This got rather longer than was intended! Ah, well.
----
It all begins while Sherlock and John are tracking down a jewel thief named Julian Finn who is so monumentally, devastatingly dull that Sherlock is almost ready to send him a postcard with a few ideas, just to bring a bit of light into what is clearly one of the dimmer corners of the world.
But that isn't the point, of course. The point is that while they are asking Julian's employer-- a slightly plump older woman with a penchant for the calling them handsome young gentleman-- about his daily routine, Sherlock notices that she is staring at John's bandage.
Admittedly that's become a habit of Sherlock's as well, lately. And while it does tend to summon the smell of chlorine and a sharp, panicked twist in his stomach, it also helps to remind him that neither of them died a fiery and unpleasant death in a swimming pool, which is useful.
Sherlock reaches out and tucks the edge of the gauze back underneath John's collar almost habitually (because only he gets to fret over John, it's a rule) and can see in an instant that he's given the woman Ideas.
They turn out to be surprisingly useful Ideas, because she begins to positively gush and in between offers of biscuits and assurances that she's always loved the music of Elton John, she spits out a few things which may actually prove useful. Sherlock hums thoughtfully under his breath and holds the door for John as they leave.
----
"Oy, what're you doing here?" A voice demands, and when Sherlock turns the voice is matched to a face. The voice is a baritone with a bit of forced gravel in it, and the face is playing along splendidly-- clearly upper-middle-class but not particularly pleased about the fact. This is a man who wakes up in the morning and almost moisturizes out of habit before he remembers the fact that he is supposed to be tough now. Sherlock heaves a sigh.
You work in a restaurant which specializes in generically pleasant French cuisine, he wants to say. Exactly how intimidating do you imagine yourself to be?
"We are investigating a murder," he says instead. "If that's quite alright with you?"
For good measure, he also curls his fingers around John's wrist and holds on, smoothing his thumb over warm skin.
"Investigating a what?" The man says. "I'll call the police, don't think I won't."
"At last count the police owe us-- how many favors was it, John?" Sherlock asks distractedly, his eyes flitting around the room. It's rather nice to have an anchor point as he does so, actually, to be able to feel John's heartbeat kicking against his fingers.
"Twenty-seven I think," John says calmly. "Twenty-eight if you're counting the thing with the--"
"We absolutely count that," Sherlock says, running an experimental finger under the cuff of John's jumper. "There were weasels. And on Valentine's Day, too. There were so many infinitely more pleasing things we could have been doing with our time."
"I'm, er. I'm just going to go and check with management," the man says, and disappears. John raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock shrugs.
"Well he'll be back any minute. It seems hazardous to drop the charade now," he says, and drags John over to examine the window sill.
And sure enough, the man does return-- with the blessings of "management," whoever they are, and instructions to keep an eye on the proceedings.
"Er, so. The two of you are--" the man says, and then makes a hand gesture which is so vague as to be utterly pointless.
"Absolutely," Sherlock says, "and we're wildly exhibitionist as well."
"Really?" John says after the man has fled back to the front of the store in what he probably thinks is an extremely manly fashion. "Really, Sherlock?"
"He's gone, isn't he?" Sherlock says, and goes back to sniffing the doorjamb.
Sherlock - Sherlock/John - Less Than Clandestine - 1/2
----
It all begins while Sherlock and John are tracking down a jewel thief named Julian Finn who is so monumentally, devastatingly dull that Sherlock is almost ready to send him a postcard with a few ideas, just to bring a bit of light into what is clearly one of the dimmer corners of the world.
But that isn't the point, of course. The point is that while they are asking Julian's employer-- a slightly plump older woman with a penchant for the calling them handsome young gentleman-- about his daily routine, Sherlock notices that she is staring at John's bandage.
Admittedly that's become a habit of Sherlock's as well, lately. And while it does tend to summon the smell of chlorine and a sharp, panicked twist in his stomach, it also helps to remind him that neither of them died a fiery and unpleasant death in a swimming pool, which is useful.
Sherlock reaches out and tucks the edge of the gauze back underneath John's collar almost habitually (because only he gets to fret over John, it's a rule) and can see in an instant that he's given the woman Ideas.
They turn out to be surprisingly useful Ideas, because she begins to positively gush and in between offers of biscuits and assurances that she's always loved the music of Elton John, she spits out a few things which may actually prove useful. Sherlock hums thoughtfully under his breath and holds the door for John as they leave.
----
"Oy, what're you doing here?" A voice demands, and when Sherlock turns the voice is matched to a face. The voice is a baritone with a bit of forced gravel in it, and the face is playing along splendidly-- clearly upper-middle-class but not particularly pleased about the fact. This is a man who wakes up in the morning and almost moisturizes out of habit before he remembers the fact that he is supposed to be tough now. Sherlock heaves a sigh.
You work in a restaurant which specializes in generically pleasant French cuisine, he wants to say. Exactly how intimidating do you imagine yourself to be?
"We are investigating a murder," he says instead. "If that's quite alright with you?"
For good measure, he also curls his fingers around John's wrist and holds on, smoothing his thumb over warm skin.
"Investigating a what?" The man says. "I'll call the police, don't think I won't."
"At last count the police owe us-- how many favors was it, John?" Sherlock asks distractedly, his eyes flitting around the room. It's rather nice to have an anchor point as he does so, actually, to be able to feel John's heartbeat kicking against his fingers.
"Twenty-seven I think," John says calmly. "Twenty-eight if you're counting the thing with the--"
"We absolutely count that," Sherlock says, running an experimental finger under the cuff of John's jumper. "There were weasels. And on Valentine's Day, too. There were so many infinitely more pleasing things we could have been doing with our time."
"I'm, er. I'm just going to go and check with management," the man says, and disappears. John raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock shrugs.
"Well he'll be back any minute. It seems hazardous to drop the charade now," he says, and drags John over to examine the window sill.
And sure enough, the man does return-- with the blessings of "management," whoever they are, and instructions to keep an eye on the proceedings.
"Er, so. The two of you are--" the man says, and then makes a hand gesture which is so vague as to be utterly pointless.
"Absolutely," Sherlock says, "and we're wildly exhibitionist as well."
"Really?" John says after the man has fled back to the front of the store in what he probably thinks is an extremely manly fashion. "Really, Sherlock?"
"He's gone, isn't he?" Sherlock says, and goes back to sniffing the doorjamb.