Movember
Title: Movember
Pairing: John/Sherlock. Most definitely an established relationship.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Adult themes - mentions of masturbation, probably NSFW.
Summary: John is forced into growing a moustache by his clinic. Sherlock gives mixed messages.
Extra Notes: Written for a prompt on the BBC meme, uploaded here for archival purposes.
The surgery was holding a fundraiser, and had gang-pressed all of the male employees into doing it. It would only take a quick glance at the cork board, where the doctor's faces were getting hairier and hairier, to figure out what it was. Movember for prostate cancer.
At the reception desk, there was a locked tin, and paper slips for donations. They had turned it into a competition to see who raised the most money within the month. On the slip, the donor would write which doctor they liked the moustache of best, and how much they were donating. The winner would get a cute little plastic trophy. The man with the least amount of money donated would have to keep their moustache for the rest of the year.
Our favourite, cuddly-looking, jumper-wearing doctor was currently coming in last.
His trim, millitary-style moustache was obviously not as interesting as Doctor Simon's drooping handlebars, or the janitor's replica of Salvador Dalí's curly strip of lip-hair. And it was itchy. He didn't think he could last for the rest of the month, let alone the rest of the year. Which made it vital to come in at least second-last. Or find a way to stop it from scratching.
Sherlock hadn't taken the new addition well. Locking himself in his bedroom and refusing to come out for three days was probably a good indication of this. John had eventually coaxed him out with Mrs Hudson's freshly-baked biscuits and a new case from Lestrade. Trying not to notice Sherlock's constant glances at the extra hair on his face was difficult, especially when talking to him face to face, because the silver eyes would keep glancing downwards.
"It's for charity," John repeated sheepishly. "I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter."
The police nodded and returned to their work. Sherlock looked uncomfortable and busied himself with the crime scene. He solved it within minutes and left before John could follow him.
"Lestrade, is my moustache really that bad?" he asked.
"No, I think it rather suits you actually."
The detective inspector shrugged, and went back to organising forensics through the scene. The doctor took this as a good time to leave and quietly retreated to Baker Street. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had locked himself in his room again.
And he'd taken all of the biscuits, infuriating man.
The rest of the month was difficult, the moustache growing in thickness. Despite John's patients liking his moustache, it still wasn't enough to push him out of last place. He began to think it was some conspiracy, that they were donating as much as possible to the other doctors so he wouldn't gain 'stache-freedom at the end of the month. However, it had stopped itching, so it was at least physically bearable.
"Eighty pounds and five pence John! Not looking good," sing-songed the receptionist on the morning of the final day.
John gave her an exasperated look and slipped into his office. The rest of the day was terrible as well, with patients doing research on the internet and self-diagnosing, when what they really needed was something completely different. At five o'clock, he trudged out to the awards ceremony and final party of the Movember fundraiser. Expectedly, the janitor won, having charmed everyone with his Dalí impressions. There was beer and wine, and much cheering as the final count was done and they totalled five thousand pounds.
When he got home, Sherlock was lying on the couch, deep in thought. His eyes flicked open to stare at John. The doctor shivered, the eyes carefully examining the military-regulation moustache.
"John," he said, "Judging from the weighted steps you took up the stairs, it is safe to say that you lost."
It wasn't a question. It was never a question with Sherlock. It was always a statement. Always.
A sly smile stretched lazily on Sherlock's face, and John swallowed. He took a step back. That face was trouble. Sherlock rolled up in one fluid motion and crept towards John.
"I-I thought you hated it," stammered John, trying to retreat further.
"Of course not."
"Then, why did you run?"
John's back made contact with the pock-marked walls.
"I was masturbating, stupid," said Sherlock, in his ever-present blunt manner.
John blinked. Then quirked an eyebrow. A grin spread on his face.
They retreated to the bedroom.
Pairing: John/Sherlock. Most definitely an established relationship.
Rating: PG
Warnings: Adult themes - mentions of masturbation, probably NSFW.
Summary: John is forced into growing a moustache by his clinic. Sherlock gives mixed messages.
Extra Notes: Written for a prompt on the BBC meme, uploaded here for archival purposes.
The surgery was holding a fundraiser, and had gang-pressed all of the male employees into doing it. It would only take a quick glance at the cork board, where the doctor's faces were getting hairier and hairier, to figure out what it was. Movember for prostate cancer.
At the reception desk, there was a locked tin, and paper slips for donations. They had turned it into a competition to see who raised the most money within the month. On the slip, the donor would write which doctor they liked the moustache of best, and how much they were donating. The winner would get a cute little plastic trophy. The man with the least amount of money donated would have to keep their moustache for the rest of the year.
Our favourite, cuddly-looking, jumper-wearing doctor was currently coming in last.
His trim, millitary-style moustache was obviously not as interesting as Doctor Simon's drooping handlebars, or the janitor's replica of Salvador Dalí's curly strip of lip-hair. And it was itchy. He didn't think he could last for the rest of the month, let alone the rest of the year. Which made it vital to come in at least second-last. Or find a way to stop it from scratching.
Sherlock hadn't taken the new addition well. Locking himself in his bedroom and refusing to come out for three days was probably a good indication of this. John had eventually coaxed him out with Mrs Hudson's freshly-baked biscuits and a new case from Lestrade. Trying not to notice Sherlock's constant glances at the extra hair on his face was difficult, especially when talking to him face to face, because the silver eyes would keep glancing downwards.
"It's for charity," John repeated sheepishly. "I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter."
The police nodded and returned to their work. Sherlock looked uncomfortable and busied himself with the crime scene. He solved it within minutes and left before John could follow him.
"Lestrade, is my moustache really that bad?" he asked.
"No, I think it rather suits you actually."
The detective inspector shrugged, and went back to organising forensics through the scene. The doctor took this as a good time to leave and quietly retreated to Baker Street. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had locked himself in his room again.
And he'd taken all of the biscuits, infuriating man.
The rest of the month was difficult, the moustache growing in thickness. Despite John's patients liking his moustache, it still wasn't enough to push him out of last place. He began to think it was some conspiracy, that they were donating as much as possible to the other doctors so he wouldn't gain 'stache-freedom at the end of the month. However, it had stopped itching, so it was at least physically bearable.
"Eighty pounds and five pence John! Not looking good," sing-songed the receptionist on the morning of the final day.
John gave her an exasperated look and slipped into his office. The rest of the day was terrible as well, with patients doing research on the internet and self-diagnosing, when what they really needed was something completely different. At five o'clock, he trudged out to the awards ceremony and final party of the Movember fundraiser. Expectedly, the janitor won, having charmed everyone with his Dalí impressions. There was beer and wine, and much cheering as the final count was done and they totalled five thousand pounds.
When he got home, Sherlock was lying on the couch, deep in thought. His eyes flicked open to stare at John. The doctor shivered, the eyes carefully examining the military-regulation moustache.
"John," he said, "Judging from the weighted steps you took up the stairs, it is safe to say that you lost."
It wasn't a question. It was never a question with Sherlock. It was always a statement. Always.
A sly smile stretched lazily on Sherlock's face, and John swallowed. He took a step back. That face was trouble. Sherlock rolled up in one fluid motion and crept towards John.
"I-I thought you hated it," stammered John, trying to retreat further.
"Of course not."
"Then, why did you run?"
John's back made contact with the pock-marked walls.
"I was masturbating, stupid," said Sherlock, in his ever-present blunt manner.
John blinked. Then quirked an eyebrow. A grin spread on his face.
They retreated to the bedroom.