Fic for Bk7brokemybrain: Clued In
Jun. 19th, 2012 05:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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holmesticeTitle: Clued In
Recipient:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bk7brokemybrain
Author:airspaniel
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Lestrade
Word Count: 1717
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: See, he hadn’t made Detective Inspector because of his great hair and pretty face. And honestly, it didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going on.
A/N: There is a porny coda to this which I will post after the reveal. I hope you like it,bk7brokemybrain!
“I need your phone,” Sherlock didn't bother asking, reaching into the front right pocket of John's trousers. And yes, maybe they did practically live in one another's pockets, but there were lines. Lines Lestrade would prefer they not cross in front of him, at an active crime scene investigation, if it's all the same, thanks much.
“Sherlock!” John chastised, a beat too late to be effective, as the man already had his phone in hand and was intently focused on the screen.
“You really shouldn't keep it near your keys,” said Sherlock offhandedly. “You may have inherited a certain amount of damage, but there's no need to exacerbate things.”
“I…” John said intelligently. Then, after a moment of regrouping. “You just put your hand in my pocket.”
“What?” Sherlock replied absently, as if he'd already forgotten the transgression, and perhaps he already had, long fingers tapping at John's phone.
“You put your hand in my pocket,” John repeated, more certain this time.
“Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
Sherlock sighed in a distinctly patronizing fashion. “I told you, I needed your phone.”
“And you couldn't wait two seconds for me to get it myself?”
“I didn't want to trouble you.”
“Didn’t want to…” John repeated. Lestrade tried to wrap his brain around that logic and winced at the headache that threatened from the effort.
“Look, just… just don’t put your hands in my pants without my permission, that’s all I’m saying."
Sherlock turned to look at him, apparently genuinely surprised. “Good lord, are you still on that?”
“Sherlock.”
“Fine, in future, I will endeavor to ask your permission before putting my hands in your pants,” Sherlock said, as if he were the one being inconvenienced. He shook his head and rearranged the papers in front of him, holding the mobile out next to them. “But you see, when this is inverted, a pattern emerges which is…”
Lestrade went to stand beside him, leaning over the table, and Sherlock was absolutely right, the pattern was unmistakable. He wasn’t sure how they’d missed it in the first place.
Looking between John and Sherlock, he wondered what else he’d missed.
-----
See, he hadn’t made Detective Inspector because of his great hair and pretty face. For all that he called the consulting detective in from time to time, Lestrade was actually very good at putting two and two together. And honestly, it didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t like either of them were subtle.
-----
It was very telling about their relationship that, when John and Lestrade arrived at 221B after an evening at the pub and discovered Sherlock in the process of meticulously painting his nails a lurid red, the only thing Lestrade felt was a sort of dull surprise. It was far from the most alarming thing he’d ever caught the man doing. There were no severed limbs in sight, no fire damage, nothing had exploded… it was almost enough to make a man think about relaxing.
John looked downright relieved.
“Come now,” Sherlock chastened them both “You act as if I demolish the place every time you turn your back.”
Lestrade was not about to dignify that with a response. John just lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock looked up long enough to catch John’s eye and huff an irritated breath. He turned back to his work, running the tip of his right thumbnail around the cuticles of his left hand, cleaning up the edges.
“That’s a bold color,” said John, flipping through the few pieces of mail on the table. Mostly junk, it seemed; a few bills, nothing good. Lestrade looked back towards Sherlock, who was now half-reclining with arm outstretched, hand tilted and fingers spread so that the light reflected off the smooth scarlet surface. He narrowed his eyes, studying the lacquer with a critical eye; though to what end, Lestrade couldn’t guess.
“It doesn’t suit you,” John said, unimpressed. Lestrade privately disagreed, in an odd way; the combination of red nails with the white of Sherlock’s skin and the black of his hair had sort of a Snow White effect. He was never going to say that out loud.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to catch John’s, and if it was anyone else - anyone else - Lestrade might have called that look flirtatious.
“Liar,” said Sherlock. “Now hand me the matches.” Although they were in easy reach on the table, John obediently picked them up and passed them over.
Feeling discretion would be the better part of valor, particularly in the case of Sherlock and open flames, Lestrade edged towards the door. “I'll just see you later, then,” he said to the room at large. Sherlock took no notice, frowning in concentration as he deliberately, Christ, struck a match and moved it towards his painted fingertips.
“Sherlock!” John took a step forward, and grabbed his wrist, keeping the match away.
“Really, John,” Sherlock sighed. “It's not going to burn hot enough or long enough to do any real damage.”
“Any damage is too much, frankly.” He was still holding Sherlock's hand. The match sputtered and burnt out, and he was still holding Sherlock's hand; Sherlock was looking at John very intensely, and Lestrade was really leaving now. He closed the door behind himself, but the conversation carried easily through the wood.
“Sentimentality has no place in science, John.”
“You don't know what kind of chemicals are in that stuff. Okay, I don't know what kind of chemicals are in that stuff, but...”
“Primarily nitrocellulose dissolved in butyl acetate, actually. The victim's hand was...”
“Nitrocellulose? You put gun cotton on your nails and you want me to let you set it on fire?.”
“I'm not setting it on fire, if you'd bother to listen. I'm merely going to singe the tips to recreate...”
Sherlock's voice faded as Lestrade descended the stairs, mobile already out to send a friendly message to the Divisional Officer of the local LFB station. Forewarned was seldom forearmed, especially with consulting detectives, but it also never hurt.
-----
If Sherlock was missing an eyebrow for a couple of weeks after that, nobody said a word. Except for Anderson. And Donovan. And Marie and Thelma in dispatch. And probably most of the morgue attendants.
All right, John didn't say a word, but he did look at Sherlock more often, face a strange mixture of concerned and irritated, reluctantly fond and profoundly amused.
So, basically the same way he always looked at Sherlock, except Lestrade could see the meaning in it now. And what it meant when Sherlock looked back, disdainful and annoyed, but no less fond.
“I know you took pictures, John; there’s no sense in pretending to be noble. And if even one of them shows up on your blog, so help me…”
“It might be good, you know, show your fans a little vulnerability,” John said, considering. “Let them see you’re only human after all.”
“I’m not ‘only’ anything and I am not vulnerable,” Sherlock said indignantly. “And that isn’t even me, it’s a fictionalized persona you’ve created for your readers. I don’t have fans.”
“It isn’t fictional,” John countered, “just embellished. “And you absolutely do have fans. At least one, anyway.”
Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow, or would have, if it hadn’t been singed off, but he let the matter drop.
Lestrade just shook his head. They really couldn’t be more obvious.
-----
“I’m not going to give you the pictures, so don’t even ask.” John said, cutting Lestrade off before he even said a word.
“Fair enough.” Lestrade joined him in leaning against the wall, cool brick against his shoulders. He wished he still smoked; it would’ve given him something to do with his hands.
“I'm happy for you, you know,” he said, hoping it didn't sound too awkward.
John looked confused. “Thank you?”
“No, I mean...” So much for not being awkward. “For both of you. He's certainly more civilised since you two... well.”
“Became flatmates? Friends?”
“Look, you don't have to play dumb with me!” Lestrade snapped, frustrated. “I don't have a problem with you sleeping together, all right? And if anyone else does, they can take it up with me. I only wanted to say, right, that the two of you are really good for each other, and it's a pleasure working with you, and with him, now you've calmed him down some. And I hope you keep it going for a good long time. The relationship, I mean! Not the... well, that too, I suppose, but...” He shook his head. “Anyway, that's all.”
John stared blankly at him for a long moment; long enough that Lestrade was starting to feel self-conscious. Like he'd just made an ass of himself somehow. Then John closed his eyes and visibly composed himself for a second before speaking.
“Right. I honestly don't know how many times I'm going to have to say this, but clearly I need to at least once more. Sherlock and I...”
“John! There you are,” Sherlock billowed in, coat flaring dramatically as it always seemed to do. He put his hand on John's arm, casually affectionate, and the expression on his face was very near a genuine smile. “I need your assistance with something at the flat. It's quite urgent.”
John looked at Sherlock's hand, then up at his face. His eyes caught there and held, and Lestrade was pretty sure he wasn't imagining the way the tips of John's ears had gone a little pink. “All right then,” he said, and it was a little hushed, a little strange; like he was answering an important question, rather than replying to a simple request.
“Good,” Sherlock said, sliding his hand down to take hold of John's hand, tugging him up and away from the wall. John went easily. Sherlock didn't let go.
John looked back at him, and Lestrade was definitely not imagining that blush now. “Thanks, Greg,” he said, as Sherlock pulled him away. “I'll try not to make a mess of things.”
Lestrade waved him off, smiling. Really, it was sort of sweet, the way they fit together.
“What on earth were you talking about?” Sherlock said, voice growing fainter with the distance. Lestrade could only just hear John's reply.
“I'll tell you when we get home.”
Recipient:
bk7brokemybrainAuthor:
airspanielCharacters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Lestrade
Word Count: 1717
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Summary: See, he hadn’t made Detective Inspector because of his great hair and pretty face. And honestly, it didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going on.
A/N: There is a porny coda to this which I will post after the reveal. I hope you like it,
bk7brokemybrain!“I need your phone,” Sherlock didn't bother asking, reaching into the front right pocket of John's trousers. And yes, maybe they did practically live in one another's pockets, but there were lines. Lines Lestrade would prefer they not cross in front of him, at an active crime scene investigation, if it's all the same, thanks much.
“Sherlock!” John chastised, a beat too late to be effective, as the man already had his phone in hand and was intently focused on the screen.
“You really shouldn't keep it near your keys,” said Sherlock offhandedly. “You may have inherited a certain amount of damage, but there's no need to exacerbate things.”
“I…” John said intelligently. Then, after a moment of regrouping. “You just put your hand in my pocket.”
“What?” Sherlock replied absently, as if he'd already forgotten the transgression, and perhaps he already had, long fingers tapping at John's phone.
“You put your hand in my pocket,” John repeated, more certain this time.
“Yes.”
“Why did you do that?”
Sherlock sighed in a distinctly patronizing fashion. “I told you, I needed your phone.”
“And you couldn't wait two seconds for me to get it myself?”
“I didn't want to trouble you.”
“Didn’t want to…” John repeated. Lestrade tried to wrap his brain around that logic and winced at the headache that threatened from the effort.
“Look, just… just don’t put your hands in my pants without my permission, that’s all I’m saying."
Sherlock turned to look at him, apparently genuinely surprised. “Good lord, are you still on that?”
“Sherlock.”
“Fine, in future, I will endeavor to ask your permission before putting my hands in your pants,” Sherlock said, as if he were the one being inconvenienced. He shook his head and rearranged the papers in front of him, holding the mobile out next to them. “But you see, when this is inverted, a pattern emerges which is…”
Lestrade went to stand beside him, leaning over the table, and Sherlock was absolutely right, the pattern was unmistakable. He wasn’t sure how they’d missed it in the first place.
Looking between John and Sherlock, he wondered what else he’d missed.
-----
See, he hadn’t made Detective Inspector because of his great hair and pretty face. For all that he called the consulting detective in from time to time, Lestrade was actually very good at putting two and two together. And honestly, it didn’t take a detective to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t like either of them were subtle.
-----
It was very telling about their relationship that, when John and Lestrade arrived at 221B after an evening at the pub and discovered Sherlock in the process of meticulously painting his nails a lurid red, the only thing Lestrade felt was a sort of dull surprise. It was far from the most alarming thing he’d ever caught the man doing. There were no severed limbs in sight, no fire damage, nothing had exploded… it was almost enough to make a man think about relaxing.
John looked downright relieved.
“Come now,” Sherlock chastened them both “You act as if I demolish the place every time you turn your back.”
Lestrade was not about to dignify that with a response. John just lifted an eyebrow. Sherlock looked up long enough to catch John’s eye and huff an irritated breath. He turned back to his work, running the tip of his right thumbnail around the cuticles of his left hand, cleaning up the edges.
“That’s a bold color,” said John, flipping through the few pieces of mail on the table. Mostly junk, it seemed; a few bills, nothing good. Lestrade looked back towards Sherlock, who was now half-reclining with arm outstretched, hand tilted and fingers spread so that the light reflected off the smooth scarlet surface. He narrowed his eyes, studying the lacquer with a critical eye; though to what end, Lestrade couldn’t guess.
“It doesn’t suit you,” John said, unimpressed. Lestrade privately disagreed, in an odd way; the combination of red nails with the white of Sherlock’s skin and the black of his hair had sort of a Snow White effect. He was never going to say that out loud.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to catch John’s, and if it was anyone else - anyone else - Lestrade might have called that look flirtatious.
“Liar,” said Sherlock. “Now hand me the matches.” Although they were in easy reach on the table, John obediently picked them up and passed them over.
Feeling discretion would be the better part of valor, particularly in the case of Sherlock and open flames, Lestrade edged towards the door. “I'll just see you later, then,” he said to the room at large. Sherlock took no notice, frowning in concentration as he deliberately, Christ, struck a match and moved it towards his painted fingertips.
“Sherlock!” John took a step forward, and grabbed his wrist, keeping the match away.
“Really, John,” Sherlock sighed. “It's not going to burn hot enough or long enough to do any real damage.”
“Any damage is too much, frankly.” He was still holding Sherlock's hand. The match sputtered and burnt out, and he was still holding Sherlock's hand; Sherlock was looking at John very intensely, and Lestrade was really leaving now. He closed the door behind himself, but the conversation carried easily through the wood.
“Sentimentality has no place in science, John.”
“You don't know what kind of chemicals are in that stuff. Okay, I don't know what kind of chemicals are in that stuff, but...”
“Primarily nitrocellulose dissolved in butyl acetate, actually. The victim's hand was...”
“Nitrocellulose? You put gun cotton on your nails and you want me to let you set it on fire?.”
“I'm not setting it on fire, if you'd bother to listen. I'm merely going to singe the tips to recreate...”
Sherlock's voice faded as Lestrade descended the stairs, mobile already out to send a friendly message to the Divisional Officer of the local LFB station. Forewarned was seldom forearmed, especially with consulting detectives, but it also never hurt.
-----
If Sherlock was missing an eyebrow for a couple of weeks after that, nobody said a word. Except for Anderson. And Donovan. And Marie and Thelma in dispatch. And probably most of the morgue attendants.
All right, John didn't say a word, but he did look at Sherlock more often, face a strange mixture of concerned and irritated, reluctantly fond and profoundly amused.
So, basically the same way he always looked at Sherlock, except Lestrade could see the meaning in it now. And what it meant when Sherlock looked back, disdainful and annoyed, but no less fond.
“I know you took pictures, John; there’s no sense in pretending to be noble. And if even one of them shows up on your blog, so help me…”
“It might be good, you know, show your fans a little vulnerability,” John said, considering. “Let them see you’re only human after all.”
“I’m not ‘only’ anything and I am not vulnerable,” Sherlock said indignantly. “And that isn’t even me, it’s a fictionalized persona you’ve created for your readers. I don’t have fans.”
“It isn’t fictional,” John countered, “just embellished. “And you absolutely do have fans. At least one, anyway.”
Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow, or would have, if it hadn’t been singed off, but he let the matter drop.
Lestrade just shook his head. They really couldn’t be more obvious.
-----
“I’m not going to give you the pictures, so don’t even ask.” John said, cutting Lestrade off before he even said a word.
“Fair enough.” Lestrade joined him in leaning against the wall, cool brick against his shoulders. He wished he still smoked; it would’ve given him something to do with his hands.
“I'm happy for you, you know,” he said, hoping it didn't sound too awkward.
John looked confused. “Thank you?”
“No, I mean...” So much for not being awkward. “For both of you. He's certainly more civilised since you two... well.”
“Became flatmates? Friends?”
“Look, you don't have to play dumb with me!” Lestrade snapped, frustrated. “I don't have a problem with you sleeping together, all right? And if anyone else does, they can take it up with me. I only wanted to say, right, that the two of you are really good for each other, and it's a pleasure working with you, and with him, now you've calmed him down some. And I hope you keep it going for a good long time. The relationship, I mean! Not the... well, that too, I suppose, but...” He shook his head. “Anyway, that's all.”
John stared blankly at him for a long moment; long enough that Lestrade was starting to feel self-conscious. Like he'd just made an ass of himself somehow. Then John closed his eyes and visibly composed himself for a second before speaking.
“Right. I honestly don't know how many times I'm going to have to say this, but clearly I need to at least once more. Sherlock and I...”
“John! There you are,” Sherlock billowed in, coat flaring dramatically as it always seemed to do. He put his hand on John's arm, casually affectionate, and the expression on his face was very near a genuine smile. “I need your assistance with something at the flat. It's quite urgent.”
John looked at Sherlock's hand, then up at his face. His eyes caught there and held, and Lestrade was pretty sure he wasn't imagining the way the tips of John's ears had gone a little pink. “All right then,” he said, and it was a little hushed, a little strange; like he was answering an important question, rather than replying to a simple request.
“Good,” Sherlock said, sliding his hand down to take hold of John's hand, tugging him up and away from the wall. John went easily. Sherlock didn't let go.
John looked back at him, and Lestrade was definitely not imagining that blush now. “Thanks, Greg,” he said, as Sherlock pulled him away. “I'll try not to make a mess of things.”
Lestrade waved him off, smiling. Really, it was sort of sweet, the way they fit together.
“What on earth were you talking about?” Sherlock said, voice growing fainter with the distance. Lestrade could only just hear John's reply.
“I'll tell you when we get home.”
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no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 04:02 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 05:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 06:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 03:25 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-19 06:52 pm (UTC)I loved this! It's just what I wanted, being from Lestrade's POV, in his voice. I love how he misunderstood, but by the time he realizes that he might have been wrong, it will be a moot point anyway. *makes flappy hands and bounces in chair* I love John's little revelation at the end, and I cannot wait for that porny coda.
The touching, the invasion of personal space, the red nails - all things to make your average hetero male nervous, but it was wonderful to see Lestrade deal with those challenges, and even defend these two. I got such a voyeuristic thrill from watching Lestrade watch John and Sherlock together (that prurient postulating), lol, that I got butterflies in my tummy and a protracted squeee sound in my head.
Thank you!!!
no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 01:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 03:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 04:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-06-20 08:08 pm (UTC)Actually, this whole fic is kind of perfect and understated.
no subject
Date: 2012-07-11 09:36 pm (UTC)