Welcome! (Prompting: part i)

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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This is a fic prompting meme based around the BBC series Sherlock, written by Stephen Moffat & Mark Gattis.

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[anonymous]

a thousand apologies to the OP because this could probably take being about half as short without suffering any, but it all sort of... happened.

"Oh come on, it's not even -"

"I see it, I see it. Come on, you were fine with the bloody tank chase, can you not forgive a wonky laser?"

They've been here for hours, now. Most of the day, in fact, and John's been working his way through the beer in the fridge since about four. It is now, his watch tells him, pushing ten. He's comfortable where he is, frankly dreading having to get up to change the DVD in about half an hour, and the pleasant buzz of the alcohol is making him frankly more agreeable to his flatmate's... eccentricities.

After all, Sherlock took up position in his lap halfway through The Living Daylights and seems unwilling to move, despite dividing his attention between the telly and his netbook. Beyond occasionally turning his head, of course, and that's what he does now - shifts, wriggles a little bit and puts enough pressure on John's thigh to make the older man wince in order to go back to some online journal article about haem complexes.

"Don't stop paying attention now, you'll miss the good bit." John prods verbally, resisting the urge to do so physically. "They're trying to break out of an exploding train!"

"John, your enthusiasm for the pyrotechnics is endearing, but by now I'm fairly sure there are going to be at least three more." He taps the down arrow a couple of times, other hand coming up in an expectant sort of gesture.

For his part, John thinks nothing by now of passing over his own can of beer. "Don't jump the gun. There are things falling down and a lot of sparks, but this is the last big explosion and - " He pauses as Bond and his companion fling themselves away from the fireball into the bushes, waving a hand. "See? You've gone and missed it."

"It was a model." Sherlock says at length, both hands on the beer can as he reads the article, shifting slightly to keep the little computer sitting improbably upright in his lap. "A rather good one, but a model nonetheless."

John pauses, rolls his eyes and gives up. "Just don't go saying you're disappointed with the sparks."

"I'm more disappointed with Alan Cumming's Russian accent, to be honest." At that John really does try to poke him, only to be fended off by Sherlock's right elbow. "Oh come on, it's atrocious."

"You pick now of all times to point out how bad the accents are?" He's genuinely astounded. The man's not been on screen for what must be an age in Sherlock Time Units.

Tipping his head back, the younger man snorts. "I've been restraining myself. It was almost physically painful to keep from commenting on Coltrane's. I simply cannot help myself any longer." The tone is somewhere between sarcasm, amusement and good-natured self-deprecation.

John shrugs, returning his attention to the screen. "Spent a lot of time around Russians speaking English, have we?" He can't help the smirk at the blank look he feels directed towards his jaw. Small victories, he's taken to telling himself. Take them where you can find them.

"I know what they're supposed to sound like," is the answer, but it's petulant and without confidence and reminds John of his own reaction to the reply of 'why should I? I've never met him' when Sherlock had needed to ask who exactly this David Cameron fellow was.

He just snorts, uses his best patronising tone to murmur 'of course you do', and takes back his beer.

It's empty.

He looks down at Sherlock, the faintest frown on his features, and finds his flatmate still in the process of swallowing. "You're such a child."

The flash of grey eyes and slightly mischievous grin up at him says everything. "In that case, should you be giving me alcohol in the first place?"

That shuts him up. He knows when he's beaten.

Until he finally does fight his way upright to change the disc and get more to drink out of the fridge, that is, because he makes a sandwich for himself and leaves it in the kitchen while he goes to the bathroom, comes back and finds a quarter of it gone.