FIC: The Literary Sofa Conundrum 1/1 (Sherlock BBC)
Title: The Literary Sofa Conundrum
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount: 1700
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock-ish
Genre: Humor, schmoop
Warning(s): None
Summary: Sofas were, in John's opinion, the creation of a hedonist society.
~~*~~
Sofas were, in John's opinion, the creation of a hedonist society. An elongated chair designed for either multiple people to sit with their arses at unpleasantly close proximity or for one person to cramp themselves into as they curled beneath a too-small blanket and pretended it was comfortable enough to sleep.
That was his life's experience in family seating arrangements, all spelled out into one paragraph. Sofas were a dismal piece of furniture and a nice chair was a much better choice, when one had the choice.
It was rather to his dismay to discover then that this particular evening his choice had been removed. He hadn't asked Sherlock what exactly it was had exploded in the kitchen with such force that it had dowsed both of their sitting room chairs and soaked through the cushions. What actually mattered about it was twofold:
one, (1) the liquid in question did not smell any particular way and he couldn't say how many times he'd come home to find the stench of an experiment in their flat to be pungently creeping under the door like some sort of stealthy odour ninja.
And
two, (2) The same liquid in question hadn't stained the fabric in any remarkable way, thus preventing Mrs Hudson from noticing and adding yet another cleaning fee to their rent. A cheap flat became remarkably expensive when a bloke had to add in steam cleaning the furniture, the floor, and in one rather memorable incident, an exterminator to recapture an army of escaped laboratory mice. Sherlock had protested that fee as unfair as he promised he could catch them himself but Mrs Hudson had been adamant that she was not leaving any mice of Sherlock's to be plotting behind the walls for any length of time.
But this was off topic.
The chairs were the question or if one preferred, out of the question and that left the only seating available as the sofa. John supposed he could go to bed but somehow, tucking himself in at barely eight was more pathetic than he cared to go with. So the sofa it was.
John rescued the book he'd been reading from his end table, relieved to see it had been spared the watery onslaught. God knew he had already been grateful that Sherlock's tendency to borrow his laptop if it was nearby had led John to keeping it in his bedroom. If Sherlock could be bothered enough to go up the stairs and retrieve it, just to use John's instead of his own, then he would call that fair play.
Gingerly, John settled on the end of their sofa. It was comfortable enough, he supposed. Cushions had a nice bit of give; the lamp was just bright enough that he didn't have to squint at the pages. Comfortable, really. John couldn't understand why he hadn't sat on it more often.
The cushions sank down as Sherlock joined him. Not quite accurate, that; Sherlock sprawled across the cushions like a large, oddly-clothed cat, his bare toes pressing briefly against John's thigh as he twisted about, long legs drawing up while he tried to fit himself into a smaller space than he normally had as he was forced to take John's presence into account.
Ah. That would be the reason.
Almost, John offered to move and give him free rein of the sofa. The loss of fully a third of it seemed to be an impossible contortion for Sherlock to manage. Just as he started to close his book, Sherlock twisted and tucked his bare toes under John's leg, burying them between the sofa leather and John's backside.
That seemed to satisfy him; he wiggled his toes ticklishly just once as he snagged a pillow and tucked it behind his neck before opening his laptop and in moment he was buried in the depths of the internet, keys clicking in a rapid tempo as he typed God knew what. An analysis of their last case, perhaps, or he could have finished his experiment on the water saturation levels in various types of tea. It reminded John to gather up the leftover tins and hand them out to people since he and Sherlock would never use them all before they went stale.
Come to think of it, could that have been the experiment that caused the explosion? John revised his previous plan on the assumption that few of their friends would appreciate the gift of exploding tea.
Another wiggle of his toes drew John's attention from his book and he smiled a bit, shifting his weight to hold them still. Sherlock's feet were chilly enough he could feel it through the layers of his trousers and he wasn't much surprised when Sherlock pushed his feet further in, seeking warmth at the expense of John's comfort.
"Comfortable?" John asked amicably.
"Adequately," Sherlock replied. He didn't look up from his laptop, the light from the LCD screen casting over his face made him look paler than normal. "It's a bit cold in here."
"As evidenced by your bony feet under my arse," John said dryly. "You could put on some slippers, you know. Harry sent you a pair for Christmas."
"Mmm hmm," Sherlock hummed absently. The clicking keys paused for a moment as Sherlock frowned at the screen, then resumed in a heated, furious rush. It would have taken John a week to peck out what Sherlock typed up in moments, and then went back for more, probably heaping abuse on some hapless, anonymous internet person. John had no doubt whatsoever that there were places on the net that were homes to flame wars of epic proportions, ones of such fire and cruelty that they put to shame his military days, that had been caused by no more than two choice words from Sherlock Holmes. Possibly one.
John only turned a page on his book and then realized he had no idea what the previous page said. A bit warily, he flipped the page back but Sherlock was intent in his mercilessly written sadism and didn't comment. It only took a moment to reabsorb himself into the story, determined as he was to enjoy the book before Sherlock discovered it. The man could ruin fiction within the first two sentences. John had yet to forgive him for the time he'd gotten the entire ending of the book out of the title. It'd been a hardback and cost John twenty quid.
His other arm was a bit cramped, caught between Sherlock's calf and his own side and John tugged it free, absently, his thoughts slowly getting caught up in the story. He didn't really think about settling his elbow on Sherlock's upraised knees, his hand dangling loosely. Silk brushed his fingers, Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, he realized vaguely, soft and cool.
He rubbed a thumb over them, noting the silkiness of the fabric, and turned a page. The young lady was telling main character about her husband and how horrid he was while John rubbed little circles with his thumb, not really noticing the solidness beneath the silky fabric.
It took him a long moment to realize the furious typing had stopped. John furrowed a brow and glanced up to find Sherlock staring at him from over his laptop screen, both eyebrows arched as he looked at John pointedly.
Not one to shy from a perfectly good glare, John stared back. "What?"
"Do you realize you're doing that?" Sherlock asked, and his voice was a jumbled blend of curiosity and haughtiness. Just like the man himself was.
"Doing what?" John asked, a bit bewildered. He tipped his book towards his chest protectively, not trusting Sherlock to read it upside down and spoil the ending. All it would take was one sentence, possibly one word, and the equation would be £10 + one evening = wasted.
Surely Sherlock wasn't about to blame the general stupidity of people on the internet on him? He'd just been sitting here with a damned book.
Sherlock's sigh held volumes of impatience, libraries of exasperation. It made John wonder why he bought books at all when he lived with a walking example of a one-man Wikipedia. The only shame was that he couldn't alter the entries.
"That, do you realize you're doing that!" Sherlock demanded, and his expansive gesture towards John could have encompassed half the room, Baker Street in general, or the entirety of London. Not particularly helpful, there. John looked down, took in his own person and tried to think of what out of the many things he was doing could be such an irritant. Knowing Sherlock, he was breathing too loudly and interfering with his thinking.
Aside from a general need for oxygen, John couldn't think of anything he was doing wrong. Holding a book, clutching it really, with the protectiveness of a new father, in a desperate attempt to spare it from Sherlock's attention. Not tapping his feet, his hand was…oh. His hand seemed to have gone off on an adventure of its own, his fingers wrapped lightly around one of Sherlock's slim calves and his thumb was currently smoothing little circles into the folds of silken fabric.
"Oh, sorry," John felt his cheeks pink and tried to pull his hand free, only just managed to wiggle it feebly when Sherlock pressed his legs together and pinned it lightly.
"You don’t have to apologize," Sherlock said slowly. The light from his laptop was a flickering softly over his face, shading his eyes. A video, perhaps? John tried not to think of the damage the man could do to Youtube.
"Well, I am. I didn't mean to be giving you a bit of a grope," John said and he tried on a laugh, dismally aware that if he knew how false it sounded, Sherlock had known before it had made it to air. Now, see, right here, this was why sofas were a dangerous piece of furniture; if he'd been sitting in his chair none of this would have--
"No, of course not." Sherlock's attention moved back to his computer and after a moment, the typing resumed, wordy missiles on course to destroy the ego and/or self-esteem of some fifteen year old amateur video artist. "You needn't stop."
John took a long, slow breath, let it out. Beneath his bum, Sherlock's toes gave a little wriggle and John twitched his fingers in reply, the pressure on them easing as Sherlock relaxed his legs, let them fall slightly apart.
A moment ticked by, two, before John moved his hand, fingers flexing against soft fabric and the hard line of muscle and bone beneath it. His thumb slowly resumed its slow circling, stilted at first, then settling into rhythm. Carefully, John didn't look up, didn't glance at Sherlock's face awash in the glow of laptop light.
Instead, he focused on his book, intent on its mystery, and left the one sitting next to him for another night.
-finis-
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount: 1700
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock-ish
Genre: Humor, schmoop
Warning(s): None
Summary: Sofas were, in John's opinion, the creation of a hedonist society.
~~*~~
Sofas were, in John's opinion, the creation of a hedonist society. An elongated chair designed for either multiple people to sit with their arses at unpleasantly close proximity or for one person to cramp themselves into as they curled beneath a too-small blanket and pretended it was comfortable enough to sleep.
That was his life's experience in family seating arrangements, all spelled out into one paragraph. Sofas were a dismal piece of furniture and a nice chair was a much better choice, when one had the choice.
It was rather to his dismay to discover then that this particular evening his choice had been removed. He hadn't asked Sherlock what exactly it was had exploded in the kitchen with such force that it had dowsed both of their sitting room chairs and soaked through the cushions. What actually mattered about it was twofold:
one, (1) the liquid in question did not smell any particular way and he couldn't say how many times he'd come home to find the stench of an experiment in their flat to be pungently creeping under the door like some sort of stealthy odour ninja.
And
two, (2) The same liquid in question hadn't stained the fabric in any remarkable way, thus preventing Mrs Hudson from noticing and adding yet another cleaning fee to their rent. A cheap flat became remarkably expensive when a bloke had to add in steam cleaning the furniture, the floor, and in one rather memorable incident, an exterminator to recapture an army of escaped laboratory mice. Sherlock had protested that fee as unfair as he promised he could catch them himself but Mrs Hudson had been adamant that she was not leaving any mice of Sherlock's to be plotting behind the walls for any length of time.
But this was off topic.
The chairs were the question or if one preferred, out of the question and that left the only seating available as the sofa. John supposed he could go to bed but somehow, tucking himself in at barely eight was more pathetic than he cared to go with. So the sofa it was.
John rescued the book he'd been reading from his end table, relieved to see it had been spared the watery onslaught. God knew he had already been grateful that Sherlock's tendency to borrow his laptop if it was nearby had led John to keeping it in his bedroom. If Sherlock could be bothered enough to go up the stairs and retrieve it, just to use John's instead of his own, then he would call that fair play.
Gingerly, John settled on the end of their sofa. It was comfortable enough, he supposed. Cushions had a nice bit of give; the lamp was just bright enough that he didn't have to squint at the pages. Comfortable, really. John couldn't understand why he hadn't sat on it more often.
The cushions sank down as Sherlock joined him. Not quite accurate, that; Sherlock sprawled across the cushions like a large, oddly-clothed cat, his bare toes pressing briefly against John's thigh as he twisted about, long legs drawing up while he tried to fit himself into a smaller space than he normally had as he was forced to take John's presence into account.
Ah. That would be the reason.
Almost, John offered to move and give him free rein of the sofa. The loss of fully a third of it seemed to be an impossible contortion for Sherlock to manage. Just as he started to close his book, Sherlock twisted and tucked his bare toes under John's leg, burying them between the sofa leather and John's backside.
That seemed to satisfy him; he wiggled his toes ticklishly just once as he snagged a pillow and tucked it behind his neck before opening his laptop and in moment he was buried in the depths of the internet, keys clicking in a rapid tempo as he typed God knew what. An analysis of their last case, perhaps, or he could have finished his experiment on the water saturation levels in various types of tea. It reminded John to gather up the leftover tins and hand them out to people since he and Sherlock would never use them all before they went stale.
Come to think of it, could that have been the experiment that caused the explosion? John revised his previous plan on the assumption that few of their friends would appreciate the gift of exploding tea.
Another wiggle of his toes drew John's attention from his book and he smiled a bit, shifting his weight to hold them still. Sherlock's feet were chilly enough he could feel it through the layers of his trousers and he wasn't much surprised when Sherlock pushed his feet further in, seeking warmth at the expense of John's comfort.
"Comfortable?" John asked amicably.
"Adequately," Sherlock replied. He didn't look up from his laptop, the light from the LCD screen casting over his face made him look paler than normal. "It's a bit cold in here."
"As evidenced by your bony feet under my arse," John said dryly. "You could put on some slippers, you know. Harry sent you a pair for Christmas."
"Mmm hmm," Sherlock hummed absently. The clicking keys paused for a moment as Sherlock frowned at the screen, then resumed in a heated, furious rush. It would have taken John a week to peck out what Sherlock typed up in moments, and then went back for more, probably heaping abuse on some hapless, anonymous internet person. John had no doubt whatsoever that there were places on the net that were homes to flame wars of epic proportions, ones of such fire and cruelty that they put to shame his military days, that had been caused by no more than two choice words from Sherlock Holmes. Possibly one.
John only turned a page on his book and then realized he had no idea what the previous page said. A bit warily, he flipped the page back but Sherlock was intent in his mercilessly written sadism and didn't comment. It only took a moment to reabsorb himself into the story, determined as he was to enjoy the book before Sherlock discovered it. The man could ruin fiction within the first two sentences. John had yet to forgive him for the time he'd gotten the entire ending of the book out of the title. It'd been a hardback and cost John twenty quid.
His other arm was a bit cramped, caught between Sherlock's calf and his own side and John tugged it free, absently, his thoughts slowly getting caught up in the story. He didn't really think about settling his elbow on Sherlock's upraised knees, his hand dangling loosely. Silk brushed his fingers, Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, he realized vaguely, soft and cool.
He rubbed a thumb over them, noting the silkiness of the fabric, and turned a page. The young lady was telling main character about her husband and how horrid he was while John rubbed little circles with his thumb, not really noticing the solidness beneath the silky fabric.
It took him a long moment to realize the furious typing had stopped. John furrowed a brow and glanced up to find Sherlock staring at him from over his laptop screen, both eyebrows arched as he looked at John pointedly.
Not one to shy from a perfectly good glare, John stared back. "What?"
"Do you realize you're doing that?" Sherlock asked, and his voice was a jumbled blend of curiosity and haughtiness. Just like the man himself was.
"Doing what?" John asked, a bit bewildered. He tipped his book towards his chest protectively, not trusting Sherlock to read it upside down and spoil the ending. All it would take was one sentence, possibly one word, and the equation would be £10 + one evening = wasted.
Surely Sherlock wasn't about to blame the general stupidity of people on the internet on him? He'd just been sitting here with a damned book.
Sherlock's sigh held volumes of impatience, libraries of exasperation. It made John wonder why he bought books at all when he lived with a walking example of a one-man Wikipedia. The only shame was that he couldn't alter the entries.
"That, do you realize you're doing that!" Sherlock demanded, and his expansive gesture towards John could have encompassed half the room, Baker Street in general, or the entirety of London. Not particularly helpful, there. John looked down, took in his own person and tried to think of what out of the many things he was doing could be such an irritant. Knowing Sherlock, he was breathing too loudly and interfering with his thinking.
Aside from a general need for oxygen, John couldn't think of anything he was doing wrong. Holding a book, clutching it really, with the protectiveness of a new father, in a desperate attempt to spare it from Sherlock's attention. Not tapping his feet, his hand was…oh. His hand seemed to have gone off on an adventure of its own, his fingers wrapped lightly around one of Sherlock's slim calves and his thumb was currently smoothing little circles into the folds of silken fabric.
"Oh, sorry," John felt his cheeks pink and tried to pull his hand free, only just managed to wiggle it feebly when Sherlock pressed his legs together and pinned it lightly.
"You don’t have to apologize," Sherlock said slowly. The light from his laptop was a flickering softly over his face, shading his eyes. A video, perhaps? John tried not to think of the damage the man could do to Youtube.
"Well, I am. I didn't mean to be giving you a bit of a grope," John said and he tried on a laugh, dismally aware that if he knew how false it sounded, Sherlock had known before it had made it to air. Now, see, right here, this was why sofas were a dangerous piece of furniture; if he'd been sitting in his chair none of this would have--
"No, of course not." Sherlock's attention moved back to his computer and after a moment, the typing resumed, wordy missiles on course to destroy the ego and/or self-esteem of some fifteen year old amateur video artist. "You needn't stop."
John took a long, slow breath, let it out. Beneath his bum, Sherlock's toes gave a little wriggle and John twitched his fingers in reply, the pressure on them easing as Sherlock relaxed his legs, let them fall slightly apart.
A moment ticked by, two, before John moved his hand, fingers flexing against soft fabric and the hard line of muscle and bone beneath it. His thumb slowly resumed its slow circling, stilted at first, then settling into rhythm. Carefully, John didn't look up, didn't glance at Sherlock's face awash in the glow of laptop light.
Instead, he focused on his book, intent on its mystery, and left the one sitting next to him for another night.
-finis-