Fic - Sunday Morning
A/N - Written because I had a bad day at work and writing this cheered me up.
Title: Sunday Morning
Author: szm
Charaters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Rating: G
Spoilers: Nope
Disclaimer: The boys belong to the BBC. Not me. No money is made off this silly little thing.
Summary: The first quiet Sunday in months, John is enjoying it.
John was having a very pleasant Sunday morning. He’d had a lie in, and a ridiculously unhealthy but delicious breakfast, and was installed in his armchair with the Sunday paper and a cup of tea. Some old black and white spy movie playing in the background completed the scene nicely. It was the kind of day he’d craved in Afghanistan. Of course in reality if it happened more than once a month or so he loathed them, but this particular lazy Sunday was well overdue.
So he was absolutely not going to allow his lanky git of a flatmate to ruin it. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa with his pale blue dressing grown on over his shirt and trousers. Bare feet propped up on the armrest, all naked and bony, not that John was looking a Sherlock’s bare feet. No, he was reading about terrible things that happened in faraway places and drinking his tea. Sherlock for his part was glaring at the side of John’s head. He’d apparently given up expressing how bored he was via verbal communication and was attempting to telepathically pass the message on via scowling. John was ignoring it. John was as placid and calm as the proverbial lake.
John had read this paragraph three times now.
“For god sake, Sherlock,” he finally snapped, pretending he didn’t notice Sherlock’s smirk of triumph. “I am having a quiet day for once. Go and annoy someone else.”
Sherlock gave a quiet ‘hmmph’ of disapproval. “Boring. So, so, boring. John, how on earth can you bear to in live inside your tiny mind?”
John glared at Sherlock, he was placid and calm damnit! He was not getting drawn into a petty row just to relieve Sherlock’s boredom. He made a great show of turning the page and continuing with his reading.
“Besides,” continued Sherlock, far too pleased with himself for John’s liking. “I am perfectly capable of annoying you and Lestrade simultaneously.”
A cold shiver ran down John’s spine. “What did you do?” he asked warily finally setting the paper down and giving Sherlock his full attention.
Sherlock just smiled and John was not going to play this game. He was not going to try and guess what Sherlock had done to upset the only member of the metropolitan police force who did any more than grudgingly tolerate him. He opened his mouth to say so and the doorbell rang. The ringer held on for longer than was polite, then immediately rang again for just as long. Someone was angry.
“Interesting,” said Sherlock closing his eyes but otherwise making no effort to move. “I didn’t think he’d notice until Monday morning.”
John sighed and put his paper down. Well the quiet Sunday was nice while it lasted. He opened the door to a very cross looking Detective Inspector.
“Is he in?” asked Greg pushing straight past John and heading up the stairs.
“Well hello, Greg,” said John to thin air, closing the door and heading up after Lestrade. “Nice to see you, come on in. Cup of tea? Why yes, thanks very much, John. How are you?”
When John reached the living room Greg was stood over Sherlock with his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle but was still managing to give off an air of self-satisfied smugness.
Greg turned his glare on John. “Did you know about this?”
“Hey!” said John feeling for all the world like a naughty school kid when caught in that look. “I was just reading the paper. I don’t even know what’s going on.”
Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock somehow got into the computer system. He’s re-written all the performance reviews.”
“You have no proof it was me,” said Sherlock lazily. The look Greg shot him then had murder in it.
“Was it you?” asked John quickly.
“Of course,” said Sherlock with a dismissive wave. “But they can’t prove it. Really they should thank me for pointing out the dire inadequacies in their supposedly secure system.”
“Sherlock!” said Greg sharply. “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to rewrite those reviews?”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary. Nothing I wrote was factually inaccurate. And mine are far more amusing than yours,” countered Sherlock.
“You said Donovan, and I quote, ‘would be somewhat less than offensively dense if she wasn’t such a hateful, small minded, bigot’!”
“As I said,” replied Sherlock. “Factually accurate. I wrote nice things about you. ”
Greg threw his hands up in the air. “You wrote one line about me!”
“What was it?” asked John, using every ounce of self-control he’d ever possessed to keep from laughing.
“Not completely terrible. Capable of moderately acceptable thought processes. In fact, the best of a bad lot. Needs to try harder,” quoted Greg.
“High praise. For Sherlock,” commented John, fighting hard now to keep the giggles behind his teeth.
“John, it’s not funny! Stop encouraging him,” said Greg sternly.
John let himself smirk but took pity on the frazzled Inspector. “Up you get Sherlock.”
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you are going to go with Greg to the yard and help him fix what you did,” said John calmly.
“Am I?” asked Sherlock raising an eyebrow.
“You are,” confirmed John. “Or I’m going to tell the good Detective Inspector all about the experiments he might like to take a professional interest in.”
Sherlock suddenly swung his feet round onto the floor and sat up, narrowing his eyes at John. John stared back for a moment then spoke to Greg without taking his eyes off Sherlock.
“Inspector, you might want to look for the hidden floor in Sherlock’s wardrobe…”
“Fine,” said Sherlock, launching himself from the sofa towards his bedroom in a dramatic swish of pale blue material and bare feet.
John settled back into his chair and reopened the paper. Sherlock came back wearing shoes, he gathered up his coat from the hook by the door.
“Do get a move on, Lestrade,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
“Er… thanks. I think,” Greg said to John, as he followed Sherlock out.
John let the peace surround him. He wondered if he’d have time to catch up on last night episode of ‘The Voice’ before all hell broke loose. It would be nice to watch it without Sherlock making disturbing deductions about Tom Jones.
Title: Sunday Morning
Author: szm
Charaters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade
Rating: G
Spoilers: Nope
Disclaimer: The boys belong to the BBC. Not me. No money is made off this silly little thing.
Summary: The first quiet Sunday in months, John is enjoying it.
John was having a very pleasant Sunday morning. He’d had a lie in, and a ridiculously unhealthy but delicious breakfast, and was installed in his armchair with the Sunday paper and a cup of tea. Some old black and white spy movie playing in the background completed the scene nicely. It was the kind of day he’d craved in Afghanistan. Of course in reality if it happened more than once a month or so he loathed them, but this particular lazy Sunday was well overdue.
So he was absolutely not going to allow his lanky git of a flatmate to ruin it. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa with his pale blue dressing grown on over his shirt and trousers. Bare feet propped up on the armrest, all naked and bony, not that John was looking a Sherlock’s bare feet. No, he was reading about terrible things that happened in faraway places and drinking his tea. Sherlock for his part was glaring at the side of John’s head. He’d apparently given up expressing how bored he was via verbal communication and was attempting to telepathically pass the message on via scowling. John was ignoring it. John was as placid and calm as the proverbial lake.
John had read this paragraph three times now.
“For god sake, Sherlock,” he finally snapped, pretending he didn’t notice Sherlock’s smirk of triumph. “I am having a quiet day for once. Go and annoy someone else.”
Sherlock gave a quiet ‘hmmph’ of disapproval. “Boring. So, so, boring. John, how on earth can you bear to in live inside your tiny mind?”
John glared at Sherlock, he was placid and calm damnit! He was not getting drawn into a petty row just to relieve Sherlock’s boredom. He made a great show of turning the page and continuing with his reading.
“Besides,” continued Sherlock, far too pleased with himself for John’s liking. “I am perfectly capable of annoying you and Lestrade simultaneously.”
A cold shiver ran down John’s spine. “What did you do?” he asked warily finally setting the paper down and giving Sherlock his full attention.
Sherlock just smiled and John was not going to play this game. He was not going to try and guess what Sherlock had done to upset the only member of the metropolitan police force who did any more than grudgingly tolerate him. He opened his mouth to say so and the doorbell rang. The ringer held on for longer than was polite, then immediately rang again for just as long. Someone was angry.
“Interesting,” said Sherlock closing his eyes but otherwise making no effort to move. “I didn’t think he’d notice until Monday morning.”
John sighed and put his paper down. Well the quiet Sunday was nice while it lasted. He opened the door to a very cross looking Detective Inspector.
“Is he in?” asked Greg pushing straight past John and heading up the stairs.
“Well hello, Greg,” said John to thin air, closing the door and heading up after Lestrade. “Nice to see you, come on in. Cup of tea? Why yes, thanks very much, John. How are you?”
When John reached the living room Greg was stood over Sherlock with his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle but was still managing to give off an air of self-satisfied smugness.
Greg turned his glare on John. “Did you know about this?”
“Hey!” said John feeling for all the world like a naughty school kid when caught in that look. “I was just reading the paper. I don’t even know what’s going on.”
Greg sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock somehow got into the computer system. He’s re-written all the performance reviews.”
“You have no proof it was me,” said Sherlock lazily. The look Greg shot him then had murder in it.
“Was it you?” asked John quickly.
“Of course,” said Sherlock with a dismissive wave. “But they can’t prove it. Really they should thank me for pointing out the dire inadequacies in their supposedly secure system.”
“Sherlock!” said Greg sharply. “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to rewrite those reviews?”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary. Nothing I wrote was factually inaccurate. And mine are far more amusing than yours,” countered Sherlock.
“You said Donovan, and I quote, ‘would be somewhat less than offensively dense if she wasn’t such a hateful, small minded, bigot’!”
“As I said,” replied Sherlock. “Factually accurate. I wrote nice things about you. ”
Greg threw his hands up in the air. “You wrote one line about me!”
“What was it?” asked John, using every ounce of self-control he’d ever possessed to keep from laughing.
“Not completely terrible. Capable of moderately acceptable thought processes. In fact, the best of a bad lot. Needs to try harder,” quoted Greg.
“High praise. For Sherlock,” commented John, fighting hard now to keep the giggles behind his teeth.
“John, it’s not funny! Stop encouraging him,” said Greg sternly.
John let himself smirk but took pity on the frazzled Inspector. “Up you get Sherlock.”
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you are going to go with Greg to the yard and help him fix what you did,” said John calmly.
“Am I?” asked Sherlock raising an eyebrow.
“You are,” confirmed John. “Or I’m going to tell the good Detective Inspector all about the experiments he might like to take a professional interest in.”
Sherlock suddenly swung his feet round onto the floor and sat up, narrowing his eyes at John. John stared back for a moment then spoke to Greg without taking his eyes off Sherlock.
“Inspector, you might want to look for the hidden floor in Sherlock’s wardrobe…”
“Fine,” said Sherlock, launching himself from the sofa towards his bedroom in a dramatic swish of pale blue material and bare feet.
John settled back into his chair and reopened the paper. Sherlock came back wearing shoes, he gathered up his coat from the hook by the door.
“Do get a move on, Lestrade,” he called over his shoulder as he left.
“Er… thanks. I think,” Greg said to John, as he followed Sherlock out.
John let the peace surround him. He wondered if he’d have time to catch up on last night episode of ‘The Voice’ before all hell broke loose. It would be nice to watch it without Sherlock making disturbing deductions about Tom Jones.