FILL (4/?)
anonymous
February 7 2011, 06:37:39 UTC
NOTE OF APOLOGY: I've decided to switch to the present tense, 'cause I think it fits the story better. Sorry if this makes your brains hurt! I'll post a cleaned up version on my journal when this is over, promise.
*****
There follows the inevitable pause during which all present gape soundlessly at either the instrument of fate itself or its hapless victims. Sherlock’s face seems to be frozen into a rictus of... shock? Annoyance? Sherlockness? Who knows what is going on in that formidable cranium?
As for John, after the initial shock, he just looks at the ceiling and says quite matter-of-factly, “Of course this is happening to me.” Being John Watson really sucks, sometimes.
Meanwhile, everyone is talking at once, or laughing uproariously in Harry’s case. Molly is saying insistently, “Yeah, of course they do, it still counts if they’re both boys or both girls, it doesn’t matter, it’s the rules,” Anderson is bleating something about a re-spin (very loudly, too - odd, that, thought John distantly), Lestrade is pinching the bridge of his nose, and, oh, okay, someone’s pulling John up by the arms. He lets himself be dragged to the closet, shaking his head the whole way. Resistance is beyond him now, and whether it’s due to the Stella or just pure exhaustion, he really doesn’t know or care.
Sherlock does, though, apparently, and he puts up quite a fight, spitting and snarling at Sebastian and some deceptively tiny bloke from Organic Chemistry (unremarkable fellow; John thinks maybe his name starts with... an M? Whatever) as they haul him bodily into the closet next to John. The door closes with a very final whump.
The two boys stand in darkness for moment, the sound of Sherlock’s steady diatribe low and immediate over the distant hum of the people outside laughing and chatting.
John switches the light on. Then he winces. The illumination provided by the closet’s dingy, yellow bulb, mediocre though it is, nonetheless leaves no doubt that Sherlock is having, to put it lightly, a monumental strop. He is still muttering furiously to himself, arms firmly crossed.
“Well. Hullo, Sh - Holmes,” says John, and damn it, how long has he been thinking of him as Sherlock?
Sherlock seethes. “This. Is. Ludicrous.” His eyes are fixed determinedly on a spot somewhere to the left of John’s head.
*****
There follows the inevitable pause during which all present gape soundlessly at either the instrument of fate itself or its hapless victims. Sherlock’s face seems to be frozen into a rictus of... shock? Annoyance? Sherlockness? Who knows what is going on in that formidable cranium?
As for John, after the initial shock, he just looks at the ceiling and says quite matter-of-factly, “Of course this is happening to me.” Being John Watson really sucks, sometimes.
Meanwhile, everyone is talking at once, or laughing uproariously in Harry’s case. Molly is saying insistently, “Yeah, of course they do, it still counts if they’re both boys or both girls, it doesn’t matter, it’s the rules,” Anderson is bleating something about a re-spin (very loudly, too - odd, that, thought John distantly), Lestrade is pinching the bridge of his nose, and, oh, okay, someone’s pulling John up by the arms. He lets himself be dragged to the closet, shaking his head the whole way. Resistance is beyond him now, and whether it’s due to the Stella or just pure exhaustion, he really doesn’t know or care.
Sherlock does, though, apparently, and he puts up quite a fight, spitting and snarling at Sebastian and some deceptively tiny bloke from Organic Chemistry (unremarkable fellow; John thinks maybe his name starts with... an M? Whatever) as they haul him bodily into the closet next to John. The door closes with a very final whump.
The two boys stand in darkness for moment, the sound of Sherlock’s steady diatribe low and immediate over the distant hum of the people outside laughing and chatting.
John switches the light on. Then he winces. The illumination provided by the closet’s dingy, yellow bulb, mediocre though it is, nonetheless leaves no doubt that Sherlock is having, to put it lightly, a monumental strop. He is still muttering furiously to himself, arms firmly crossed.
“Well. Hullo, Sh - Holmes,” says John, and damn it, how long has he been thinking of him as Sherlock?
Sherlock seethes. “This. Is. Ludicrous.” His eyes are fixed determinedly on a spot somewhere to the left of John’s head.
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