Disguise, part 1c/?
anonymous
March 20 2011, 22:24:57 UTC
Sherlock bangs into the flat a minute or two later with a takeaway cup in his hand and frowns at John.
"Why are you on your knees in the middle of the kitchen?"
John's tempted to mutter under his breath, why don't you deduce it for yourself but takes the safer road and says, "spilled the milk."
"Hmmm... that's surprising," Sherlock says. "You've never been clumsy."
"Well, if there weren't bloody fingers in the sink, I wouldn't have spilled the milk."
Sherlock thinks about that. "That doesn't follow."
John breathes through his nose. Several times. "I was holding the milk when I saw the delightfully surprising contents of the sink and dropped it."
Sherlock doesn't respond for a moment, then nods and holds out the cup in his hand. "I brought you a tea. Thought you might need it. You're always a bit wound after you get home from surgery."
John is oddly touched by the gesture and accepts it wordlessly. Sherlock smiles at him. "Dinner? I thought we might get Chinese."
"Yeah, that sounds great."
After inhaling the warm citrusy scent, John takes a sip of tea and then sets it down on the table. "There's that new place that just opened over on-- hang on."
He glances at the name on the takeaway cup and frowns. Leopold George Duncan Albert. Why does he know that name? His mind pauses, rewinds through the day slowly until he alights on the afternoon trip he took to get a cup of tea.
"Sherlock?" he calls. "Were you at the coffee shop today?"
"Obviously." His voice is muffled; he must be reading. "I was trying out a few things to prepare for a future case. I'm surprised you didn't recognise me."
"Recognise you? Why would I--"
"Well, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
John's heart freezes a moment, then resumes a rather erratic rhythm. "Oh my god," he says quietly. Then, walking into the sitting room, "that was you? At the coffee shop? You were Kate?"
Sherlock looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
His mind goes back over the exchange: the barista's smile, the way she looked right into his eyes, John's pathetic attempt at flirting. Oh god. He feels himself flush.
"I can't believe I flirted with you."
"I'd hardly call that flirting."
John has no response for that.
"How did you not know?" Sherlock asks earnestly. "I was certain you'd figure it out as soon as you read the name."
John walks back into the kitchen to pick up the cup. "Leopold George Duncan Albert," he reads aloud. "Why would I know that name?"
Sherlock sighs. "Don't you remember when you were watching that special on the telly? About the war?"
John nods. It had been a good special. About a month ago, if he recalled .
"Wait, what does that have to do with the name on the cup?"
"There was a advert for commemorative plates after the show..." Sherlock is clearly leading him towards the answer, but John has no idea.
"And?"
"The commemorative royal plates honouring each of Queen Victoria's children?"
John knows his face is infuriatingly blank.
Sherlock sighs. "Seriously, John. It's obvious. Leopold George Duncan Albert was Queen Victoria's youngest son. He suffered from haemophilia. I can't believe you don't remember. They named all nine children on the advert. I thought you would have picked up on it the moment you held the cup."
"Naturally." John rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of tea. So, he spent his afternoon break flirting with his male flatmate, who was dressed as a woman, and he had no idea. His shoes are still damp from the milk he spilled on the floor after discovering a pile of fingers in a colander in the middle of the sink, put there by his male flatmate. Now they're considering dinner as though this were just a normal day.
He grins, then goes to sit in the chair across from Sherlock.
Re: Disguise, part 1c/?
anonymous
March 21 2011, 00:16:38 UTC
"I'd hardly call that flirting."
This still makes me laugh as much as it did when you came up with it (I mean, when Sherlock came up with it and then told you about it :P) a few hours ago while I was sitting in your living room. Looking forward to more! ♥ ♥ ♥
Re: Disguise, part 2a/?
anonymous
March 27 2011, 20:11:01 UTC
~*~
John doesn't mean to break the washer. But Sherlock is in one of his little snits (he really is like a child some -- if not most -- of the time) and John is fed up with all of the scientific detritus being left on every bloody surface of the flat.
So, he balls up all of the rags, the tea towels, various socks strewn under tables and the sofa, and shoves them into the washer, hard. John ignores the stomp of bare feet going upstairs and simply concentrates on the laundry. He has to jam it all in to fit, but when he stands back from setting the timer and adding the washing soap, he feels a little bit better.
He next attacks the dishes, the canisters he's willing to touch, and old newspapers. Twenty minutes later he's feeling a bit lighter and whistles low as he works (In my life by the Beatles, his favourite). He even grabs a pair of surgical gloves and bins several of the more suspect containers lying around.
The buzz of repeated texts doesn't faze him and he ignores various objects being tossed down the stairs. John's bloody well not going to give Sherlock more attention right now. Even if it is his own underwear.
When, however, the washer jams, sounds a buzzer like a strangled cat, and starts pouring water onto the floor he'd just started mopping, John swallows his pride and calls out for help.
"Fascinating," Sherlock says later as they pile the sodden towels onto a plastic rubbish bag. "I'd never considered the quantity of water that washers use. Have you caused others to overflow before? What can you remember?"
"Sorry," John says, the fight gone out of him. "This was my first time."
~*~
A few days later John is at the local laundry again. He had never really thought about the quantity of washing the two of them acquire in such a short time, though John's long suspected Sherlock of either allowing Mycroft to arrange for his own laundering or simply binning clothes when they're dirty and replacing them on a bi-weekly basis through internet purchases. He's never seen Sherlock hold an iron, nor even touch the washer.
But apparently he's decided to start using a laundry basket to hold (god forbid!) laundry.
So John volunteered (or at least he thinks he did) to take out the washing whilst Sherlock busied himself with some very important research into the depth and pressure the pads of his fingers pressed against each other whilst lying supine on the sofa.
Disguise, part 2b/?
anonymous
March 27 2011, 20:12:39 UTC
~*~
After taking over four washers, John sits and pulls out a couple of journals that he's been wanting to read for ages. He opens the most recent issue of The Lancet and thumbs through it, waiting for something to catch his eye.
He's halfway through a world report on Healing the mental scars of combat when he feels someone watching him.
The lad across the way eyes him and John smiles back, embarrassed. Sure, he gets the odd look, but rarely from men, and fewer, if he were completely honest, than he might like.
He has an interesting look to him: pale but with clearly bleached hair. It should make him look washed out, but instead invites double takes.
John glances at the washer then goes back to his article. He has another twenty-four minutes or so, and he can't decide if he'd like to finish the article or not. After a few moments he glances up and makes eye contact with the bloke across the way. Still looking.
His face heats. John can't remember the last time someone looked at him with such hunger in their (dark, beautiful) eyes. So, he sets down the journal and walks over.
"I'm John," he says. Which is a perfectly logical opener.
"Brian," the bloke says.
"Oh. American, then?"
"Yeah. Chicago. But I heard the men in London were worth checking out."
John laughs and sits down. "Well, I don't know where you got your information, Brian, but there are far better places to meet men than in a laundromat in the middle of central London."
Brian puts his hand on John's knee. "You're far too modest."
"You have no idea."
"So, do you come here often?"
John tilts his head, amused. "Does that work in America?"
"Not even once. Guess it doesn't work in the UK, either."
"Didn't say it wasn't working."
Brian's smile goes all the way through his eyes. "Then, by all means, answer the question."
"Don't come here often, no. This is my first time."
"Lucky for me."
John's a little breathless by the entire exchange. He rarely has such good fortune flirting with anyone and can't believe his inane chatter is working. Brian's hand is slowly sliding up his leg.
Brian mutters something rather suggestive and John's mind skips.
"I'm sorry... what was that?"
Brian leans over slowly, pushes his lips just under John's ear. His breath tickles John's neck when he speaks.
Disguise, part 2c/?
anonymous
March 27 2011, 20:15:41 UTC
John's mind blanks for a moment. Because... yes. Yes, he would like the chance to get off with another person for the first time in a good while. Brian can't be more than thirty -- not with that hair -- and John's in no danger of falling for him. He just wants to be desired.
He can't quite find the right words, not with Brian breathing against his skin, so John nods more than once.
Brian grins at him, then stands and heads directly to the loo. John glances around the laundromat. There are a few people there, but no one is paying him any mind. The washers still have 18 minutes blinking; he's got plenty of time. He counts to fifteen in his head then follows Brian into the gents.
As soon as he pushes open the door John's pressed against the wall with hands tangled in his shirt and warm breath on his neck.
"God, John, your mouth. I kept watching it. You lick your lips, purse them, grin. It was driving me crazy. I want to put my tongue in your goddamn mouth."
And John... John just wants that. He wants to let everything around him fall away, just for a moment. He wants to let go of the world and feel. Tilting his head, he looks at Brian's mouth: his lush lips full of pretty, dirty words and he breathes the air between the two of them. It's sweet and oddly familiar. Brian drags his lower lip over John's cheekbone, his eyelid, under his ear, humming under his breath as he does.
John's mind is sliding into a haze of fuzzy warmth and he's more than happy to let Brian's lips glide over his face for the next hour if he gets to keep feeling like this.
"Jesus," John breathes. "Your bloody lips."
He can feel Brian smile, his lips are at John's ear again and he's still humming. It's soothing and so fucking erotic all at once. He starts humming along, reaching around to hold Brian's neck. The tension builds inside him and all of this lip foreplay tingles under his skin.
Brian pulls away slightly and looks at him. Their lips are inches apart. It's so quiet now. If John were to move forward in the slightest they'd be-
The quiet. John's mind whirls for a moment. Brian's not humming anymore, but the song he'd been humming-
John's heart drops; an ice cold shudder goes through him. Brian had been humming In my life. He should have realized.
"Sherlock," he says quietly.
Neither of them move.
John takes a deep breath. Then another. Sherlock hasn't moved; they're still just inches from each other.
"You get the washing then. I'm done here."
He walks out.
~*~
[a/n: this is the end of part 2, but I'll put up the third part next weekend. :) ]
Re: Disguise, part 2c/?
anonymous
March 27 2011, 20:23:13 UTC
Oh wow, I had completely forgotten about this. I had been intrigued by the first part and the second one may have caused a small explosion somewhere in my brain (I hope it wasn't somewhere important).
Sherlock, what are you doing with poor John? Don't break him!
...bloody hell, what is Sherlock doing?! Jeez, this is so much better than I could have expected, I have a sadistic love for Sherlock fucking with John. Love it!
"Why are you on your knees in the middle of the kitchen?"
John's tempted to mutter under his breath, why don't you deduce it for yourself but takes the safer road and says, "spilled the milk."
"Hmmm... that's surprising," Sherlock says. "You've never been clumsy."
"Well, if there weren't bloody fingers in the sink, I wouldn't have spilled the milk."
Sherlock thinks about that. "That doesn't follow."
John breathes through his nose. Several times. "I was holding the milk when I saw the delightfully surprising contents of the sink and dropped it."
Sherlock doesn't respond for a moment, then nods and holds out the cup in his hand. "I brought you a tea. Thought you might need it. You're always a bit wound after you get home from surgery."
John is oddly touched by the gesture and accepts it wordlessly. Sherlock smiles at him. "Dinner? I thought we might get Chinese."
"Yeah, that sounds great."
After inhaling the warm citrusy scent, John takes a sip of tea and then sets it down on the table. "There's that new place that just opened over on-- hang on."
He glances at the name on the takeaway cup and frowns. Leopold George Duncan Albert. Why does he know that name? His mind pauses, rewinds through the day slowly until he alights on the afternoon trip he took to get a cup of tea.
"Sherlock?" he calls. "Were you at the coffee shop today?"
"Obviously." His voice is muffled; he must be reading. "I was trying out a few things to prepare for a future case. I'm surprised you didn't recognise me."
"Recognise you? Why would I--"
"Well, if I told you, I'd have to kill you."
John's heart freezes a moment, then resumes a rather erratic rhythm. "Oh my god," he says quietly. Then, walking into the sitting room, "that was you? At the coffee shop? You were Kate?"
Sherlock looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
His mind goes back over the exchange: the barista's smile, the way she looked right into his eyes, John's pathetic attempt at flirting. Oh god. He feels himself flush.
"I can't believe I flirted with you."
"I'd hardly call that flirting."
John has no response for that.
"How did you not know?" Sherlock asks earnestly. "I was certain you'd figure it out as soon as you read the name."
John walks back into the kitchen to pick up the cup. "Leopold George Duncan Albert," he reads aloud. "Why would I know that name?"
Sherlock sighs. "Don't you remember when you were watching that special on the telly? About the war?"
John nods. It had been a good special. About a month ago, if he recalled .
"Wait, what does that have to do with the name on the cup?"
"There was a advert for commemorative plates after the show..." Sherlock is clearly leading him towards the answer, but John has no idea.
"And?"
"The commemorative royal plates honouring each of Queen Victoria's children?"
John knows his face is infuriatingly blank.
Sherlock sighs. "Seriously, John. It's obvious. Leopold George Duncan Albert was Queen Victoria's youngest son. He suffered from haemophilia. I can't believe you don't remember. They named all nine children on the advert. I thought you would have picked up on it the moment you held the cup."
"Naturally." John rolls his eyes and takes a long sip of tea. So, he spent his afternoon break flirting with his male flatmate, who was dressed as a woman, and he had no idea. His shoes are still damp from the milk he spilled on the floor after discovering a pile of fingers in a colander in the middle of the sink, put there by his male flatmate. Now they're considering dinner as though this were just a normal day.
He grins, then goes to sit in the chair across from Sherlock.
"So... Chinese, then?"
~*~
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This still makes me laugh as much as it did when you came up with it (I mean, when Sherlock came up with it and then told you about it :P) a few hours ago while I was sitting in your living room. Looking forward to more! ♥ ♥ ♥
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Genius, can't wait for the next update!!
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F5! F5!!!
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John doesn't mean to break the washer. But Sherlock is in one of his little snits (he really is like a child some -- if not most -- of the time) and John is fed up with all of the scientific detritus being left on every bloody surface of the flat.
So, he balls up all of the rags, the tea towels, various socks strewn under tables and the sofa, and shoves them into the washer, hard. John ignores the stomp of bare feet going upstairs and simply concentrates on the laundry. He has to jam it all in to fit, but when he stands back from setting the timer and adding the washing soap, he feels a little bit better.
He next attacks the dishes, the canisters he's willing to touch, and old newspapers. Twenty minutes later he's feeling a bit lighter and whistles low as he works (In my life by the Beatles, his favourite). He even grabs a pair of surgical gloves and bins several of the more suspect containers lying around.
The buzz of repeated texts doesn't faze him and he ignores various objects being tossed down the stairs. John's bloody well not going to give Sherlock more attention right now. Even if it is his own underwear.
When, however, the washer jams, sounds a buzzer like a strangled cat, and starts pouring water onto the floor he'd just started mopping, John swallows his pride and calls out for help.
"Fascinating," Sherlock says later as they pile the sodden towels onto a plastic rubbish bag. "I'd never considered the quantity of water that washers use. Have you caused others to overflow before? What can you remember?"
"Sorry," John says, the fight gone out of him. "This was my first time."
~*~
A few days later John is at the local laundry again. He had never really thought about the quantity of washing the two of them acquire in such a short time, though John's long suspected Sherlock of either allowing Mycroft to arrange for his own laundering or simply binning clothes when they're dirty and replacing them on a bi-weekly basis through internet purchases. He's never seen Sherlock hold an iron, nor even touch the washer.
But apparently he's decided to start using a laundry basket to hold (god forbid!) laundry.
So John volunteered (or at least he thinks he did) to take out the washing whilst Sherlock busied himself with some very important research into the depth and pressure the pads of his fingers pressed against each other whilst lying supine on the sofa.
~*~
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After taking over four washers, John sits and pulls out a couple of journals that he's been wanting to read for ages. He opens the most recent issue of The Lancet and thumbs through it, waiting for something to catch his eye.
He's halfway through a world report on Healing the mental scars of combat when he feels someone watching him.
The lad across the way eyes him and John smiles back, embarrassed. Sure, he gets the odd look, but rarely from men, and fewer, if he were completely honest, than he might like.
He has an interesting look to him: pale but with clearly bleached hair. It should make him look washed out, but instead invites double takes.
John glances at the washer then goes back to his article. He has another twenty-four minutes or so, and he can't decide if he'd like to finish the article or not. After a few moments he glances up and makes eye contact with the bloke across the way. Still looking.
His face heats. John can't remember the last time someone looked at him with such hunger in their (dark, beautiful) eyes. So, he sets down the journal and walks over.
"I'm John," he says. Which is a perfectly logical opener.
"Brian," the bloke says.
"Oh. American, then?"
"Yeah. Chicago. But I heard the men in London were worth checking out."
John laughs and sits down. "Well, I don't know where you got your information, Brian, but there are far better places to meet men than in a laundromat in the middle of central London."
Brian puts his hand on John's knee. "You're far too modest."
"You have no idea."
"So, do you come here often?"
John tilts his head, amused. "Does that work in America?"
"Not even once. Guess it doesn't work in the UK, either."
"Didn't say it wasn't working."
Brian's smile goes all the way through his eyes. "Then, by all means, answer the question."
"Don't come here often, no. This is my first time."
"Lucky for me."
John's a little breathless by the entire exchange. He rarely has such good fortune flirting with anyone and can't believe his inane chatter is working. Brian's hand is slowly sliding up his leg.
Brian mutters something rather suggestive and John's mind skips.
"I'm sorry... what was that?"
Brian leans over slowly, pushes his lips just under John's ear. His breath tickles John's neck when he speaks.
"Would you care. To meet me. In the gents?"
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He can't quite find the right words, not with Brian breathing against his skin, so John nods more than once.
Brian grins at him, then stands and heads directly to the loo. John glances around the laundromat. There are a few people there, but no one is paying him any mind. The washers still have 18 minutes blinking; he's got plenty of time. He counts to fifteen in his head then follows Brian into the gents.
As soon as he pushes open the door John's pressed against the wall with hands tangled in his shirt and warm breath on his neck.
"God, John, your mouth. I kept watching it. You lick your lips, purse them, grin. It was driving me crazy. I want to put my tongue in your goddamn mouth."
And John... John just wants that. He wants to let everything around him fall away, just for a moment. He wants to let go of the world and feel. Tilting his head, he looks at Brian's mouth: his lush lips full of pretty, dirty words and he breathes the air between the two of them. It's sweet and oddly familiar. Brian drags his lower lip over John's cheekbone, his eyelid, under his ear, humming under his breath as he does.
John's mind is sliding into a haze of fuzzy warmth and he's more than happy to let Brian's lips glide over his face for the next hour if he gets to keep feeling like this.
"Jesus," John breathes. "Your bloody lips."
He can feel Brian smile, his lips are at John's ear again and he's still humming. It's soothing and so fucking erotic all at once. He starts humming along, reaching around to hold Brian's neck. The tension builds inside him and all of this lip foreplay tingles under his skin.
Brian pulls away slightly and looks at him. Their lips are inches apart. It's so quiet now. If John were to move forward in the slightest they'd be-
The quiet. John's mind whirls for a moment. Brian's not humming anymore, but the song he'd been humming-
John's heart drops; an ice cold shudder goes through him. Brian had been humming In my life. He should have realized.
"Sherlock," he says quietly.
Neither of them move.
John takes a deep breath. Then another. Sherlock hasn't moved; they're still just inches from each other.
"You get the washing then. I'm done here."
He walks out.
~*~
[a/n: this is the end of part 2, but I'll put up the third part next weekend. :) ]
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Sherlock, what are you doing with poor John? Don't break him!
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NEXT WEEKEND?!?
>:(
Ok...ppl gotta have a real life, I get it...
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