Fill: Day of Rest 4livia_caricaSeptember 29 2010, 23:08:00 UTC
“Why are we watching Antiques Roadshow?” he asked, blowing on a forkful of rogan josh to cool it down.
“I couldn’t find the remote.” Sherlock was picking at his chicken tikka absently, staring transfixed at the little screen. He pointed with his fork. “That’s not a real Wedgewood.”
“You could have just got up and changed it, you lazy sod.” John had no answer to the argument that he himself was more than capable of changing the channel if he objected that much, but by now it was a matter of principle. So they watched as the people of Croydon pretended to be delighted at the experts’ evaluations; Sherlock was uncannily good at guessing the estimated price. When a besuited expert with a carnation in his buttonhole and a pronounced lisp started to get excited over a large and rather ugly emerald brooch, Sherlock had dropped his fork and sat forward, his mouth open slightly. John looked from him to the screen and back again. “What? What is it?”
“I don’t believe it,” Sherlock whispered, fumbling for his phone, tikka forgotten. John had to wait until Sherlock finished his frantic texting and remembered he was even in the room. “Did you just solve…?” he asked in disbelief, head flicking back and forth between Sherlock and the television, not even knowing how to finish the question. “Was it the brooch?”
“No. It was the expert,” Sherlock frowned and picked up his fork again. “Is there any more naan bread?”
11:40 p.m. John, who was at heart a creature of rigid habits, fell asleep at twenty to midnight, much earlier than his usual window of 12:15 to 12:30 a.m. Sherlock was surprised to hear the snuffling snores, especially as they had just gotten to the car chase scene of one of John’s interminable films on the laptop perched between them.
As quietly as he could, Sherlock switched off the DVD, and pushed the laptop and the pile of his clothes back over to John’s side.
“I saw that.” John grumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
“Then just pretend you didn’t. I can’t stretch out with all that on my side.”
“Then don’t put it...” Sherlock glanced over for the end of the sentence but John had apparently drifted off before completing it. He had no idea how the man slept so much.
He lay back, listening to John’s renewed snores and the sounds of the house settling down for the night, including the clanking from the ancient pipes that signified the heating had gone off again. He checked his phone for the weather forecast; the minus digits under the little moon and stars graphic lead to a trip to the airing cupboard in the hallway for extra blankets.
Fishing his phone out from underneath the new additions, he opened up the picture of the eyeball that had started John’s day. He stared at it for a long while, not able to shake the feeling he was missing something and it was only when he zoomed in on the pen itself, he realized he’d been looking in the wrong place. There, on the pocket clip was a number and the tiny logo of the company for whom the prime suspect had worked for 35 years before his retirement the previous month. Sherlock grinned to himself and sent out his last text of the day.
Finally, his brain started to shut down and he yawned, growing sleepy. John woke momentarily when long limbs were wrapped around him, and mumbled something about a cockatiel wearing an emerald brooch, so Sherlock hugged him closer. Neither of them were awake to see the clock tick over to Monday.
Re: Fill: Day of Rest 4livia_caricaOctober 3 2010, 19:30:40 UTC
Well, you know Sherlock wouldn't be able to just lounge around all day. I really wanted him to work on the same case all day and then have it solved by watching Antiques Roadshow, but I'm not clever enough ><
“I couldn’t find the remote.” Sherlock was picking at his chicken tikka absently, staring transfixed at the little screen. He pointed with his fork. “That’s not a real Wedgewood.”
“You could have just got up and changed it, you lazy sod.”
John had no answer to the argument that he himself was more than capable of changing the channel if he objected that much, but by now it was a matter of principle. So they watched as the people of Croydon pretended to be delighted at the experts’ evaluations; Sherlock was uncannily good at guessing the estimated price. When a besuited expert with a carnation in his buttonhole and a pronounced lisp started to get excited over a large and rather ugly emerald brooch, Sherlock had dropped his fork and sat forward, his mouth open slightly.
John looked from him to the screen and back again. “What? What is it?”
“I don’t believe it,” Sherlock whispered, fumbling for his phone, tikka forgotten. John had to wait until Sherlock finished his frantic texting and remembered he was even in
the room.
“Did you just solve…?” he asked in disbelief, head flicking back and forth between Sherlock and the television, not even knowing how to finish the question. “Was it the brooch?”
“No. It was the expert,” Sherlock frowned and picked up his fork again. “Is there any more naan bread?”
11:40 p.m.
John, who was at heart a creature of rigid habits, fell asleep at twenty to midnight, much earlier than his usual window of 12:15 to 12:30 a.m. Sherlock was surprised to hear the snuffling snores, especially as they had just gotten to the car chase scene of one of John’s interminable films on the laptop perched between them.
As quietly as he could, Sherlock switched off the DVD, and pushed the laptop and the pile of his clothes back over to John’s side.
“I saw that.” John grumbled, his voice thick with sleep.
“Then just pretend you didn’t. I can’t stretch out with all that on my side.”
“Then don’t put it...” Sherlock glanced over for the end of the sentence but John had apparently drifted off before completing it. He had no idea how the man slept so much.
He lay back, listening to John’s renewed snores and the sounds of the house settling down for the night, including the clanking from the ancient pipes that signified the heating had gone off again. He checked his phone for the weather forecast; the minus digits under the little moon and stars graphic lead to a trip to the airing cupboard in the hallway for extra blankets.
Fishing his phone out from underneath the new additions, he opened up the picture of the eyeball that had started John’s day. He stared at it for a long while, not able to shake the feeling he was missing something and it was only when he zoomed in on the pen itself, he realized he’d been looking in the wrong place. There, on the pocket clip was a number and the tiny logo of the company for whom the prime suspect had worked for 35 years before his retirement the previous month. Sherlock grinned to himself and sent out his last text of the day.
Finally, his brain started to shut down and he yawned, growing sleepy. John woke momentarily when long limbs were wrapped around him, and mumbled something about a cockatiel wearing an emerald brooch, so Sherlock hugged him closer. Neither of them were awake to see the clock tick over to Monday.
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