Welcome! (Prompting: part i)
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This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.
( Read more... )
Prompts from this post can be filled on the Overflow Post
This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.
( Read more... )
It wasn't that he was a bad runner. He was actually a very fit man and perfectly capable of going for a daily jog. No, the problem was that Sherlock was ridiculously tall, and she it followed that he had ridiculously long legs.
John was sort and had short legs. It didn't take the world's only Consulting Detective to work out that John may have a hard time keeping up with Sherlock.
But still he found himself on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street wearing an old jumper and even older jogging bottoms as he waited for Sherlock to come down the stairs.
John jogged on the spot as he waited, trying to stop the cold climb any further than his already numb toes. He hoped that Sherlock wasn't going to take much longer.
As if he'd read his mind, Sherlock appeared in the hallway, wearing a thin t-shirt and navy blue shorts. John stared.
"Shall we go?" Sherlock asked, hesitantly.
"You're wearing shorts."
Sherlock glanced down at himself.
"Yes."
"But it's bloody February! You can't wear shorts, you'll freeze."
"John," Sherlock sounded bored already," we're going running. And when running it is natural to sweat at the physical exertion. The wearing of shorts reduce the amount of sweating and keep me cool, which in turn allows me to run for longer. I can assure you that I will be capable of running long after you have given up in your trousers."
"Yes all right," John sighed, "can we just get going?"
Sherlock nodded curtly before leading the way out of Baker Street.
John was silently pleased with himself that he managed to stay level with Sherlock for the first ten minutes of their run (it didn't occur to him that Sherlock might've been running at a slower pace than he usually would) but it didn't take long before, despite the chilled air, he could feel sweat running across his forehead and down the back of his neck.
Less than five minutes later he was panting rather heavily, and starting to fall behind Sherlock's long stride.
"John?"
Sherlock didn't sound even slightly out of breath. The bastard.
"Yes, Sherlock," John panted, feeling like his muscles were about to tear into pieces.
"You're grunting, John. It's quite distracting when I'm trying to think."
John didn't understand how Sherlock could still be thinking when he was hardly able to breathe.
"I'm g... going t- to," he wheezed, slowing down even further, "to stop. Please."
John didn't see it - he was doubled over against a brick wall, trying to remember his name, let alone how to actually start breathing again - but Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire cat.
"I believe, in this situation, I'm supposed to say 'I told you so', am I not?"
"You bastard," John said, or tried to say; it came out as more of a whine before he gave in and slumped against the cool brick wall.
"I can't feel my tongue," John managed to gasp.
Sherlock just chuckled, before pulling his companion up and supporting him with a strong arm, as they made their way back to Baker Street.
Point out any mistakes and you can have a cookie!
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Thanks for reading.
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