Under Cover (Sherlock Holmes/Kiss Kiss Bang Bang crossover
Chapter One
Author's note: Just a teaser. A 'test' if you will. I want to see if it can actually work. Let me know what you think :)
Fuck. There's no other word for a situation like this. Okay, some...PG-13, or 'educated' person would use something like phenomenal or flabbergasted, but I wasn't really in a state of mind to...well...hmm...let me start by explaining that I woke up in a room I didn't remember, a bed that wasn't mine, and next to a man I didn't know.
So I'm lying in this bed, scared of my fucking mind, looking around, and this guy sits up next to me. Moustache. I swear to God it's the first thing I notice about him. Hell, it's the first thing anybody would notice. He looks like the guy on the damn Pringles can. Sort of.... so anyway, he sits up, turns to me, and just when I'm sure he's about to start freaking out just like I already should be doing, he leans over and kisses me. Right on the mouth. Like it's the most normal fucking thing in the world.
"Good morning," he says, parting their lips briefly, hesitating slightly. When the other man doesn't respond, he jokingly knocks on his head. "Anybody in there?"
The other man narrows his eyes, and sweat beads are starting to form at his hair line. He finally says quickly, and rather quietly, "I don't know where I am."
The other man stares at him a minute, his brows furrowing, and then he rolls his eyes. "Why are you talking like that?"
I guess I should have mentioned that the Pringles guy I woke up next to was a British guy.
"I don't know." It's stupid, but he doesn't know what else to say.
"Holmes," the other man groans, climbing out of bed. He stands there, a stern look on his face. "I know you're upset about how the case is going, but this is no reason to act theatrical about it." He shrugs a little, his arms still crossed. "I mean, just because our lead suspect is American doesn't mean you have to start talking like him."
Fuck. What do you say to that? And what case? Okay, backtrack, backtrack. What was the last case? Were we even talking about the same case?
"Look, we'll figure it out," he says. "We always do." He climbs back into bed and kisses him again. The other man is tense. He affectionately taps his chin.
Fuck. So where the hell am I? And what am I supposed to say? Okay, so I definitely do not recall climbing into bed with this guy, but he seems to recognize me. Hell, he even has a name for me. Holmes. All I can think about is what Perry is going to think about when he finds out. He will not be happy. Mad as all fuck is more like it. Trust me when I tell you that.
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Faint lavender. The smell awoke him. It was not a scent he was used to, and it pulled him sleep, a warning almost. Before he even opened his eyes, he could feel the mattress beneath him, and something was wrong. It was softer, wider. He still didn't have to open his eyes to know that the weight next to him was not Watson. It was heavier. He finally opened his eyes, mentally absorbing the ceiling- a different color and texture than his usual morning ceiling. The room was not the same room at all. Several strange pieces of furniture littered the large area, some he could not even put names to.
He sat up, leaning back on his hands, and looked around. The room felt cool, but in a way he'd never really felt before. Whoever was beside him, grunted and an arm reached out of the cacoon and blindly fumbled around. It found the top of his head and pulled him down next to it. The one being pulled did not take kindly to this and punched the lump of blankets, ripping himself away.
The stranger shot up, showing himself fully. "Fuck! What is wrong with you!"
"You're not Watson."
The other man rubbed his jaw where he'd been struck. "What the hell....?" he muttered. He then asked in a clear, and clearly exasperated manner, "Why are you speaking with an English accent?"
"There's a pistol in your trousers," the other noted, ignoring him, eyeing the crotch of his pants. He looked suspicious.
The other man frowned a little longer, and a smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're such an idiot," he said quietly, but there was no real bite to it.
"Am I mistaken then?" The other man kept his eyes on the bulge in his pajama bottoms that were not of human anatomy.
"You know I've started sleeping with the faggot gun," the other replied, like he was reminding him for the hundreth time. "Ever since that dickhead burglar tried to break in a second time." A faint look of concern crossed his face. "You feeling okay, Harry?"
The other man raised his eyes towards the ceiling. "Um..." he quickly changed his speaking structure, mustering the best American accent he could answer. "Yes..."
"Good." The other leaned over and kissed him briefly. "You got a fuckload of paper work that needs to be done."
To Be Continued....