One foot on the ground (Part 2)
I HAVE A TITLE!
Yes, I have a habit of using song lyrics as titles. They tend to work out best. However, with the soundtrack right now for these two, the lyrics aren't exactly good titles. So I pulled out something else.
Anyways, this is chapter 2 of the thingie I'm writing. Part 1 is over yonder.
Long story short -- Martin of Cabin Pressure and Molly of BBC's Sherlock meet. Hijinks ensue.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I hope that Gatiss, Moffatt and Finnemore do not unleash the hounds of war on me. Edited and proofed by me. Any glaring errors are mine. If I've cocked up beyond recognition, let me know.
In Martin’s defense, he was telling the truth. Carolyn’s twisted sense of humor resulted in an early morning schedule for their departure the next day and he knew he needed a good night’s rest for the flight so he’d be on the same mental level as Douglas and with enough patience to deal with Arthur’s inanities.
Besides, he told himself, it’s not like he stood a chance with her. Her living room alone could’ve held his little bed-sit and then there was that hulking tom whose face looked like it was smashed in with a shovel kept giving him the evil eye.
“Don’t mind Toby,” Molly had chirped as the beast growled in its carrier. “He’s just a bit put off from having to sit in his carrier. Normally he’s just my sweet boy.”
Small comfort really, Martin thought as the mad animal yowled and howled the entire ride. On occasion a paw slashed out of the container, taking hunks of Martin’s trousers (and flesh) with it as it swooped back into the cage.
And she worked in a morgue. She dealt with dead people, Martin thought to himself as he tossed and turned in bed. There definitely had to be something odd with her. No one he knew got close to dead people voluntarily.
But (and there it was again, that dammed but), she was so sweet to him, inviting him for dinner, which probably would have been better than the beans and toast he had. She even offered the first aid kit to dress the gouges that hell beast took out of his thighs.
If he wanted to be cocky, Martin could have sworn that she had checked him out. He could feel her eyes on him, but when he turned to look at her, she was busying herself with moving boxes to the proper rooms, a slight smile playing on her lips.
Not that he minded. Even with the grit, tattered sweats and messy ponytail, she was really quite fetching, he thought. Douglas would have dismissed her as mousy, but Martin thought she was cute. There was something so warm and sweet about her that he seriously regretted not accepting her invitation to dinner.
I should have gone to dinner with her, he thought as he stared blearily at the clock, which indicated that it was what-the-hell-are-you-doing-still-awake-o’clock. At least then I’d be well fed and not miserable. Well, until I had to leave her. Maybe it’s better this way.
Part 3
Yes, I have a habit of using song lyrics as titles. They tend to work out best. However, with the soundtrack right now for these two, the lyrics aren't exactly good titles. So I pulled out something else.
Anyways, this is chapter 2 of the thingie I'm writing. Part 1 is over yonder.
Long story short -- Martin of Cabin Pressure and Molly of BBC's Sherlock meet. Hijinks ensue.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I hope that Gatiss, Moffatt and Finnemore do not unleash the hounds of war on me. Edited and proofed by me. Any glaring errors are mine. If I've cocked up beyond recognition, let me know.
In Martin’s defense, he was telling the truth. Carolyn’s twisted sense of humor resulted in an early morning schedule for their departure the next day and he knew he needed a good night’s rest for the flight so he’d be on the same mental level as Douglas and with enough patience to deal with Arthur’s inanities.
Besides, he told himself, it’s not like he stood a chance with her. Her living room alone could’ve held his little bed-sit and then there was that hulking tom whose face looked like it was smashed in with a shovel kept giving him the evil eye.
“Don’t mind Toby,” Molly had chirped as the beast growled in its carrier. “He’s just a bit put off from having to sit in his carrier. Normally he’s just my sweet boy.”
Small comfort really, Martin thought as the mad animal yowled and howled the entire ride. On occasion a paw slashed out of the container, taking hunks of Martin’s trousers (and flesh) with it as it swooped back into the cage.
And she worked in a morgue. She dealt with dead people, Martin thought to himself as he tossed and turned in bed. There definitely had to be something odd with her. No one he knew got close to dead people voluntarily.
But (and there it was again, that dammed but), she was so sweet to him, inviting him for dinner, which probably would have been better than the beans and toast he had. She even offered the first aid kit to dress the gouges that hell beast took out of his thighs.
If he wanted to be cocky, Martin could have sworn that she had checked him out. He could feel her eyes on him, but when he turned to look at her, she was busying herself with moving boxes to the proper rooms, a slight smile playing on her lips.
Not that he minded. Even with the grit, tattered sweats and messy ponytail, she was really quite fetching, he thought. Douglas would have dismissed her as mousy, but Martin thought she was cute. There was something so warm and sweet about her that he seriously regretted not accepting her invitation to dinner.
I should have gone to dinner with her, he thought as he stared blearily at the clock, which indicated that it was what-the-hell-are-you-doing-still-awake-o’clock. At least then I’d be well fed and not miserable. Well, until I had to leave her. Maybe it’s better this way.
Part 3