Rolled 19 <3 Couldn't resist a barter system promptshutupimageniusMay 22 2013, 01:15:29 UTC
All things considered, it was a fairly normal day at 221b, 'normal' being an extremely relative term. There were case files yet to be organized in precarious piles all throughout the living room, and some experiments of indeterminable origin on the kitchen table, but that was all par for the course.
Sherlock had taken a long shower in the attempt to organize the data in his head, which took precedence over the state of the flat in his mind (though John likely disagreed). The only thing that could be considered somewhat out of the ordinary was that when Sherlock emerged from his shower, he had only John's bathrobe wrapped around himself. It was a bit too small, but he rather liked it that way, appreciating the way the satiny material clung to his skin as he moved to the kitchen table to prod at his experiments. He thought nothing of borrowing John's clothes, really. In his mind, it was simple logistics: John's robe was there, his was not, there was nothing strange about why he'd ended up wearing it.
Re: Rolled 19 <3 Couldn't resist a barter system promptcrimebloggerMay 23 2013, 10:53:04 UTC
John had been in the middle of enjoying his afternoon tea and the paper in his chair in the sitting room, when he heard Sherlock emerge from the shower. Putting down his cup, he waited until he heard Sherlock enter the kitchen behind him. "Nothing in the papers today, we might have to text Lestrade, see if he has anything int--"
John had turned his head to look over his shoulder and into the kitchen, and what he saw had him momentarily stunned. There sat his flatmate, peering into his bloody microscope for at least the fiftieth time that day, wearing--
"Is that my robe?" he exclaimed, already hearing 'obviously' in his head, clear as day. God, he had to get out more. Soon enough, he'd be speaking to Sherlock when he wasn't even there, and then they'd be two nutters sharing a flat. Brilliant. He realised he was still staring at Sherlock. The robe was much too short, not to mention too small, it was straining around the middle and revealed far too much of Sherlock's chest. Christ. "Sherlock, you can't just... You had better be wearing
( ... )
Sherlock settled in front of his microscope, adjusting the focus as he examined the tissue sample under the slide that he'd been experimenting with. He gave a noncommittal hum when John spoke, able to tell from his tone of voice that there was nothing on today despite not actually hearing what he'd said. He did hear John's exclamation, though, smirking to himself without lifting his head from the microscope
( ... )
John did not want to observe, he really didn't, not just because of the risk of what he might actually get an eye-full of, but he also really did not want to give Sherlock the pleasure. Which was, of course, why he glanced down for a split second. Bugger. It was quick, but it was enough, and Sherlock was clearly wearing absolutely nothing under John's far too small robe, and John was quite certain his ears had never felt hotter. He wanted to punch the smug git.
"Get off your arse and into your room and some clothes, for God's sake. I don't give a bleeding fuck about optimal proximity, that is my robe and it's-- you--" John spluttered, grasping for words as he tried not to explode completely (he looked adorable). "You can't just wear other people's robes without asking, it's-- well, it's something very, you know, intimate and, would you, could you just take it off, please?"
Sherlock couldn't concentrate on his experiment anymore, needing to pull back and get a look at John's meltdown himself. He chewed his lip to bite back a smile, though his eyes were glittering in amusement at how flustered John was. He tilted his head at John's words, his brow knitting in confusion
( ... )
John threw up his hands, exasperated beyond belief, which made him even more frustrated, with himself, with Sherlock, with the entire situation. He always tried so hard to hold onto some semblance of control in situations like this, refusing to let Sherlock get a rise out of him, but oh, sometimes it was difficult to remember why he couldn't just stomp around the flat all day.
"It's a matter of principle, of-- of privacy! Of asking before taking, of bloody assumption from your side-- what the hell are you grinning for." Seriously, it was a little unsettling, and seemed completely out of place - were they even having the same conversation? John could never be entirely sure, Sherlock always seemed to be a few paces ahead, or not listening to John, sometimes not even realising he was actually there. Crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned deeply at his friend and flatmate, trying (and failing) to come across as even remotely authoritative in this situation. "Take it off. And put. It. Back. Right now. I don't want you walking around
( ... )
Oh, Sherlock couldn't get enough of John like this, always enjoying watching how flustered he'd get over the simplest things. Sometimes, like today when there was nothing on, he liked pushing John like this, his reactions always making him feel lighter and less prone to bouts of sulking on the couch. Boredom was always a lurking danger, but when he could wind John up, he could often find entertainment for hours, which he was certainly holding out hope for
( ... )
From the way John was looking at Sherlock, one would not say he was the shorter of the two men. He was simply refusing being intimidated by something as ridiculous as height; he'd had to deal with that all his life, always being the shortest in class, with a small build on top of that. It always left people surprised to see that much punch (often literally) come out of such a small package. Until he joined the Army as a doctor and went through the basics of training and actually got a taste for the more disciplined, physical aspect of the job. There wasn't much about an army doctor's job, really; very little occurred out in the field, and most of it was contained on base in the medical post buildings. But John would get up very early, each morning, and do his exercise, just in case. Mostly, just because he enjoyed doing it
( ... )
Oh, Sherlock was absolutely loving this. He'd made winding John up into a game, wanting to keep pushing him and see where his limits were, and if he'd back down or fight him harder when he got there. He felt a strange tingle of sensation up his spine when John spoke, the low timbre of his voice making him very glad he'd stolen his dressing gown indeed. He was a danger addict just like John was, and taunting a very capable army doctor was just the rush he needed when casework was an impossibility.
He crossed his arms to mirror John, showing no signs of relenting. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Though, that would be if you were actually going to intervene physically, which I highly doubt." he continued to goad, still having such fun pushing John relentlessly. He just wanted to see if John would actually do it, or if he'd let it go. It was such a fuss over one little dressing gown, really, he just wanted to see how long John would let it go on.
Sherlock had taken a long shower in the attempt to organize the data in his head, which took precedence over the state of the flat in his mind (though John likely disagreed). The only thing that could be considered somewhat out of the ordinary was that when Sherlock emerged from his shower, he had only John's bathrobe wrapped around himself. It was a bit too small, but he rather liked it that way, appreciating the way the satiny material clung to his skin as he moved to the kitchen table to prod at his experiments. He thought nothing of borrowing John's clothes, really. In his mind, it was simple logistics: John's robe was there, his was not, there was nothing strange about why he'd ended up wearing it.
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John had turned his head to look over his shoulder and into the kitchen, and what he saw had him momentarily stunned. There sat his flatmate, peering into his bloody microscope for at least the fiftieth time that day, wearing--
"Is that my robe?" he exclaimed, already hearing 'obviously' in his head, clear as day. God, he had to get out more. Soon enough, he'd be speaking to Sherlock when he wasn't even there, and then they'd be two nutters sharing a flat. Brilliant. He realised he was still staring at Sherlock. The robe was much too short, not to mention too small, it was straining around the middle and revealed far too much of Sherlock's chest. Christ. "Sherlock, you can't just... You had better be wearing ( ... )
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"Get off your arse and into your room and some clothes, for God's sake. I don't give a bleeding fuck about optimal proximity, that is my robe and it's-- you--" John spluttered, grasping for words as he tried not to explode completely (he looked adorable). "You can't just wear other people's robes without asking, it's-- well, it's something very, you know, intimate and, would you, could you just take it off, please?"
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"It's a matter of principle, of-- of privacy! Of asking before taking, of bloody assumption from your side-- what the hell are you grinning for." Seriously, it was a little unsettling, and seemed completely out of place - were they even having the same conversation? John could never be entirely sure, Sherlock always seemed to be a few paces ahead, or not listening to John, sometimes not even realising he was actually there. Crossing his arms over his chest, he frowned deeply at his friend and flatmate, trying (and failing) to come across as even remotely authoritative in this situation. "Take it off. And put. It. Back. Right now. I don't want you walking around ( ... )
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He crossed his arms to mirror John, showing no signs of relenting. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Though, that would be if you were actually going to intervene physically, which I highly doubt." he continued to goad, still having such fun pushing John relentlessly. He just wanted to see if John would actually do it, or if he'd let it go. It was such a fuss over one little dressing gown, really, he just wanted to see how long John would let it go on.
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