Fill: I see the wasp on the length of my arm (2/?)
anonymous
September 25 2010, 19:27:24 UTC
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in the seat, huffing. "The flat has become intolerable recently. I preferred to avoid complications and move out." And track me down to live with me? "But your business--"
"Can wait for a little while."
"Sherlock, this isn't a little while, this is--you know what Mycroft said."
"Mycroft is working on it," says Sherlock evenly, without a flicker. Before John can wonder just what the hell that means, Sherlock adds, "It's not a bad place to live. I think there's enough space for one or two bee hives on the roof."
John finally puts down the bags he's been carrying, thumping them on the table. "I don't have a job. I don't have anything right now."
"I have some ideas about that."
He's going to bloody well give in, after all. It was never a question. It's like breathing clean air after spending a lifetime in smog. "Damn it--my landlord is six-foot-five and built like four midfielders, if you shoot my wall he'll kill you," John warns him, trying not to grin and failing miserably.
"Can I shoot that annoying little dog of his?"
"What? No!"
"It's a public favour--"
--
Five cases, eight restaurant dinners, a flurry of beekeeping books, and another Bond night--they never got past Connery. Sherlock turns his ankle during a chase and for once in his life John's faster than him. It seems like there's only ever two cab drivers in their part of Bristol, and Sherlock's on sparring terms with both of them. A couple of test tubes blow up. A cat wanders in, stays for a week, and then gets donated to a good home.
Over in the next room Sherlock is picking out notes, he mentioned he needs to pick up new strings. John goes to bed thinking over the expression 'light-hearted', wondering how easy it is to breathe these days.
(These days they're touching more often than they used to. John knows about tactile defensiveness from the way soldiers refuse to let anyone look at injuries, even years-old ones. He's seen the way Sherlock flinches from spontaneous contact like an electric shock, stiffening and brusque. But these days Sherlock puts a hand on the small of his back to guide him, leans in close to point something out, rests heavily against his shoulder in the backseat.
One day when he was picking glass out of Sherlock's hands, after the second exploded test tube, he was working with the tweezers and mumbling, "At least it's not bloody body parts in the fridge, I keep opening the freezer expecting a damn head to fall out and knock me out like last time--"
"That wasn't my fault, you insisted on packing in the frozen things." Sherlock's voice is muffling laughter.
"Well, some people like peas!" He shoots him a look--intends to shoot him a look--and stops, because their heads are very close and almost touching, and Sherlock's eyes are back to being unreadable--except not, really not, and oh holy hell, how did he miss this?--and he's leaning in breathless when there's a knock at the door.
Behind him Sherlock hisses, an almost inaudible sound.)
And track me down to live with me? "But your business--"
"Can wait for a little while."
"Sherlock, this isn't a little while, this is--you know what Mycroft said."
"Mycroft is working on it," says Sherlock evenly, without a flicker. Before John can wonder just what the hell that means, Sherlock adds, "It's not a bad place to live. I think there's enough space for one or two bee hives on the roof."
John finally puts down the bags he's been carrying, thumping them on the table. "I don't have a job. I don't have anything right now."
"I have some ideas about that."
He's going to bloody well give in, after all. It was never a question. It's like breathing clean air after spending a lifetime in smog. "Damn it--my landlord is six-foot-five and built like four midfielders, if you shoot my wall he'll kill you," John warns him, trying not to grin and failing miserably.
"Can I shoot that annoying little dog of his?"
"What? No!"
"It's a public favour--"
--
Five cases, eight restaurant dinners, a flurry of beekeeping books, and another Bond night--they never got past Connery. Sherlock turns his ankle during a chase and for once in his life John's faster than him. It seems like there's only ever two cab drivers in their part of Bristol, and Sherlock's on sparring terms with both of them. A couple of test tubes blow up. A cat wanders in, stays for a week, and then gets donated to a good home.
Over in the next room Sherlock is picking out notes, he mentioned he needs to pick up new strings. John goes to bed thinking over the expression 'light-hearted', wondering how easy it is to breathe these days.
(These days they're touching more often than they used to. John knows about tactile defensiveness from the way soldiers refuse to let anyone look at injuries, even years-old ones. He's seen the way Sherlock flinches from spontaneous contact like an electric shock, stiffening and brusque. But these days Sherlock puts a hand on the small of his back to guide him, leans in close to point something out, rests heavily against his shoulder in the backseat.
One day when he was picking glass out of Sherlock's hands, after the second exploded test tube, he was working with the tweezers and mumbling, "At least it's not bloody body parts in the fridge, I keep opening the freezer expecting a damn head to fall out and knock me out like last time--"
"That wasn't my fault, you insisted on packing in the frozen things." Sherlock's voice is muffling laughter.
"Well, some people like peas!" He shoots him a look--intends to shoot him a look--and stops, because their heads are very close and almost touching, and Sherlock's eyes are back to being unreadable--except not, really not, and oh holy hell, how did he miss this?--and he's leaning in breathless when there's a knock at the door.
Behind him Sherlock hisses, an almost inaudible sound.)
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