Prompting Part XXIX

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Re: Nobody Home 2/5

[anonymous]

(“All your jeans are black!” John mused as he helped Sherlock clean up the spill. It wasn't true, though. Sherlock had several pairs - pairs he'd never wear in public, of course - that were varying shades of dark blue and one hideously old second-hand pair of faded white-washed jeans with holes in the knees.

He wore them once around the flat, on laundry day. John had stopped in his tracks and stared - actually stared - at Sherlock when he came out of his room. Then his eyes had flicked not-so-subtly to Sherlock's crotch, and his tongue had not-so-subtly poked its way out of his mouth and swept across his lower lip. When Sherlock cleared his throat, John had blushed and awkwardly left the room to go upstairs and pretend he hadn't just been caught ogling.

Sherlock never wore them again, because John's staring stirred up something deep-rooted in his stomach, in his veins, in his very bones that he had spent years and years repressing. It made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end and heat to pool over his skin and his concentration was shot for the rest of the day because he kept imagining John's tongue on his heated skin, heating it even more until it was so hot it burned, scalded even.

He had hoped the thought alone would be enough to keep his hand out of his trousers that afternoon but apparently not.)

Sherlock is imagining it again. John's tongue. The way it darts out to lick his lip before he speaks, or when he's annoyed, or nervous. In the latter days of their companionship, Sherlock often found himself watching its track, wondering what John's lip tasted like.

Sherlock uses the phone in the hotel room this time. He dials out, presses the receiver to his ear, doodles on the pad of paper next to the bed by way of distracting himself. He hasn't thought about what he'll say if John ever does pick up, if anything at all.

He supposes he doesn't have to worry about that, though. The call goes right through to voice mail, and Sherlock is left staring off in the dark of the room with an automated John Watson droning on in his ear. Droning on like he's reading from a script he doesn't quite believe in.

Call #053, Mexico City
Seven months, four days After Death

The first sniper has been taken care of, and Sherlock wants to celebrate.

He drinks far too many margaritas at the hotel bar, forgetting that the air pressure is different here and therefore his tolerance is lower than usual. He hiccups on his way to the lift, trying to stave off the attention of two girls that spent the majority of their evening attempting to pick him up, attempting to get him back into their room. To do what, exactly? Sherlock is well past inebriated, and he can't imagine what on earth two girls would ever want to do with him in a hotel room.

His imagination is, apparently, much less active when supplied with alcohol than it is when supplied with cocaine, he realises. Or perhaps his thoughts are just clearer when he's on cocaine. He honestly can't remember that, either. In fact - he hiccups again - he's not quite sure he can remember which room is his.

The girls manage to convince him to come to their room until he can get his bearings. He flops down on their bed, digs through his pockets for his wallet, trying to fish out his room key. One of the girls is giggling in his ear and attempting to pull off his coat, the other is pouring water into a kettle and plugging it into the wall.

“'m fine,” Sherlock waves the girl at his shoulder off. “I just - I need to call - I need-”