minute, John's thoughts whirling like a sandstorm and almost as devastating, while Sherlock seemed content to stand pressed up against John with his arms wrapped round him and his breath warm in John's ear, softly ruffling his hair and making all the thoughts he'd been trying so hard to suppress boil up in his mind, different versions of what happens next flicking through his brain.
"Marshmallow reminds you of childhood Easters, before your dad left and your mum died and Harry had discovered alcohol," the detective suddenly started murmuring, one thumb beginning a light stroking motion over the hair on John's arm, soothing motion to the counterpoint of the disturbingly omniscient words. "Your eyes light up when you see Easter candy, but your expression is wistful, so probably memories of things long past replicating, or so you think. Same with egg dye, I'd guess, which is why there's a box currently sitting in the butter dish waiting for an afternoon when I'm out." A pause, while John's brain started to process this, interrupted by, "I'd rather you saved a few eggs and waited for me, if you'd rather."
"I...yes, I suppose..." John breathed, uncertain whether the note of longing in Sherlock's voice was just another experiment or...something real? Oh, please, something real, it would explain so much...
A soft "Hm" of pleasure, followed by the press of oh god, lips? on the nape of his neck. "Thank you, John," Sherlock said softly. "I...had thought this might please you."
When did Sherlock think of someone besides himself? John's mind raced, starting to check off things in the past few weeks, since The Pool - milk appearing in the fridge, the mess in the kitchen abating (but surely that was Mrs. Hudson?), increased dinner breaks during a case. Had this subtle courting? been going on since then? Longer? "Flattered by your interest," he says, and then- and had already been planning how to rid me of my limp? "Um...yes...yes, this was..." he stuttered.
The microwave dinged, and John jumped again, and Sherlock chuckled in his ear and tugged on his hand till John was facing him, eyes probably blown wide and staring, as the hand detached itself from John's and smoothly up to his chin, and-
Oh.
Sherlock might call himself a sociopath, but obviously this was NOT his first time, and John couldn't stop himself reacting anymore than the sea could resist the pull of the moon. His eyes fluttered shut and his arms went round his irritating, gorgeous, supremely frustrating flatmate, and nothing but surprisingly warm lips and teasing tongue and hot breath registered for a lifetime/a few seconds. Their lips parted but John's eyes remained closed, sharp, panting breaths escaping him, his forehead pressed to Sherlock's.
"I believe," Sherlock said, after a long moment of quiet, "that this would be called a result."
John giggled helplessly, his body trembling under Sherlock's long, articulate hands, one at the small of his back, one cupped around the back of his head. "You could call it that," he replied, slightly breathlessly, his knees feeling slightly weak. "Is that what all this was about?"
"Well, not really," Sherlock admitted, an artless smile ghosting his lips. "It seemed a good moment to try, though."
John pulled back a bit, his right arm snugging more comfortably along Sherlock's lean waist, allowing his left hand to trace the angular jaw of someone who was suddenly, possibly more than a flatmate, indulging in intense speculation of that gorgeous face he'd been trying so hard not to imagine in the shower. "Why?" he asked simply.
"Because you have intrigued me from the moment you walked into the lab," Sherlock replied, a smile tugging at his lips. "Most people would dismiss you at first glance as ordinary, quite ordinary - but you are anything but, and the longer I study you, the less ordinary you appear to be."
"And so...what, your work is turning a blind eye?" John half-teased, his hand sliding up into the dark, soft curls he'd been dying to touch for ages.
"It lacks certain qualities," Sherlock admitted, pulling John firmly against him, a hot pressure against John's increasing arousal, eliciting a soft gasp. "I believe it's referred to as an open relationship...it's asexual, and I fulfill my needs elsewhere. It helps that in a certain sense, you are...part of the work."
John let his head fall forward onto Sherlock's shoulder, laughter huffing against the thin t-shirt. "Well, does that mean you're partially married to me?" he asked, instantly regretting his question.
"Mm...I believe that can be discussed later," came the reply, and Sherlock tugged his chin up again, before any more questions could be asked.
~~~~~
This can have a sequel, if there are enough interested parties (or enough bribery is attempted!). ^_^ This just seemed a good endpoint for this part...also, it's late, and I just stripped my drains again, which means a good half of the sutures are burning and my painkillers are running out in a stupidly dramatic fashion. >_< Hard to write when I'm hurting.
EDIT: Sequel written! It's called Fragile Things. Go on, enjoy!