Crap Telly (Fic: Sherlock, S/J, Oneshot)
This is my first Sherlock fic overall and my first slash fic and general. I was definitely afraid of what its reception would be, but it's gotten positive reviews so far and I figured I'd loose it on the LJ community. Cross-posted to ff.net.
I'm American, so there might be some Americanisms in here, but no one's caught any yet, so if you do, first prize. ;)
Feedback is much appreciated; I'm still getting the hang of this! Set during Sherlock's crap telly phase in TGG.
Crap Telly
The question is posed to him on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday. He's gone out to the shop to get milk-because they're always out; it just seems to be a fact of life in Baker Street-and a few other miscellaneous items. For the past three hours, Sherlock has been planted on the couch in front of crappy soap operas, or so it appeared.
He makes his way up the stairs and backs into the door to open it, finding Sherlock still in the same position, his gaze still trained on the television, watching two of the leads snog each other quite intently. Really, John thinks that must be all they do on this show; he's not yet seen them do anything else.
He's nearly in the kitchen to put the milk away-he hopes there's room, given that the severed head was still there, last he checked-when Sherlock speaks. "John, explain to me the appeal of having one's tongue in another's mouth?"
The milk slips from his suddenly limp fingers and it takes an extraordinarily quick response by his reflexes to catch it before it hits the floor. Even when it's in his hand again, his palms are slick with perspiration, and he fumbles for the table behind him and sets the milk down rather harder than necessary. He realizes he hasn't responded and that Sherlock is taking in this physical reaction quite curiously. "… I'm sorry?"
Sherlock makes a vague gesture to the television. "Frenching, I believe it's called in American parlance, or so I've gathered from this… spectacle. Might have heard it before; surely I deleted it if I did. I'm attempting to figure out why it is that everyone on this show seems to be concerned with having their tongues down each other's throats, something I know you have had experience with, if I'm correct-and I know I am-about the number of times you've come home from a date with lipstick smudged round your mouth, which has been twenty. I suppose it could be because of the pleasure given by the release of endorphins, but given that the average mentality of a screenwriter seems to be in the teenage range, it's more likely that the scenes are meant to mask the lack of a plot."
He rattles all this off like it's nothing, as he always does, and John is still gaping like a fish, which is quite unbecoming and which he wishes he could stop doing. Even if Sherlock moved past the lipstick bit and is now on an entirely new train of thought, John's mind isn't capable of making this leap quite that quickly, and instead he remains fixated on that one bit. It shouldn't surprise him that Sherlock looks so closely-hell, he'd done it the very minute they'd met-but it still leaves him thinking far too much about the notion of Sherlock observing him so intently. What surprises him is that, well, he doesn't seem to mind the thought of Sherlock observing him. In fact, he finds it's rather nice. That's what worries him. Sherlock has been the only one to ever really fluster him like this and he finds it discomfiting.
Fuck.
He still hasn't given an answer, and Sherlock notices. John turns away in the hope of at least setting the groceries down on the table before he either drops the bag or it gives way on him. Biscuit tin, milk, shredded parmesan, pasta, tomato sauce-he runs through the groceries in his head in order to get his mind off that little tidbit about Sherlock observing his dating habits, and oh, fuck, if he watches that closely, is he watching him right now, does he see how it's gotten him as agitated as it has? Actually, agitated isn't the word. No, there's another word for it, another a-word, but he'd prefer not to think about it.
He's always thought of himself as straight. No question about it, John Watson likes women. He's been with his fair share, and after having seen so many men in various states of undress and such in the army, he's never been particularly keen on his own sex. But he's heard the stories. They're always there on the other type of crap telly he introduced Sherlock to, the interviews with the sympathetic female talk show hosts who always hand out tissues and gaze consolingly. The stories of the women who were happily married until that one woman came along…
So he might be attracted to Sherlock Holmes. It's not inconceivable; the man is good-looking, he's got the sort of voice women swoon over, he might be rail-thin but he still manages to keep up physically with the best of them. All those physical characteristics that are supposed to point to the ideal mate, Sherlock's got them in spades. Except for the whole "sociopath" thing.
And he still hasn't answered the question.
He breathes in, turning, and decides to go for broke. After all, he invaded Afghanistan, didn't he?
"All right. You want to know what's so pleasurable?" One step, two, three, and he's into the living room and his palms are still sweating and he's over him, leaning down, briefly taking his face in his hands and kissing him full on the mouth. Sherlock seems too shocked to respond at first-he can even surprise a detective who's seen it all; John takes some pleasure in that-and when Sherlock's lips part, John uses that to his advantage, exploring the other man's mouth with his tongue. After all, that had been what Sherlock asked about.
He breaks the kiss, breathing somewhat harder than normal, and endeavoring to be calmer than he is. "Understand?"
There's a hesitation. Almost genuine surprise. "Yes."
I'm American, so there might be some Americanisms in here, but no one's caught any yet, so if you do, first prize. ;)
Feedback is much appreciated; I'm still getting the hang of this! Set during Sherlock's crap telly phase in TGG.
Crap Telly
The question is posed to him on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday. He's gone out to the shop to get milk-because they're always out; it just seems to be a fact of life in Baker Street-and a few other miscellaneous items. For the past three hours, Sherlock has been planted on the couch in front of crappy soap operas, or so it appeared.
He makes his way up the stairs and backs into the door to open it, finding Sherlock still in the same position, his gaze still trained on the television, watching two of the leads snog each other quite intently. Really, John thinks that must be all they do on this show; he's not yet seen them do anything else.
He's nearly in the kitchen to put the milk away-he hopes there's room, given that the severed head was still there, last he checked-when Sherlock speaks. "John, explain to me the appeal of having one's tongue in another's mouth?"
The milk slips from his suddenly limp fingers and it takes an extraordinarily quick response by his reflexes to catch it before it hits the floor. Even when it's in his hand again, his palms are slick with perspiration, and he fumbles for the table behind him and sets the milk down rather harder than necessary. He realizes he hasn't responded and that Sherlock is taking in this physical reaction quite curiously. "… I'm sorry?"
Sherlock makes a vague gesture to the television. "Frenching, I believe it's called in American parlance, or so I've gathered from this… spectacle. Might have heard it before; surely I deleted it if I did. I'm attempting to figure out why it is that everyone on this show seems to be concerned with having their tongues down each other's throats, something I know you have had experience with, if I'm correct-and I know I am-about the number of times you've come home from a date with lipstick smudged round your mouth, which has been twenty. I suppose it could be because of the pleasure given by the release of endorphins, but given that the average mentality of a screenwriter seems to be in the teenage range, it's more likely that the scenes are meant to mask the lack of a plot."
He rattles all this off like it's nothing, as he always does, and John is still gaping like a fish, which is quite unbecoming and which he wishes he could stop doing. Even if Sherlock moved past the lipstick bit and is now on an entirely new train of thought, John's mind isn't capable of making this leap quite that quickly, and instead he remains fixated on that one bit. It shouldn't surprise him that Sherlock looks so closely-hell, he'd done it the very minute they'd met-but it still leaves him thinking far too much about the notion of Sherlock observing him so intently. What surprises him is that, well, he doesn't seem to mind the thought of Sherlock observing him. In fact, he finds it's rather nice. That's what worries him. Sherlock has been the only one to ever really fluster him like this and he finds it discomfiting.
Fuck.
He still hasn't given an answer, and Sherlock notices. John turns away in the hope of at least setting the groceries down on the table before he either drops the bag or it gives way on him. Biscuit tin, milk, shredded parmesan, pasta, tomato sauce-he runs through the groceries in his head in order to get his mind off that little tidbit about Sherlock observing his dating habits, and oh, fuck, if he watches that closely, is he watching him right now, does he see how it's gotten him as agitated as it has? Actually, agitated isn't the word. No, there's another word for it, another a-word, but he'd prefer not to think about it.
He's always thought of himself as straight. No question about it, John Watson likes women. He's been with his fair share, and after having seen so many men in various states of undress and such in the army, he's never been particularly keen on his own sex. But he's heard the stories. They're always there on the other type of crap telly he introduced Sherlock to, the interviews with the sympathetic female talk show hosts who always hand out tissues and gaze consolingly. The stories of the women who were happily married until that one woman came along…
So he might be attracted to Sherlock Holmes. It's not inconceivable; the man is good-looking, he's got the sort of voice women swoon over, he might be rail-thin but he still manages to keep up physically with the best of them. All those physical characteristics that are supposed to point to the ideal mate, Sherlock's got them in spades. Except for the whole "sociopath" thing.
And he still hasn't answered the question.
He breathes in, turning, and decides to go for broke. After all, he invaded Afghanistan, didn't he?
"All right. You want to know what's so pleasurable?" One step, two, three, and he's into the living room and his palms are still sweating and he's over him, leaning down, briefly taking his face in his hands and kissing him full on the mouth. Sherlock seems too shocked to respond at first-he can even surprise a detective who's seen it all; John takes some pleasure in that-and when Sherlock's lips part, John uses that to his advantage, exploring the other man's mouth with his tongue. After all, that had been what Sherlock asked about.
He breaks the kiss, breathing somewhat harder than normal, and endeavoring to be calmer than he is. "Understand?"
There's a hesitation. Almost genuine surprise. "Yes."