Re: FILL (3/?)
anonymous
February 6 2011, 07:34:37 UTC
lol the people have spoken! here it is. be careful what you wish for, and all that. rest of the story is in progress now, but i'm posting this bit first so you guys have something to chew on while you wait :) ...god, i'm so sorry for the quality of this story, i can't even. also i apologize for the random tense shift at the end of part 2 and... ugh i'll shut up now. *******
Harry was sniggering. “Come to the right place, then, haven’t you? Why don’t you play a game with us?” She took a swallow from her red cup and gestured at a spot near Anderson. Lestrade’s vague protests that he was far too young for any of this were lost in a chorus of agreement. Everyone was eager to see cold, superior Sherlock Holmes humiliated.
Sherlock’s disdainful expression didn’t change. He looked at the room again, seemed to decide to take Harry’s invitation for the challenge that it undoubtedly was, and folded himself catlike onto the floor beside Anderson. The latter glowered and tugged irritably at his dinosaur boxers, which were beginning to slip a bit.
John hadn’t said a word yet. Something about the sight of Sherlock, this impossibly long and elegant creature that belonged - where? In a lab, hunched over some arcane instrument, probably, or outlined dramatically against the London skyline - the sight of him, jarringly incongruous against a mundane backdrop of red plastic cups and haphazardly arranged crepe streamers, had rendered him speechless. It was like seeing a ballerina pirouetting through a hippopotamus pen. Or something. God, he couldn’t even think up a coherent metaphor. How many beers had he drunk?
For his part, Sherlock had glanced once, and only once, in John’s general direction, greeting him with a vague nod. His face betrayed no emotion, though this was not, as such, a deviation from the norm. John attempted to smile back, but his face didn’t seem to be working properly for some reason.
The game began. “Here, birthday boy,” called Harry, tossing John an empty Stella bottle. “You get first pick.”
John caught it gamely, but he was shaking his head. “This is ridiculous,” he croaked out as he set the bottle whirling, hypnotic against the smooth hardwood floor.
The bottle glinted menacingly as it spun, once, twice, thrice... and came to a slow and undeniable stop with its mouth pointing smugly at Sherlock Holmes.
...god, i'm so sorry for the quality of this story, i can't even. also i apologize for the random tense shift at the end of part 2 and... ugh i'll shut up now.
*******
Harry was sniggering. “Come to the right place, then, haven’t you? Why don’t you play a game with us?” She took a swallow from her red cup and gestured at a spot near Anderson. Lestrade’s vague protests that he was far too young for any of this were lost in a chorus of agreement. Everyone was eager to see cold, superior Sherlock Holmes humiliated.
Sherlock’s disdainful expression didn’t change. He looked at the room again, seemed to decide to take Harry’s invitation for the challenge that it undoubtedly was, and folded himself catlike onto the floor beside Anderson. The latter glowered and tugged irritably at his dinosaur boxers, which were beginning to slip a bit.
John hadn’t said a word yet. Something about the sight of Sherlock, this impossibly long and elegant creature that belonged - where? In a lab, hunched over some arcane instrument, probably, or outlined dramatically against the London skyline - the sight of him, jarringly incongruous against a mundane backdrop of red plastic cups and haphazardly arranged crepe streamers, had rendered him speechless. It was like seeing a ballerina pirouetting through a hippopotamus pen. Or something. God, he couldn’t even think up a coherent metaphor. How many beers had he drunk?
For his part, Sherlock had glanced once, and only once, in John’s general direction, greeting him with a vague nod. His face betrayed no emotion, though this was not, as such, a deviation from the norm. John attempted to smile back, but his face didn’t seem to be working properly for some reason.
The game began. “Here, birthday boy,” called Harry, tossing John an empty Stella bottle. “You get first pick.”
John caught it gamely, but he was shaking his head. “This is ridiculous,” he croaked out as he set the bottle whirling, hypnotic against the smooth hardwood floor.
The bottle glinted menacingly as it spun, once, twice, thrice... and came to a slow and undeniable stop with its mouth pointing smugly at Sherlock Holmes.
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