[fic] + [podfic] The Lady Doth Protest
Title: The Lady Doth Protest
Words: durr I'll count later. S' short.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John never has been a very good liar.
Author's Notes: SOMEONE MADE ME PODFIC. I KNOW. I KNOW. IT'S CRAY CRAY. We've all got pandarus and cybel to thank, you wonderful people, you. Links under the cut.
http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/lady-doth-protest (mp3)
http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/lady-doth-protest-m4a
http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/lady-doth-protest-audiobook
It has become a distraction.
“I’m not his date,” John snaps, for what must be the fucking umpteenth time in the fucking week. The waitress giggles and gives them their menus.
“Right,” she says. “Course you aren’t.” She turns and leaves with a little smirk on her smugly smiling face.
“Why, why the hell do they alwayst just… assume… that the two of us-”
“Veal looks good, think I’ll have that.” Sherlock Holmes looks over the top of his menu, observing the frustrated little frown that has passed over John’s face and squatted there.
“…it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and very rude, at that,” John mutters, flipping angrily through the laminated pages in an attempt to find something under twenty pounds and failing despicably.
“One might say that your overly flustered reaction means you do actually want to be my date,” Sherlock says.
John snaps his face up. “What?”
“Nothing. Oh, look at that, that looks good.”
“No, what did you say?”
“In fact, forget the veal, I’m having this. Have you chosen? Yes? Waitress!”
“Sherlock, that’s completely faulty logic-”
“Haven’t you ever read Shakespeare? ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” he says. John opens his mouth, and Sherlock can read the oncoming rebuttal as easily as if it were an open book, he expects it. Except it doesn’t come. John Watson simply gives a resigned shake of the head and a flick of his expressive eyebrows and returns to glaring fiercely at the menu.
Sherlock leans back in his seat. What does he think he’s doing, playing around with his flatmate like this? It's not just because it’s amusing, which it is. He’s doing it…
Because there’s a certain movement that John Watson will make at times, an incredulous sort of stare that rarely culminates in a smile, generally choosing to remain as it started, which is with eyebrows curled and eyes opened wider and mouth ever so slightly agape, and for some reason it generally comes into play when Sherlock is being an arse or a genius or both.
He is trying to see how many times he can coax it into the open. Why, he’s no idea. But then, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t really mind being confused, as long he doesn’t stay that way for an extended period of time.
Three weeks, in Sherlock’s opinion, is indeed, a very ‘extended period of time.’
This is ridiculous. He’s not supposed to like people, and here he is, taking another man out to dinner to celebrate solving what really was a trifle of a case, even if it did make them three hundred pounds.
Later that evening, they go home to a darkened house. John starts to make his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Halfway to the top, he pauses.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes.”
They stare at each other for a few long moments. Then John shakes his head and mutters a small, “Nothing,” before disappearing up to the top floor.
Later that night, when the digital clock by his bed reads three in the morning, Sherlock can hear footsteps coming from upstairs, the slow measured rhythm of pacing.
He turns and buries his head in the pillow and tells himself he doesn’t care.
Eight o’ clock at night, and it’s raining. Sherlock is smirking as he steps out of the mortuary and into the street, his umbrella making a little ‘pop’ is he opens it. The water drills against it in a steady rhythm.
“What did I tell you?” he says.
John stands in the doorway, glaring at the sky as though it’s done him personal ill. Which it has, in a way.
“The weather report said-” he starts to splutter.
“You actually trust those over me?”
“Who said I trusted you?”
Holmes smirks and jiggles the umbrella. “Come on then,” he says, and starts walking.
“Bloody hell,” John mutters, and he dives into the rain. It’s cold and stings when it lands on his skin. It doesn’t take long before he’s soaked to the bone, trying to keep up with Sherlock, who’s still annoyingly dry and looks like some modern version of an emperor, with that huge umbrella over his head and the regal set of his shoulders.
He finally stops at the curb and turns to gaze at his flatmate condescendingly.
“Wet, are we?”
John’s response is to draw his mouth into a straight, hard line and shiver.
Sherlock sighs and holds the umbrella out a little. “Come on then,” he says, tapping his toe impatiently against the wet pavement. “Haven’t got all day.”
They walk down the street while Sherlock holds the umbrella above their heads. From this angle, all he has to do is just tip his head down and his nose would be buried in John’s wet mess of hair. Even now, he can smell the other man’s distinctive scent-thick and warm, in a way, like sandalwood.
The traffic lights cast red and green and yellow onto the puddles, make them luminesce, throw color onto John’s generally colorless face, and if you just looked close enough, you’d see a sort of spark in those impossibly tired eyes of his.
No. Stop it. Stop it this instant, Sherlock Holmes-
“Sherlock, the light’s gone green.”
He snaps his head up. “Of couse it has,” he mutters, and they step onto the street.
He knows people, he’s dealt with an enormous amount of them, and he doesn’t like what he sees most of the time, because the people he works with are either criminals or idiots or both. He knows what they’re capable of. The man he’s walking next to this very moment shot a person and didn’t blink afterwards. Brushing semantics aside, Sherlock Holmes is currently rooming with a killer.
But he likes that, doesn’t he? He gets off on it.
“John-“-and it comes out in a sort of gasp, him gripping the other man’s arm-
“Augh, that hurt!” John flinches away, ducks back into the rain, massaging his shoulder aggressively.
It was his left. Sherlock sighs and lets go. He doesn’t apologize. He simply waits and holds the umbrella, standing stiff and straight like a complete idiot in the rain. By the time John’s joined him again, whatever resolution he had managed to put together in his head has fallen apart.
They reach Baker Street just as the rain begins to let up. The house is dark, Mrs. Hudson being one of those women who go to bed early with a paperback romance novel tucked under her arm and a cup of tea that’s actually mostly milk and sugar.
John is chattering now as he starts to take off his scarf with only his right hand. “I’m going to take a bath,” he announces as he starts for the stairs. “You don’t mind if I use the large bathroom, do you?”
Sherlock’s reply is to chase after him, spin him around, press him to the wall and kiss him.
“Mngh!” A strong arm lashes out, pushes him back, and now John is wiping at his mouth and spluttering, “What? What?! Fuck, are you high?”
Sherlock stands in the middle of the hall and grins, like a child at Christmas, because that old tone has come back, and that look, the incredulous one, the one that’s shock and awe and makes Sherlock’s bones ache with the urge to please. Because now he knows he’s won. He steps forward again.
“’The lady,’” he starts to quote, “ ‘doth protest too much, methinks.’ Again,” he adds, with a little sideways look and a raise of his dark eyebrows.
John Watson sighs and runs his hand through his wet hair and Christ, had he tasted amazing. “Did you ever stop to think for an instant that it was valid protest?” he all but squeaks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a genius.”
John looks like he’s about to start the argument up all over again. So Holmes kisses him, again, slowly this time, and not so quite so desperately, feeling the wet off of John’s jacket diffuse into his own. It’s incredible. It’s completely, inexplicably wonderful and he could probably have stood there forever. But he pulls back anyways to see that John’s face is still an image of complete and utter shock.
“Okay. You know what?” Sherlock whispers. “I am going to… go. Alright? I’m going to go to bed and we are going to forget-”
“No, no, wait-!”
Five seconds later, their mouths are mashed together again and they’re up against the wall and John’s head is probaby knocking into the coat hooks, but that’s completely irrelevant because good God, the man kisses with every fiber of his being and it’s amazing. He breaks away, leaves Sherlock gasping at the air for a moment until he feels teeth scrape against his neck and has to bite his own lip to keep from thrusting into John’s thigh that very moment.
The rapid click-clack of metal as they fumble with their belts breaks through the harsh pants of their breathing and the thick whispers of their clothing. John has wrapped his fingers around the collar of Sherlock’s coat, grips even harder when one still-gloved hand goes down his briefs to cup around his cock and give a quick, sharp tug.
“Fuck,” he hisses, head falling forward, damp hair brushing the tip of Sherlock’s nose. He can’t actually believe this is happening, because really, what happened to being ‘married to his work-’ and did he ever actually even think about this sort of thing anyways--
He stops thinking however, because a sensation has hit him that's like every bone in his body is being melted down into liquid pleasure. All he can bring himself to do is make little gasps and pants and requests for more. If it wasn’t for the steadying support of the wall, John knows he’d probably be on the floor right now.
Sherlock is relatively quieter, moaning occasionally into John’s ear and squeezing his eyes shut to block out the pops of white light that keep on plaguing his vision, blindly finding John’s mouth in the darkness with his own and smothering it with another kiss, this one so violent their teeth clack together. Ten impossibly strong fingers rake across his back, catching on the fabric of his jacket, and the sensation is enough for him to spend himself against his trousers then and there.
One more tug, a sharp hiss from John, who all but doubles over as he comes, and it’s over. Sherlock’s knees feel impossibly wobbly. He watches John slide down to the ground with a soft whump and follows suit, the two of them sitting across from each other on the carpet and panting, their heartbeats still racing.
“This is going to be awkward,” John manages to breathe.
Sherlock stares up at the ceiling. Part of him knows the other man is right. Part of him doesn’t want to know but does anyways.
And he’s going to need a new pair of gloves.
Breakfast is silent. Sherlock keeps on flipping through the paper, reading the same article over and over, continually peering over the top to inspect the expression on John’s face, but it is practically unreadable.
Finally, the other man throws down his fork and napkin. “I’m going out,” he announces, and much to Sherlock’s disappointment, he grabs his cane on his way from the room.
Sherlock spends the day trying to quiet his brain. He visits the hospital, snaps at Molly because he can and because she’s annoying and he hates her for trying all the time. Except, today, he wonders if that’s what he’s like, too-pushing blindly, oblivious to other people’s obvious distaste and aversion.
It’s a quarter to four when his mobile blips. He tugs it from his pocket, examines the new message.
on top of fireplace
JW
Molly’s looking at him funny, now.
“What? What is it?” he snaps, glaring at her.
“No, no, nothing, it’s just..” She tilts her head, bats her lashes a little-she’s been doing it all day, doubtless trying to get him to notice her new mascara-“You were smiling,” she says.
“I was? I was. Yes, I was. I was smiling. Listen, I have to go.” He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and puts on his jacket, wrapping the scarf around his neck as he brushes past Molly and into the hall. It’s a mad dash for home from there, feet moving fast as he navigates London’s familiar streets.
He bursts into the front hallway and takes the steps two, three at a time. Marches into the living room and goes straight to the fireplace. There’s a package sitting on top of the mantle; he picks it up and gives it one look and bursts into laughter.
Thump. Thump.
He doesn’t have to turn to know who it is, but he does anyways. John is smirking.
“God, you idiot,” Sherlock pretends to gripe. “New gloves?”
“You haven’t even opened it yet, how the hell can you tell? No, no, wait. Don’t say it. It’s because you’re a genius.”
“Actually, it’s because the tag-” He stops because the laughter has come back, is trickling through him in a little wave, and John is laughing too, lightly and meekly, as if he’s afraid of going too far.
And it’s not quite that admiring, awestruck face of his, the one that Sherlock fell in love with, but that’s alright.
Because this one’s better.
Words: durr I'll count later. S' short.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: John never has been a very good liar.
Author's Notes: SOMEONE MADE ME PODFIC. I KNOW. I KNOW. IT'S CRAY CRAY. We've all got pandarus and cybel to thank, you wonderful people, you. Links under the cut.
http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/lady-doth-protest (mp3)
http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/lady-doth-protest-m4a
http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/lady-doth-protest-audiobook
It has become a distraction.
“I’m not his date,” John snaps, for what must be the fucking umpteenth time in the fucking week. The waitress giggles and gives them their menus.
“Right,” she says. “Course you aren’t.” She turns and leaves with a little smirk on her smugly smiling face.
“Why, why the hell do they alwayst just… assume… that the two of us-”
“Veal looks good, think I’ll have that.” Sherlock Holmes looks over the top of his menu, observing the frustrated little frown that has passed over John’s face and squatted there.
“…it’s ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, and very rude, at that,” John mutters, flipping angrily through the laminated pages in an attempt to find something under twenty pounds and failing despicably.
“One might say that your overly flustered reaction means you do actually want to be my date,” Sherlock says.
John snaps his face up. “What?”
“Nothing. Oh, look at that, that looks good.”
“No, what did you say?”
“In fact, forget the veal, I’m having this. Have you chosen? Yes? Waitress!”
“Sherlock, that’s completely faulty logic-”
“Haven’t you ever read Shakespeare? ‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks,’” he says. John opens his mouth, and Sherlock can read the oncoming rebuttal as easily as if it were an open book, he expects it. Except it doesn’t come. John Watson simply gives a resigned shake of the head and a flick of his expressive eyebrows and returns to glaring fiercely at the menu.
Sherlock leans back in his seat. What does he think he’s doing, playing around with his flatmate like this? It's not just because it’s amusing, which it is. He’s doing it…
Because there’s a certain movement that John Watson will make at times, an incredulous sort of stare that rarely culminates in a smile, generally choosing to remain as it started, which is with eyebrows curled and eyes opened wider and mouth ever so slightly agape, and for some reason it generally comes into play when Sherlock is being an arse or a genius or both.
He is trying to see how many times he can coax it into the open. Why, he’s no idea. But then, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t really mind being confused, as long he doesn’t stay that way for an extended period of time.
Three weeks, in Sherlock’s opinion, is indeed, a very ‘extended period of time.’
This is ridiculous. He’s not supposed to like people, and here he is, taking another man out to dinner to celebrate solving what really was a trifle of a case, even if it did make them three hundred pounds.
Later that evening, they go home to a darkened house. John starts to make his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Halfway to the top, he pauses.
“Sherlock?”
“Yes.”
They stare at each other for a few long moments. Then John shakes his head and mutters a small, “Nothing,” before disappearing up to the top floor.
Later that night, when the digital clock by his bed reads three in the morning, Sherlock can hear footsteps coming from upstairs, the slow measured rhythm of pacing.
He turns and buries his head in the pillow and tells himself he doesn’t care.
Eight o’ clock at night, and it’s raining. Sherlock is smirking as he steps out of the mortuary and into the street, his umbrella making a little ‘pop’ is he opens it. The water drills against it in a steady rhythm.
“What did I tell you?” he says.
John stands in the doorway, glaring at the sky as though it’s done him personal ill. Which it has, in a way.
“The weather report said-” he starts to splutter.
“You actually trust those over me?”
“Who said I trusted you?”
Holmes smirks and jiggles the umbrella. “Come on then,” he says, and starts walking.
“Bloody hell,” John mutters, and he dives into the rain. It’s cold and stings when it lands on his skin. It doesn’t take long before he’s soaked to the bone, trying to keep up with Sherlock, who’s still annoyingly dry and looks like some modern version of an emperor, with that huge umbrella over his head and the regal set of his shoulders.
He finally stops at the curb and turns to gaze at his flatmate condescendingly.
“Wet, are we?”
John’s response is to draw his mouth into a straight, hard line and shiver.
Sherlock sighs and holds the umbrella out a little. “Come on then,” he says, tapping his toe impatiently against the wet pavement. “Haven’t got all day.”
They walk down the street while Sherlock holds the umbrella above their heads. From this angle, all he has to do is just tip his head down and his nose would be buried in John’s wet mess of hair. Even now, he can smell the other man’s distinctive scent-thick and warm, in a way, like sandalwood.
The traffic lights cast red and green and yellow onto the puddles, make them luminesce, throw color onto John’s generally colorless face, and if you just looked close enough, you’d see a sort of spark in those impossibly tired eyes of his.
No. Stop it. Stop it this instant, Sherlock Holmes-
“Sherlock, the light’s gone green.”
He snaps his head up. “Of couse it has,” he mutters, and they step onto the street.
He knows people, he’s dealt with an enormous amount of them, and he doesn’t like what he sees most of the time, because the people he works with are either criminals or idiots or both. He knows what they’re capable of. The man he’s walking next to this very moment shot a person and didn’t blink afterwards. Brushing semantics aside, Sherlock Holmes is currently rooming with a killer.
But he likes that, doesn’t he? He gets off on it.
“John-“-and it comes out in a sort of gasp, him gripping the other man’s arm-
“Augh, that hurt!” John flinches away, ducks back into the rain, massaging his shoulder aggressively.
It was his left. Sherlock sighs and lets go. He doesn’t apologize. He simply waits and holds the umbrella, standing stiff and straight like a complete idiot in the rain. By the time John’s joined him again, whatever resolution he had managed to put together in his head has fallen apart.
They reach Baker Street just as the rain begins to let up. The house is dark, Mrs. Hudson being one of those women who go to bed early with a paperback romance novel tucked under her arm and a cup of tea that’s actually mostly milk and sugar.
John is chattering now as he starts to take off his scarf with only his right hand. “I’m going to take a bath,” he announces as he starts for the stairs. “You don’t mind if I use the large bathroom, do you?”
Sherlock’s reply is to chase after him, spin him around, press him to the wall and kiss him.
“Mngh!” A strong arm lashes out, pushes him back, and now John is wiping at his mouth and spluttering, “What? What?! Fuck, are you high?”
Sherlock stands in the middle of the hall and grins, like a child at Christmas, because that old tone has come back, and that look, the incredulous one, the one that’s shock and awe and makes Sherlock’s bones ache with the urge to please. Because now he knows he’s won. He steps forward again.
“’The lady,’” he starts to quote, “ ‘doth protest too much, methinks.’ Again,” he adds, with a little sideways look and a raise of his dark eyebrows.
John Watson sighs and runs his hand through his wet hair and Christ, had he tasted amazing. “Did you ever stop to think for an instant that it was valid protest?” he all but squeaks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m a genius.”
John looks like he’s about to start the argument up all over again. So Holmes kisses him, again, slowly this time, and not so quite so desperately, feeling the wet off of John’s jacket diffuse into his own. It’s incredible. It’s completely, inexplicably wonderful and he could probably have stood there forever. But he pulls back anyways to see that John’s face is still an image of complete and utter shock.
“Okay. You know what?” Sherlock whispers. “I am going to… go. Alright? I’m going to go to bed and we are going to forget-”
“No, no, wait-!”
Five seconds later, their mouths are mashed together again and they’re up against the wall and John’s head is probaby knocking into the coat hooks, but that’s completely irrelevant because good God, the man kisses with every fiber of his being and it’s amazing. He breaks away, leaves Sherlock gasping at the air for a moment until he feels teeth scrape against his neck and has to bite his own lip to keep from thrusting into John’s thigh that very moment.
The rapid click-clack of metal as they fumble with their belts breaks through the harsh pants of their breathing and the thick whispers of their clothing. John has wrapped his fingers around the collar of Sherlock’s coat, grips even harder when one still-gloved hand goes down his briefs to cup around his cock and give a quick, sharp tug.
“Fuck,” he hisses, head falling forward, damp hair brushing the tip of Sherlock’s nose. He can’t actually believe this is happening, because really, what happened to being ‘married to his work-’ and did he ever actually even think about this sort of thing anyways--
He stops thinking however, because a sensation has hit him that's like every bone in his body is being melted down into liquid pleasure. All he can bring himself to do is make little gasps and pants and requests for more. If it wasn’t for the steadying support of the wall, John knows he’d probably be on the floor right now.
Sherlock is relatively quieter, moaning occasionally into John’s ear and squeezing his eyes shut to block out the pops of white light that keep on plaguing his vision, blindly finding John’s mouth in the darkness with his own and smothering it with another kiss, this one so violent their teeth clack together. Ten impossibly strong fingers rake across his back, catching on the fabric of his jacket, and the sensation is enough for him to spend himself against his trousers then and there.
One more tug, a sharp hiss from John, who all but doubles over as he comes, and it’s over. Sherlock’s knees feel impossibly wobbly. He watches John slide down to the ground with a soft whump and follows suit, the two of them sitting across from each other on the carpet and panting, their heartbeats still racing.
“This is going to be awkward,” John manages to breathe.
Sherlock stares up at the ceiling. Part of him knows the other man is right. Part of him doesn’t want to know but does anyways.
And he’s going to need a new pair of gloves.
Breakfast is silent. Sherlock keeps on flipping through the paper, reading the same article over and over, continually peering over the top to inspect the expression on John’s face, but it is practically unreadable.
Finally, the other man throws down his fork and napkin. “I’m going out,” he announces, and much to Sherlock’s disappointment, he grabs his cane on his way from the room.
Sherlock spends the day trying to quiet his brain. He visits the hospital, snaps at Molly because he can and because she’s annoying and he hates her for trying all the time. Except, today, he wonders if that’s what he’s like, too-pushing blindly, oblivious to other people’s obvious distaste and aversion.
It’s a quarter to four when his mobile blips. He tugs it from his pocket, examines the new message.
on top of fireplace
JW
Molly’s looking at him funny, now.
“What? What is it?” he snaps, glaring at her.
“No, no, nothing, it’s just..” She tilts her head, bats her lashes a little-she’s been doing it all day, doubtless trying to get him to notice her new mascara-“You were smiling,” she says.
“I was? I was. Yes, I was. I was smiling. Listen, I have to go.” He stuffs the phone back into his pocket and puts on his jacket, wrapping the scarf around his neck as he brushes past Molly and into the hall. It’s a mad dash for home from there, feet moving fast as he navigates London’s familiar streets.
He bursts into the front hallway and takes the steps two, three at a time. Marches into the living room and goes straight to the fireplace. There’s a package sitting on top of the mantle; he picks it up and gives it one look and bursts into laughter.
Thump. Thump.
He doesn’t have to turn to know who it is, but he does anyways. John is smirking.
“God, you idiot,” Sherlock pretends to gripe. “New gloves?”
“You haven’t even opened it yet, how the hell can you tell? No, no, wait. Don’t say it. It’s because you’re a genius.”
“Actually, it’s because the tag-” He stops because the laughter has come back, is trickling through him in a little wave, and John is laughing too, lightly and meekly, as if he’s afraid of going too far.
And it’s not quite that admiring, awestruck face of his, the one that Sherlock fell in love with, but that’s alright.
Because this one’s better.