|Winterstice Fic #6 for wastingyourgum:
||[Jan. 2nd, 2012|05:50 pm]
(lives between pages)
The Long of It
John's first mistake was peeling off down the opposite corridor to use the loo.
When he finally got to Lestrade's office, Sherlock had already ensured that the next sixty seconds to thirty minutes would bode very ill for the exhausted DI, who was fast asleep on a haphazard pile of annual reports and an upset shot of Laphroaig.
John's second mistake was crouching beside Sherlock instead of waking Lestrade.
"Remarkable," Sherlock said. "He's a heavy sleeper, quite atypical for someone in his line of work. Tipping over the alcohol had no effect on him whatsoever."
John grasped the edge of the desk and let his forehead fall forward to hit his knuckles, wincing at the sudden stab of protest in his calf. "You spilled the whisky, Sherlock?"
"Of course I did. It may one day prove useful to know how difficult he is to wake."
John sighed and lifted his head, grinning sidelong at Sherlock.
"How many files this time? Four, to make up for the cases we lost?"
"Eight," Sherlock replied, righting the shot glass. "It's a new year, after all. He could do with a decent head start." He sucked the whisky off his fingertips, assessing the taste with a contemplative frown, and then turned the half-empty bottle so that he could read the label. "Damn. I still can't tell the ten-year from the fifteen-year."
"Takes time for some people," John remarked. "And actual habitual consumption."
Sherlock stiffened. "I joined you for a glass of wine last night."
"Yeah, and forced me and Mrs. Hudson to share the rest of the bottle."
"Oh, the hardship."
"Mycroft ought to be pleased with your progress on comebacks."
"If only he'd catch me up, such exchanges might actually prove worthwhile. What test ought we to carry out next? Blaring your atrocious ringtone right next to his ear, or—"
"You've done enough damage for now," John said. "Put the ones you've finished back in the filing cabinet, and let's go. Mrs. Hudson is expecting us for dinner."
"At what point does the holiday season loosen its hold on tiresome social obligations?"
"Not till Twelfth Night at least," replied John, cheerfully.
"Six more days to go," Sherlock sighed, rising, and offered his hand to John.
"I've got a few bottles of whisky back at the flat," said John, not loosening his hold on Sherlock's wrist even after he'd gained his footing. "If you'd like to continue your education, that is." Pulse true and steady, flesh warm and familiar. John licks his lips and searches Sherlock's narrowed eyes. He knows it's no use anymore. He knows—
"Perhaps," Sherlock said, the word heavy with realization. "Shall we?"
"Mmmngh. Hey, what's—you complete fucking bastard!"
John pulled Sherlock out the door. They raced down the hall, breathless with laughter.
As for what was to come, well, they'd get there.