Fill: Rosemary {1/?}
anonymous
December 14 2010, 21:28:55 UTC
Apologies, this was somewhat rushed writing. I may go back after the story is finished and clean it up a bit. Again, the next parts may take a while due to extenuating annoying circumstances. Enjoy!
----------
It began - as far as John is concerned - with Lestrade.
The Detective Inspector showed up unexpectedly half past eight - well, unexpectedly for John. Thirty seconds prior, Sherlock had laid down his violin and hoisted his legs onto the chair beneath him, crouching in what John recognized as anticipation.
“Amazing how dog-like you are,” John had joked when he went to open the door. “We ought to get Lestrade a postman’s uniform.”
Sherlock merely hmmed as John flung open the door. “Help the good inspector with the crate, John.”
“You could lend a hand, you know,” the DI panted, nodding his head at John in thanks as the doctor grasped a corner of the heavy wooden box.
“Can’t. Thinking.”
With John’s help, Lestrade was able to heave the box onto the table. It landed with a bang, and a worrisome creak echoed from within the woodwork. John fetched the crowbar from the coat closet. (He had insisted on having a crowbar in the flat at all times, as a result of that last case with the combine.) Latching an end under the lid, he heaved, grunting, “What’s in this thing, bricks?”
“Chemicals,” Lestrade responded. John immediately released the crowbar, letting it clang to the flower and marveling that it remarkably missed his toe. Grasping the edge, Lestrade pulled, and the lid scraped off. Dozens of glass bottles gleamed at him, and suddenly Sherlock was at his side, eyeing them in a way that almost resembled hunger.
“Thank you, Lestrade. I’ll text the results as soon as possible.”
“Right.” The detective inspector wiped his hands in his jacket, then stuck them in his pockets. “Be careful, Sherlock. Some of those look dangerous.” He screwed up his face at the deprecating look the detective gave him. “Don’t be a smartass. Just watch yourself.”
“He means well, Sherlock,” John said appealingly as the door slammed shut behind them.
“Yes, well, insulting my intelligence is an interesting way to show it." He stuck his hand rather carelessly among the flasks." Benzene, six-molar copper sulfate…wait…" A few hesitant clinks. "There should be hydrochloric acid in here. Where is it?”
“How do you know he has it?”
“Please, John, any collection of chemicals must include hydrochloric acid. That’s common sense.”
“Evidently. Why don’t we unpack these, you might be missing it?”
Despite the muttered “unlikely,” Sherlock reached in and grasped the handle of the largest bottle. With a bored look on his face, he pulled it out - then, almost unconsciously, tossed the bottle into the air.
John felt his mouth open, and he felt the shout begin to materialize in his throat. But the feeling died, as he couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle rotating, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and placed on the kitchen counter…wait, what?
John blinked. He was once again in 221B, the liquid in the bottle was once again a faded olive green, and his flatmate was still unpacking, albeit now with a more amused expression on his face.
“Did you just…how did you do that?”
Sherlock shrugged, a smile playing along his lips.
Fill: Rosemary {2/?}
anonymous
December 14 2010, 21:50:08 UTC
I AM TOTALLY MAKING STUFF UP. JUST A DISCLAIMER. THINGS WILL BE EXPLAINED. EVENTUALLY.
----------
It began - as far as Sherlock was concerned - with Mrs. Turner.
Imagine - he had been so excited to see the array of herbs in Mrs. Hudson's arms.
"Mrs. Turner's spice garden's doing nicely this year," the landlady remarked gleefully, bustling into the kitchen, "and Marie gave me extra for you boys, though what you'll use it for heaven knows. I tried to tell her you're not really the cooking type, but I guess she suspects you'd be like her tenants, a pair of gourmet chefs from how she talks about them." Spreadng out her hands over the kitchen table, the green sprigs gracefully piled upon each other. "Now Sherlock, no dillweed in the toilet like last time, you know what it does to the plumbing. Ta!" she crowed brightly, frittering out.
"What's that smell?" A yawning John Watson stumbled from the direction of the bathroom. There was a small pop as the doctor stretched out a kink in his shoulder, and he wandered blearily toward the refrigerator.
Sherlock made a pleased sound, combing his fingers through the pile. "Herbs, from the garden next door. Coffee?"
"Water first. Someone replaced my toothpaste with arnica cream."
"Right, yes, I nearly forgot. You left some in the tube, right?" Sherlock couldn't prevent the small grin at his lips from the growled affirmation.
Suddenly, John materialized in his periphary. A glass of water was in his right hand, and with his left, he began fingering the softness of the foliage on the table. Selecting a small sprig of needle-like leaves, he regarded it thoughtfully.
"Rosemary," Sherlock supplied helpfully.
"Yeah, I know." Smiling, John rotated the sprig by its truncated stem. Running his fingers along the stalk, he detached several leaves and placed them into his glass, swirling the water around a bit to let the flavour diffuse. John lifted the glass to his lips, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat and hidden by the long-sleeved jumper, gaze traveling up to the cocked eyebrow of his flatmate.
"You all right?"
Sherlock felt his head instinctivly nod. "Fine, yeah, fine," he mumbled. "Forgot you were from the headlands."
The brief puzzled look was quickly replaced with amusement. "Right, yeah, the rosemary. I suppose it is sort of a provincial thing. Not too big a leap."
Sherlock could feel a genuine smile curving his lips. "You're learning from me after all."
Barking out a laugh, John once again sipped his glass. But the nagging twinge in the back of Sherlock's mind wouldn't go away.
Re: Fill: Rosemary {2/?}
anonymous
December 14 2010, 22:57:00 UTC
Isn't it though? =D And of course Sherlock wouldn't be a normal bartender, no - he'd be a flair bartender. 'cause it involves physics and stuff is hot as HELL.
Re: Fill: Rosemary {2/?}hobbylobbyDecember 15 2010, 00:10:22 UTC
I LOVE this so hard!
"John felt his mouth open, and he felt the shout begin to materialize in his throat. But the feeling died, as he couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle rotating, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and placed on the kitchen counter…wait, what?" Hee!
"gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat" This is going to be so hot, isn't it?!?!?
Re: Fill: Rosemary {2/?}iamladylibertyDecember 15 2010, 06:21:42 UTC
wow...i am astonishingly hooked already. and love that sherlock might be trying to keep this to himself and mull over for a little while before trouncing it out right there.
Re: Fill: Rosemary {2/?}
anonymous
December 15 2010, 19:47:15 UTC
i feel like i can say, without fear off exaggeration, that this fill is the single greatest thing that has ever happened to anyone in the history of time!
Fill: Rosemary {3a/?}
anonymous
December 15 2010, 22:15:00 UTC
Thank you for the kind words! Things will make more sense eventually! AND THERE WILL BE SMEX, I PROMISE
----------
Sounds of the bubbling city streaked and bubbled against the windowpane, and John thought. He had no clue what he was thinking about, what exactly was this itchy feeling that was keeping him from sleep. Nevertheless, he could feel the distraction dancing around in his head, spinning, twirling around itself.
“This must be what Sherlock goes through on a nightly basis,” he mumbled aloud to himself. At the recollection of his flatmate, the thought began to ripple and bulge.
Biting his lip in concentration, he turned toward the wall. The clamour from outside bounced in his ears, thudding with every beat. He was never a fan of the strange synth music they played in clubs. Hell, we wasn’t even a fan of clubs at all, but his mates insisted. “One last hurrah,” they’d urged, “Before we’re back to the Giant Sandbox.”
The “last hurrah” was proving elusive - it was a Sunday night, and the place was half-empty. His head began thudding with the beat - the beginnings of a migraine, wonderful. He started to put his palm on his forehead, but the movement was arrested by his pal Tim. “You gotta see this!” Tim roared, dragging John towards the other end of the room.
Everyone else was crowded up against the bar, laughing and jibing, and despite himself, John felt a twinge of envy at how comfortable they were with each other. Chris spotted them coming and grinned, turning and waving his hand to get the attention of the bartender. Why, John wasn’t sure - the tall barkeep looked bored, staring off to his left, twirling a beer bottle around nimble fingers. He supposed it made sense - there weren’t as many customers as usual, and practically no women. He noticed silver eyes, barely visible under a tangle of black curls, darting from person to person, evaluating them. Without even looking, the bartender lobbed the bottle into the air. It flew, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and poured into a chilled stein.
“Oi! You, the juggler!” John winced as Chris shouted directly into his ear. “Tell us what this sad old bum wants!” The bartender pushed the stein toward an old timer on their right, then turned, eyes focusing and turning to set on John’s.
“I think,” John interrupted, desperately trying not to grit his teeth, “he’s meant to ask me that.”
Chris laughed gratingly and leaned over the bar. “Don’t mind him, he’s a bit of a wet towel,” Chris half-whispered. He turned, and John wrinkled his nose at the indecent amount of alcohol on his breath. “This bloke,” he exclaimed, clapping a hand on the tall man’s forearm, “this bloke doesn’t need to ask, he just knows!” The bartender broke the stare that John just realized they’d been holding and scowled, not-so-subtly wrenching his arm back.
Fill: Rosemary {3b/?}
anonymous
December 15 2010, 22:15:57 UTC
Before he knew it, a piece of paper and pencil was thrust into his hand. “Write it down, Johnny!” Tim hooted.
Turning his head back, John was surprised to see the barkeep once again watching him intently. Without shifting his gaze, the man was one-handedly whirling the bottle again, deftly avoiding the long cuff of his intensely garish, too-shiny violet shirt.
The words “smug bastard” came unbidden into his mind. Tightening his lip, John lowered his head and scribbled down an answer. He folded the paper and there was a small “thump” as a highball glass was set on a napkin that had materialized out of nowhere.
“Vodka on the rocks,” a low voice said. A draft from the stained window blew in, so John shivered. There was a small shove in his side, and he frowned as Chris grabbed the slip of paper and unfolded it.
“Vodka on the rocks!” he crowed, holding the paper in the air like a trophy, and there was an off-rhythm drunken cheer. Chris slammed on the table, and the liquor in the glass shook and rippled. “Brilliant trick, that!”
John assumed he was the only one who heard the mumbled “It’s not a trick” under the din. Then again, he could’ve been imagining it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his battered leather wallet and scrounged inside for bills.
There was an exclamation by the door, and the crowd around him suddenly dematerialized. It took John a second to realize it was because a group of uni girls came in. Giggling, they set themselves up on the other end of the bar.
A quiet knocking sound distracted him, and he turned his head back, jumping a little at the silver eyes once again overtly...ogling him, it had to be called. Something about those eyes unnerved him, he had decided.
“What?” He blurted out nervously. “Something on my face?” He wasn’t usually so short with people who served him alcohol, but Christ, this man was less than a foot away and he felt like a goddamn oil painting.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered, placing his pale hand over the rim of the glass.
John could’ve sworn he’d opened his mouth to say no, but for some reason the word “fine” escaped instead. The bartender nodded and sauntered over to the group of girls, and John was surprised at how he could tell how subtly fake his smile was. Turning back to his glass, he sighed, then did a double-take. In his glass, leaning innocently against an ice cube as if it was there the whole time, was a sprig of rosemary.
Unbelievable.
John tilted the glass in his fingers, and a drop escaped, trickling down the windowpane…it was raining again. The sounds had faded away, the darkness of the room began to oppress him, and John’s mouth felt unnaturally dry.
Re: Fill: Rosemary {3b/?}
anonymous
December 16 2010, 03:31:19 UTC
MOARRR... I'm sore from the last time I pulled out my hair, so I won't do that again. I can't wait for the next installment ._. srsly, my hair can't wait. I don't want to need Rogaine for Women.
Fill: Rosemary {4a/?}
anonymous
December 16 2010, 08:19:18 UTC
GUYS, I'M SUPPOSED TO BE ASLEEP, WHAT THE HELL. ;-) REGULAR DISCLAIMERS OF "DON'T KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT" STILL APPLY.
----------
That was definitely the click of a door - he hadn’t imagined this one. Sherlock was sat bolt-upright on his bed, head tilted in the direction of the living room. Through his closed bedroom door, he could hear another click of a door closing, and felt the vibrations of someone walking across the hardwood floors.
There was one board, on route to the washroom, that creaked, and Sherlock held his breath.
Absolute silence.
Then the sound of the fridge door being opened.
Cursing quietly, he raised himself off his bed, leaning against the doorframe. This had to happen, sooner or later. At least he had to see John, to analyze his face, see if there was something in his expression that depicted the memory. He considered peeping through the keyhole, but immediately rejected the idea - too childish.
If there was a time to act adult, it was now.
John turned sharply as he flung open his bedroom door, and Sherlock almost laughed - he was like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, the liquor cabinet.
Sherlock’s gaze lifted from the tiny bottle of Absolut to the crease of John’s jawline to his eyes, and he found himself staring for longer than necessary, drawn in like two wells of water, amazed by their depth, swallowed into the brown puddles dotted across the surface of the bar. With a frown, he ran over them with a damp rag.
The man at the end of the bar - the one his mates called “Johnny” - was captivating his sight again. Sherlock measured out a tequila sunrise (fake tan, just back from holiday, reeking of lemon wood cleaner - far too obvious), then glanced around. Finally, the crowd seemed to have thinned out, and he was free to…discuss.
He shook out the rag, rewetted it, and dragged it along with him as he strolled back to Johnny, who was looking in the opposite direction, bored. Before he could make himself known, Sherlock saw him raise the glass to his lips.
He stopped in his tracks and stared. The simple act was oddly erotic - the curve of his lips around the brim, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat and disappearing underneath his shirt.
Fuck yes. It would be Johnny tonight. Sherlock could feel his fingers curl fitfully. It had been days since his last lay, and the itch inside him had been growing exponentially.
He inhaled, fetched the “mysterious grin” expression from his mental library, and closed the distance between them.
----------
It began - as far as John is concerned - with Lestrade.
The Detective Inspector showed up unexpectedly half past eight - well, unexpectedly for John. Thirty seconds prior, Sherlock had laid down his violin and hoisted his legs onto the chair beneath him, crouching in what John recognized as anticipation.
“Amazing how dog-like you are,” John had joked when he went to open the door. “We ought to get Lestrade a postman’s uniform.”
Sherlock merely hmmed as John flung open the door. “Help the good inspector with the crate, John.”
“You could lend a hand, you know,” the DI panted, nodding his head at John in thanks as the doctor grasped a corner of the heavy wooden box.
“Can’t. Thinking.”
With John’s help, Lestrade was able to heave the box onto the table. It landed with a bang, and a worrisome creak echoed from within the woodwork. John fetched the crowbar from the coat closet. (He had insisted on having a crowbar in the flat at all times, as a result of that last case with the combine.) Latching an end under the lid, he heaved, grunting, “What’s in this thing, bricks?”
“Chemicals,” Lestrade responded. John immediately released the crowbar, letting it clang to the flower and marveling that it remarkably missed his toe. Grasping the edge, Lestrade pulled, and the lid scraped off. Dozens of glass bottles gleamed at him, and suddenly Sherlock was at his side, eyeing them in a way that almost resembled hunger.
“Thank you, Lestrade. I’ll text the results as soon as possible.”
“Right.” The detective inspector wiped his hands in his jacket, then stuck them in his pockets. “Be careful, Sherlock. Some of those look dangerous.” He screwed up his face at the deprecating look the detective gave him. “Don’t be a smartass. Just watch yourself.”
“He means well, Sherlock,” John said appealingly as the door slammed shut behind them.
“Yes, well, insulting my intelligence is an interesting way to show it." He stuck his hand rather carelessly among the flasks." Benzene, six-molar copper sulfate…wait…" A few hesitant clinks. "There should be hydrochloric acid in here. Where is it?”
“How do you know he has it?”
“Please, John, any collection of chemicals must include hydrochloric acid. That’s common sense.”
“Evidently. Why don’t we unpack these, you might be missing it?”
Despite the muttered “unlikely,” Sherlock reached in and grasped the handle of the largest bottle. With a bored look on his face, he pulled it out - then, almost unconsciously, tossed the bottle into the air.
John felt his mouth open, and he felt the shout begin to materialize in his throat. But the feeling died, as he couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle rotating, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and placed on the kitchen counter…wait, what?
John blinked. He was once again in 221B, the liquid in the bottle was once again a faded olive green, and his flatmate was still unpacking, albeit now with a more amused expression on his face.
“Did you just…how did you do that?”
Sherlock shrugged, a smile playing along his lips.
“Just a little trick I picked up.”
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----------
It began - as far as Sherlock was concerned - with Mrs. Turner.
Imagine - he had been so excited to see the array of herbs in Mrs. Hudson's arms.
"Mrs. Turner's spice garden's doing nicely this year," the landlady remarked gleefully, bustling into the kitchen, "and Marie gave me extra for you boys, though what you'll use it for heaven knows. I tried to tell her you're not really the cooking type, but I guess she suspects you'd be like her tenants, a pair of gourmet chefs from how she talks about them." Spreadng out her hands over the kitchen table, the green sprigs gracefully piled upon each other. "Now Sherlock, no dillweed in the toilet like last time, you know what it does to the plumbing. Ta!" she crowed brightly, frittering out.
"What's that smell?" A yawning John Watson stumbled from the direction of the bathroom. There was a small pop as the doctor stretched out a kink in his shoulder, and he wandered blearily toward the refrigerator.
Sherlock made a pleased sound, combing his fingers through the pile. "Herbs, from the garden next door. Coffee?"
"Water first. Someone replaced my toothpaste with arnica cream."
"Right, yes, I nearly forgot. You left some in the tube, right?" Sherlock couldn't prevent the small grin at his lips from the growled affirmation.
Suddenly, John materialized in his periphary. A glass of water was in his right hand, and with his left, he began fingering the softness of the foliage on the table. Selecting a small sprig of needle-like leaves, he regarded it thoughtfully.
"Rosemary," Sherlock supplied helpfully.
"Yeah, I know." Smiling, John rotated the sprig by its truncated stem. Running his fingers along the stalk, he detached several leaves and placed them into his glass, swirling the water around a bit to let the flavour diffuse. John lifted the glass to his lips, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat and hidden by the long-sleeved jumper, gaze traveling up to the cocked eyebrow of his flatmate.
"You all right?"
Sherlock felt his head instinctivly nod. "Fine, yeah, fine," he mumbled. "Forgot you were from the headlands."
The brief puzzled look was quickly replaced with amusement. "Right, yeah, the rosemary. I suppose it is sort of a provincial thing. Not too big a leap."
Sherlock could feel a genuine smile curving his lips. "You're learning from me after all."
Barking out a laugh, John once again sipped his glass. But the nagging twinge in the back of Sherlock's mind wouldn't go away.
"
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Bartender!Sherlock is an unexpectedly delicious mental image.
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"John felt his mouth open, and he felt the shout begin to materialize in his throat. But the feeling died, as he couldn’t take his eyes off the bottle rotating, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and placed on the kitchen counter…wait, what?"
Hee!
"gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat"
This is going to be so hot, isn't it?!?!?
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YOU HAVE POSITED CORRECTLY. =D
May need a bit more time, but will try to get additional parts up later this week.
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thanks for writing, can't wait for more.
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Captcha "from sepentls" who the fuck is that, mycroft? why don't you send your own stuff?
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----------
Sounds of the bubbling city streaked and bubbled against the windowpane, and John thought. He had no clue what he was thinking about, what exactly was this itchy feeling that was keeping him from sleep. Nevertheless, he could feel the distraction dancing around in his head, spinning, twirling around itself.
“This must be what Sherlock goes through on a nightly basis,” he mumbled aloud to himself. At the recollection of his flatmate, the thought began to ripple and bulge.
Biting his lip in concentration, he turned toward the wall. The clamour from outside bounced in his ears, thudding with every beat. He was never a fan of the strange synth music they played in clubs. Hell, we wasn’t even a fan of clubs at all, but his mates insisted. “One last hurrah,” they’d urged, “Before we’re back to the Giant Sandbox.”
The “last hurrah” was proving elusive - it was a Sunday night, and the place was half-empty. His head began thudding with the beat - the beginnings of a migraine, wonderful. He started to put his palm on his forehead, but the movement was arrested by his pal Tim. “You gotta see this!” Tim roared, dragging John towards the other end of the room.
Everyone else was crowded up against the bar, laughing and jibing, and despite himself, John felt a twinge of envy at how comfortable they were with each other. Chris spotted them coming and grinned, turning and waving his hand to get the attention of the bartender. Why, John wasn’t sure - the tall barkeep looked bored, staring off to his left, twirling a beer bottle around nimble fingers. He supposed it made sense - there weren’t as many customers as usual, and practically no women. He noticed silver eyes, barely visible under a tangle of black curls, darting from person to person, evaluating them. Without even looking, the bartender lobbed the bottle into the air. It flew, flipping in midair, end upon end, before landing gracefully in agile hands, the brown liquid sloshing only minutely as the bottle was uncapped and poured into a chilled stein.
“Oi! You, the juggler!” John winced as Chris shouted directly into his ear. “Tell us what this sad old bum wants!” The bartender pushed the stein toward an old timer on their right, then turned, eyes focusing and turning to set on John’s.
“I think,” John interrupted, desperately trying not to grit his teeth, “he’s meant to ask me that.”
Chris laughed gratingly and leaned over the bar. “Don’t mind him, he’s a bit of a wet towel,” Chris half-whispered. He turned, and John wrinkled his nose at the indecent amount of alcohol on his breath. “This bloke,” he exclaimed, clapping a hand on the tall man’s forearm, “this bloke doesn’t need to ask, he just knows!” The bartender broke the stare that John just realized they’d been holding and scowled, not-so-subtly wrenching his arm back.
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Turning his head back, John was surprised to see the barkeep once again watching him intently. Without shifting his gaze, the man was one-handedly whirling the bottle again, deftly avoiding the long cuff of his intensely garish, too-shiny violet shirt.
The words “smug bastard” came unbidden into his mind. Tightening his lip, John lowered his head and scribbled down an answer. He folded the paper and there was a small “thump” as a highball glass was set on a napkin that had materialized out of nowhere.
“Vodka on the rocks,” a low voice said. A draft from the stained window blew in, so John shivered. There was a small shove in his side, and he frowned as Chris grabbed the slip of paper and unfolded it.
“Vodka on the rocks!” he crowed, holding the paper in the air like a trophy, and there was an off-rhythm drunken cheer. Chris slammed on the table, and the liquor in the glass shook and rippled. “Brilliant trick, that!”
John assumed he was the only one who heard the mumbled “It’s not a trick” under the din. Then again, he could’ve been imagining it. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his battered leather wallet and scrounged inside for bills.
There was an exclamation by the door, and the crowd around him suddenly dematerialized. It took John a second to realize it was because a group of uni girls came in. Giggling, they set themselves up on the other end of the bar.
A quiet knocking sound distracted him, and he turned his head back, jumping a little at the silver eyes once again overtly...ogling him, it had to be called. Something about those eyes unnerved him, he had decided.
“What?” He blurted out nervously. “Something on my face?” He wasn’t usually so short with people who served him alcohol, but Christ, this man was less than a foot away and he felt like a goddamn oil painting.
“Don’t move,” the man ordered, placing his pale hand over the rim of the glass.
John could’ve sworn he’d opened his mouth to say no, but for some reason the word “fine” escaped instead. The bartender nodded and sauntered over to the group of girls, and John was surprised at how he could tell how subtly fake his smile was. Turning back to his glass, he sighed, then did a double-take. In his glass, leaning innocently against an ice cube as if it was there the whole time, was a sprig of rosemary.
Unbelievable.
John tilted the glass in his fingers, and a drop escaped, trickling down the windowpane…it was raining again. The sounds had faded away, the darkness of the room began to oppress him, and John’s mouth felt unnaturally dry.
He needed a drink.
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(Mycroft says "socause continue"! obey the mycroft)
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I'm sore from the last time I pulled out my hair, so I won't do that again.
I can't wait for the next installment ._. srsly, my hair can't wait. I don't want to need Rogaine for Women.
Reply
----------
That was definitely the click of a door - he hadn’t imagined this one. Sherlock was sat bolt-upright on his bed, head tilted in the direction of the living room. Through his closed bedroom door, he could hear another click of a door closing, and felt the vibrations of someone walking across the hardwood floors.
There was one board, on route to the washroom, that creaked, and Sherlock held his breath.
Absolute silence.
Then the sound of the fridge door being opened.
Cursing quietly, he raised himself off his bed, leaning against the doorframe. This had to happen, sooner or later. At least he had to see John, to analyze his face, see if there was something in his expression that depicted the memory. He considered peeping through the keyhole, but immediately rejected the idea - too childish.
If there was a time to act adult, it was now.
John turned sharply as he flung open his bedroom door, and Sherlock almost laughed - he was like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Or, in this case, the liquor cabinet.
Sherlock’s gaze lifted from the tiny bottle of Absolut to the crease of John’s jawline to his eyes, and he found himself staring for longer than necessary, drawn in like two wells of water, amazed by their depth, swallowed into the brown puddles dotted across the surface of the bar. With a frown, he ran over them with a damp rag.
The man at the end of the bar - the one his mates called “Johnny” - was captivating his sight again. Sherlock measured out a tequila sunrise (fake tan, just back from holiday, reeking of lemon wood cleaner - far too obvious), then glanced around. Finally, the crowd seemed to have thinned out, and he was free to…discuss.
He shook out the rag, rewetted it, and dragged it along with him as he strolled back to Johnny, who was looking in the opposite direction, bored. Before he could make himself known, Sherlock saw him raise the glass to his lips.
He stopped in his tracks and stared. The simple act was oddly erotic - the curve of his lips around the brim, gullet rising and dropping steadily, a drop of condensation languidly sledding down the side of the glass, mirroring the bead of sweat rolling down his neck, hypnotizing him, tantalizing him, slipping along smooth, smooth planes until resting at the crook of his throat and disappearing underneath his shirt.
Fuck yes. It would be Johnny tonight. Sherlock could feel his fingers curl fitfully. It had been days since his last lay, and the itch inside him had been growing exponentially.
He inhaled, fetched the “mysterious grin” expression from his mental library, and closed the distance between them.
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