Spencer was still settling into life in London, though after a few months, things were finally comfortable. He didn't have the requisite social skills to actually find himself working as an Interpol agent, but he'd gotten an on-again, off-again job as an Independent International Consultant. It was different than working with the FBI, he had friends, they met for drinks. And he worked with Prentiss and Clyde on the hard cases, and then Sherlock had come up as a footnote on a case.
Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't the only person that remembered the time they'd met at the World Junior Chess Tournament. Spencer remembered everything in perfect, exacting detail, but he still thought about it. Say what he like, Reid did have something of a superiority complex, that need to be better than everyone else in those things that he was good at. Of course, he appreciated a challenge, but ending the game in a draw to the teen from London with the curly brown hair hadn't been something he'd forgotten
( ... )
Sherlock looked up from the papers he was looking at. Reid was so angry he couldn't keep still. He'd always been neat, but apparently it was compulsive and he couldn't stand still in the mess without actively moving to right it. Interesting and useful. He stored that away for later and fought off a flicker of a smile as Reid bent for a pile of shirts that Sherlock had rejected, folding them and replacing them in the drawers.
One hundred twenty-three? Sherlock looked around him at the chaos he'd created. That seemed about right, however he hadn't been keeping track. He assumed Reid wasn't including Sherlock himself in that tally, and so moved to correct him. "One hundred twenty-four," he chimed in with his helpful baritone, "as I do not belong on your bed."
He turns the page and reads it quickly. Not as quickly as Spencer reads, but quickly enough. Idly, he pipes up again with, "One hundred twenty-five; I'm wearing your pants."
He wasn't sure Spencer had counted that. He's just being helpful, considering how important precision was
( ... )
Rei'd lips were thin, pressing into a fine line in his anger, though, he reeled, turning on his heel to face Sherlock at that declaration about wearing Reid's pants. It brought a blush to his cheeks that wasn't just anger, but there was something awkward and almost embarrassing about the revelation that Sherlock had been into his underwear, rummaged around in his pairs of matching white briefs, and stolen a pair. His thin, delicate hands were viscious in their intensity, forceful as they folded clothes and slammed drawers, stealing stabbing looks at the man sprawled on his bed.
"If you don't belong on the bed, then get off of it," Reid demanded, his voice that high, almost countertenor that just aided in that perception of his youth. He was legitimately angry, fretting to the degree that it was hard to focus on what to do with him because all he could think about was the mess. Of course, he'd never had any intention of turning Sherlock in, so the fact that he's wanted for questioning, being looked into by Interpol -- none of this
( ... )
"The part where I've run through my emergency funds and needed a place to stay," and a bathroom to wreck, clothes to steal, a computer to hack, files to read…
"And if you want me off the bed, then make me," he adds petulantly. If Reid is almost childish for his high, frustrated tone, then Sherlock was for the sheer intensity of his stubbornness. He shoots Reid a look that screams I dare you while simultaneously drinking in the anger and the embarrassment that's coming off the younger man in waves. Not much younger, mind you, but enough that Sherlock feels that it's a win for him.
Comments 48
Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't the only person that remembered the time they'd met at the World Junior Chess Tournament. Spencer remembered everything in perfect, exacting detail, but he still thought about it. Say what he like, Reid did have something of a superiority complex, that need to be better than everyone else in those things that he was good at. Of course, he appreciated a challenge, but ending the game in a draw to the teen from London with the curly brown hair hadn't been something he'd forgotten ( ... )
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One hundred twenty-three? Sherlock looked around him at the chaos he'd created. That seemed about right, however he hadn't been keeping track. He assumed Reid wasn't including Sherlock himself in that tally, and so moved to correct him. "One hundred twenty-four," he chimed in with his helpful baritone, "as I do not belong on your bed."
He turns the page and reads it quickly. Not as quickly as Spencer reads, but quickly enough. Idly, he pipes up again with, "One hundred twenty-five; I'm wearing your pants."
He wasn't sure Spencer had counted that. He's just being helpful, considering how important precision was ( ... )
Reply
"If you don't belong on the bed, then get off of it," Reid demanded, his voice that high, almost countertenor that just aided in that perception of his youth. He was legitimately angry, fretting to the degree that it was hard to focus on what to do with him because all he could think about was the mess. Of course, he'd never had any intention of turning Sherlock in, so the fact that he's wanted for questioning, being looked into by Interpol -- none of this ( ... )
Reply
"And if you want me off the bed, then make me," he adds petulantly. If Reid is almost childish for his high, frustrated tone, then Sherlock was for the sheer intensity of his stubbornness. He shoots Reid a look that screams I dare you while simultaneously drinking in the anger and the embarrassment that's coming off the younger man in waves. Not much younger, mind you, but enough that Sherlock feels that it's a win for him.
Reply
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