Simple Mathematics: Coefficient
Part two of this prompt
1
1 1
1 2 1
It came in a long cardboard cylinder with a note attached, which read:
Enjoy your date, Dr. Watson.
Kindest regards,
Baignard Holmes.
Four blue thumbtacks were contained in a small plastic bag, and John unrolled the poster. It was just a bunch of numbers, and John tacked it over the table for a better look. It didn't bother him that Baignard knew he had a date tonight - he often did anyway, and Baignard was cohorts with Mycroft, whom John knew to be an incorrigible meddler. John lowered himself stiffly from the chair he'd stood on, and stepped back to examine his curious gift. He crossed his arms. He tilted his head to one side. It was just a bunch of numbers.
The numbers were obviously arranged in some sort of pattern, a triangle, beginning with 1, followed in the next row by two 1's, then a 1 2 1. Oh, John saw what it was doing. Actually he had seen this pattern a long time ago, perhaps in secondary, where each number in the next row was the sum of the two numbers diagonally above it. Pascal's Triangle, the poster said, in big blue letters across the bottom. If John showed this to Jennifer, he would never get laid, he knew. Perhaps that's why Baignard had sent it.
Sherlock entered from the kitchen. He was carrying a steaming concoction in a mug and he said "John, I need you to try this." He noticed what John was looking at, and he paused. "I didn't realize you'd taken a mathematical turn," he said with some derision.
"It's Pascal's Triangle. You've seen it before?" John leaned in and examined the contents of the proffered mug. Ochre. It was the consistency of carpenter's glue.
"Of course I haven't, why would I." Sherlock glanced again at the poster. "Mathematical curiosities have no application outside of - " he fell abruptly silent.
John took the experiment and tentatively sniffed it. It smelled oddly enticing, like vanilla biscuits. "Outside of," he prompted. He looked at Sherlock, who was staring, transfixed, at the triangle.
"Sherlock," John said.
Nothing.
John set down the mug. "Hey, Sherlock." He snapped his fingers.
Nothing.
John thought for a long moment. He pulled out his phone and edged into the hall.
"Hey, hi, Jenny," he said, and glanced cautiously into the sitting room. "Listen, how would you feel about meeting up a bit sooner, maybe catching an early film or something? Yeah? Well I'm free right now - yeah sure. No, he's busy."
John slipped into his jacket and opened the door slowly and silently. Sherlock hadn't moved at all. John stole quickly down the steps and when he reached the street he broke into a run.
Sherlock still hadn't moved when John returned from his date. Buoyant with success, John hung his jacket and sighed pleasantly. It had been a remarkable while since he had been let to complete a date unimpeded. Although it was perhaps a bit disturbing to see Sherlock still standing there after five hours. John stood next to him and tried to see what was so interesting about the triangle, probably something only geniuses could see. Oh, look at that, that diagonal ran 1 2 3 4 5. John glanced at Sherlock sidelong. His brows were drawn in intense concentration, and what was - was that a hard on? It was!
John broke into an incredulous half-grin, and jumped when Sherlock suddenly bellowed, "Utterly extraneous!" and leaped onto the chair. He tore the poster off the wall, sent it flapping across the room, and then stalked off into the kitchen.
John's phone beeped. It was Jenny with a lewd text message. John retrieved the poster and rolled it up reverently. He held it in both hands and kissed it up to God.
*
"It's imperative that we tend to this immediately -" Sherlock paused as he entered the sitting room. John lowered himself from the chair on which he'd been standing.
"I didn't realize you'd taken a mathematical turn," Sherlock said. John brushed his hands together.
"It's Pascal's Triangle. Heard of it?"
"No. Why would I have. Mathematical curiosities have no - "
All went quiet. John waited thirty seconds before making his quick and silent exodus.
When he returned, however, Pascal's ashes were wafting out of the fireplace.
*
"If you'll excuse me for just a moment," John said, and then hustled Sherlock into the Men's room. "I am on a date, Sherlock. A date! Can you see that?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're bored and I need you."
"I'm not bored! Just because I'm not getting blown up, doesn't mean I'm bored."
"You are bored, it's so painfully obvious. Come."
"No. Unless you mean that sexually, I refuse."
Sherlock actually grimaced in revulsion. "John," he said, exasperated. Then he switched tack abruptly. He looked into John's eyes with the earnest face he used on schmucks. "I could be killed," he said. John dropped his head into his hands.
*
"Sherlock, bored to death does not count as mortal peril."
John could just as well have been talking to a manta ray for all the difference it made. They were sitting on a rooftop, it was nearing midnight, and Sherlock was spying on some unknown person for some esoteric reason he refused to divulge. John sighed heavily and looked at the sky, trying to see if he could see any stars tonight. He couldn't. He looked at Sherlock, stationed intently with his binoculars. "Really, this is just rude," John said. Sherlock ignored him. "I was actually having a nice time. Did you know that? Do you care at all? I was actually enjoying a very nice dinner with a lovely young lady who finds me attractive, and whom I find attractive in turn. We had plans for the rest of the evening. Sherlock. Can you hear me?"
"Her interests are sedentary and incompatible with your own, and you like me better."
John was struck dumb for a moment by the sheer audacity of that statement. "You're not going to suck my cock!" he said.
"If fellatio is as important as you seem to insist, a prostitute would satisfy your...appetite with more finesse and with greater time and cost effectiveness. Aha!" Sherlock edged up a bit.
"I don't need to pay for sex!" John protested.
"There he is, John, look." Sherlock thrust the binoculars at him. John rolled into a crouch and peered into the building opposite.
"Are you ready to run?" Sherlock asked, and not just a little bit deviously. John went giddy in spite of himself.
"Oh yeah," he said, and Sherlock flashed a wolfish grin.
"Come. The game is afoot."
Hours later and grinning like madmen, the two of them stumbled into the flat. Sherlock shucked off his blazer, sobering minutely.
"You will find," he began, "that between dates - dinner, films, concerts, et cetera - and the gifts necessary to woo a woman, that you do indeed pay for sex, and in fact pay a good deal more than you would a professional."
"Sherlock, sweetheart, love," John said, still high on the thrill of the chase, "I'm not going to a hooker, alright?" He flopped down onto the sofa, sighing indulgently.
"It's a perfectly reasonable transaction, and far less time consuming," Sherlock said. "Anyway, I was merely pointing out the flaw in your reasoning."
John laughed. "Good, yes, thank you. Women are expensive."
Sherlock looked at him a moment, and smiled briefly. He turned and headed for the kitchen.
"Make tea!" John called. "Put bourbon in it!"
*
John was just stepping out for a haircut. It was Saturday, and Sherlock didn't have any cases on that evening, so John was going on a date. That was the plan, except that Sherlock was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, giving him the look.
"No deducing, please. I'm on my way out." John shrugged into his jacket, patted his pockets for his keys, phone, wallet. Check. Sherlock had neither moved nor spoken, which gave John pause. "Alright?" he asked.
Sherlock had his arms crossed over his chest, which was odd because he was usually waving them about or texting. He also looked as though he wanted to speak but was restraining himself, which hadn't ever happened in the history of their friendship.
Okay. It looked like there would have to be some deducing after all. John crossed his own arms and leaned back a bit. He furrowed his brow.
"Have I got something on my face?" he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and retreated into his lair, more commonly known as the kitchen. He began pretending to work on some experiment, and it was John's turn to lean against the door jamb, arms crossed, giving the look.
Sherlock hadn't yet tried to stop him going on his date. There was still time, but John had the feeling he wasn't going to, and this made him feel, not sad, exactly. He rolled the feeling around in his mind. It was something akin to nostalgia, and it settled over him like a fog. It was the feeling you got watching geese fly off in winter, or when you were the last one on the platform, watching the train pull away. John was thirty-seven years old. They couldn't go on like this forever. Sherlock was resolutely silent, lining his solvents into meticulous and atypically organized rows.
"Alright," John said, stepping forward. "Let's give this a shot." Sherlock glanced at him, and stiffened slightly as John approached, but in no other way acknowledged his proximity until John nudged him around so they were face to face. They were talking about feelings now, so obviously Sherlock didn't know what to say.
John studied the lines of his flatmate's face, delicate about the mouth and eyes, incongruously blunt at the bridge of the nose. His hair was in bad need of a trim, and it flung out at the sides in little dips and curls. He really wasn't a bad looking bloke. To be honest, John's cock wasn't fussy about that sort of thing anyway. It was his brain that liked tits, and unlike Sherlock, or because of him usually, John was good at ignoring his brain. It might take some effort, but this could work.
"So, kiss me, then," he said. The effect on Sherlock's normally composed face was rather comical, and John bit his lip to keep from laughing. Alright, he did laugh, some.
"Go on," he said. "It's the only logical solution, isn't it? Try. You might like it."
Sherlock hadn't run away. His expression was level again, and he was eying John's lips speculatively. John leaned forward, and though Sherlock didn't retreat as such, he did go tense, which caused him to straighten up, which put his lips just out of reach. John began to laugh.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he said, and struggled to regain his composure. He wiped at the corner of his eye. Oh bloody hell. He looked at Sherlock, who relaxed minutely, and John leaned in and kissed him.
It was like kissing...Sherlock Holmes. It was what you would expect. His lips were pressed tightly together, and being chronically anemic, the kiss was quite literally cold. John drew back, somewhere halfway between resigned and bemused.
"Um, alright. We're going to try that again. Try, like, moving a little bit, or something. Like on the telly." John waited for the confirming nod. He leaned in again, and they paused, each with his breath on the other's lips. John tried very hard not to giggle. It took a heroic effort, really.
"Do you want me to talk in coefficients?" John said, leaning ever so slightly closer. "Is that what does it? One, one two one," he whispered, and as the question rose on Sherlock's lips, John sealed the kiss. There was a curiosity in the other man, a clinical sense of wonder, and he returned the kiss experimentally, allowing John to press in for one briefly intense moment. John traced his jaw with his fingertips. His other hand curled lightly to the underside of Sherlock's wrist, but that's all it was; an experiment. John drew back, brushed one more kiss over those beautiful, bloodless lips, and he looked at Sherlock, shook his head slightly.
"This isn't going to work, is it?" It wasn't what Sherlock wanted. It never would be.
Sherlock closed his mouth. He exhaled slowly through his nose, and his gaze slid by, over John's shoulder to fix on something obscure. John ran his hand up and down Sherlock's arm.
"Okay?" he asked gently. Sherlock nodded, the smallest movement. They stood just so for a long, still moment, then Sherlock's eyes began to flicker, his shoulders curled forward as he followed a million tiny tangents through the middle distance of his mind. He raised one hand to his temple, let it flutter down his lapel, graze the buttons on his blazer. His other hand rubbed at the back of his neck. Just checking that he was still there, it seemed like. John grinned in spite of himself, in spite of everything. He wrapped Sherlock in a crushing hug and planted a kiss soundly on the side of his head.
"I'm off. Need a haircut," he said. "You need a haircut as well. Come with me?"
Sherlock shook his head, and John started for the door. "You're beginning to look like a sheep dog," he warned, and Sherlock shot him a glare. "You want me to get Mrs. Hudson to do it?"
"No. I'll do it myself." He turned back to the array of chemicals which took the place of spices and dry goods in 221B. A faint blush lingered about his ears. John grinned at him like an idiot - one idiot to another, really - then he opened the door and bounded down the steps. This thing between him and Sherlock - it was whatever it was. Mrs. Hudson was just stepping into A with some shopping as he passed.
"Sherlock needs a haircut, Mrs. Hudson," John said, pulling open the front door.
"I'm not your hairdresser, dear," she called.
1
1 1
1 2 1
It came in a long cardboard cylinder with a note attached, which read:
Enjoy your date, Dr. Watson.
Kindest regards,
Baignard Holmes.
Four blue thumbtacks were contained in a small plastic bag, and John unrolled the poster. It was just a bunch of numbers, and John tacked it over the table for a better look. It didn't bother him that Baignard knew he had a date tonight - he often did anyway, and Baignard was cohorts with Mycroft, whom John knew to be an incorrigible meddler. John lowered himself stiffly from the chair he'd stood on, and stepped back to examine his curious gift. He crossed his arms. He tilted his head to one side. It was just a bunch of numbers.
The numbers were obviously arranged in some sort of pattern, a triangle, beginning with 1, followed in the next row by two 1's, then a 1 2 1. Oh, John saw what it was doing. Actually he had seen this pattern a long time ago, perhaps in secondary, where each number in the next row was the sum of the two numbers diagonally above it. Pascal's Triangle, the poster said, in big blue letters across the bottom. If John showed this to Jennifer, he would never get laid, he knew. Perhaps that's why Baignard had sent it.
Sherlock entered from the kitchen. He was carrying a steaming concoction in a mug and he said "John, I need you to try this." He noticed what John was looking at, and he paused. "I didn't realize you'd taken a mathematical turn," he said with some derision.
"It's Pascal's Triangle. You've seen it before?" John leaned in and examined the contents of the proffered mug. Ochre. It was the consistency of carpenter's glue.
"Of course I haven't, why would I." Sherlock glanced again at the poster. "Mathematical curiosities have no application outside of - " he fell abruptly silent.
John took the experiment and tentatively sniffed it. It smelled oddly enticing, like vanilla biscuits. "Outside of," he prompted. He looked at Sherlock, who was staring, transfixed, at the triangle.
"Sherlock," John said.
Nothing.
John set down the mug. "Hey, Sherlock." He snapped his fingers.
Nothing.
John thought for a long moment. He pulled out his phone and edged into the hall.
"Hey, hi, Jenny," he said, and glanced cautiously into the sitting room. "Listen, how would you feel about meeting up a bit sooner, maybe catching an early film or something? Yeah? Well I'm free right now - yeah sure. No, he's busy."
John slipped into his jacket and opened the door slowly and silently. Sherlock hadn't moved at all. John stole quickly down the steps and when he reached the street he broke into a run.
Sherlock still hadn't moved when John returned from his date. Buoyant with success, John hung his jacket and sighed pleasantly. It had been a remarkable while since he had been let to complete a date unimpeded. Although it was perhaps a bit disturbing to see Sherlock still standing there after five hours. John stood next to him and tried to see what was so interesting about the triangle, probably something only geniuses could see. Oh, look at that, that diagonal ran 1 2 3 4 5. John glanced at Sherlock sidelong. His brows were drawn in intense concentration, and what was - was that a hard on? It was!
John broke into an incredulous half-grin, and jumped when Sherlock suddenly bellowed, "Utterly extraneous!" and leaped onto the chair. He tore the poster off the wall, sent it flapping across the room, and then stalked off into the kitchen.
John's phone beeped. It was Jenny with a lewd text message. John retrieved the poster and rolled it up reverently. He held it in both hands and kissed it up to God.
*
"It's imperative that we tend to this immediately -" Sherlock paused as he entered the sitting room. John lowered himself from the chair on which he'd been standing.
"I didn't realize you'd taken a mathematical turn," Sherlock said. John brushed his hands together.
"It's Pascal's Triangle. Heard of it?"
"No. Why would I have. Mathematical curiosities have no - "
All went quiet. John waited thirty seconds before making his quick and silent exodus.
When he returned, however, Pascal's ashes were wafting out of the fireplace.
*
"If you'll excuse me for just a moment," John said, and then hustled Sherlock into the Men's room. "I am on a date, Sherlock. A date! Can you see that?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're bored and I need you."
"I'm not bored! Just because I'm not getting blown up, doesn't mean I'm bored."
"You are bored, it's so painfully obvious. Come."
"No. Unless you mean that sexually, I refuse."
Sherlock actually grimaced in revulsion. "John," he said, exasperated. Then he switched tack abruptly. He looked into John's eyes with the earnest face he used on schmucks. "I could be killed," he said. John dropped his head into his hands.
*
"Sherlock, bored to death does not count as mortal peril."
John could just as well have been talking to a manta ray for all the difference it made. They were sitting on a rooftop, it was nearing midnight, and Sherlock was spying on some unknown person for some esoteric reason he refused to divulge. John sighed heavily and looked at the sky, trying to see if he could see any stars tonight. He couldn't. He looked at Sherlock, stationed intently with his binoculars. "Really, this is just rude," John said. Sherlock ignored him. "I was actually having a nice time. Did you know that? Do you care at all? I was actually enjoying a very nice dinner with a lovely young lady who finds me attractive, and whom I find attractive in turn. We had plans for the rest of the evening. Sherlock. Can you hear me?"
"Her interests are sedentary and incompatible with your own, and you like me better."
John was struck dumb for a moment by the sheer audacity of that statement. "You're not going to suck my cock!" he said.
"If fellatio is as important as you seem to insist, a prostitute would satisfy your...appetite with more finesse and with greater time and cost effectiveness. Aha!" Sherlock edged up a bit.
"I don't need to pay for sex!" John protested.
"There he is, John, look." Sherlock thrust the binoculars at him. John rolled into a crouch and peered into the building opposite.
"Are you ready to run?" Sherlock asked, and not just a little bit deviously. John went giddy in spite of himself.
"Oh yeah," he said, and Sherlock flashed a wolfish grin.
"Come. The game is afoot."
Hours later and grinning like madmen, the two of them stumbled into the flat. Sherlock shucked off his blazer, sobering minutely.
"You will find," he began, "that between dates - dinner, films, concerts, et cetera - and the gifts necessary to woo a woman, that you do indeed pay for sex, and in fact pay a good deal more than you would a professional."
"Sherlock, sweetheart, love," John said, still high on the thrill of the chase, "I'm not going to a hooker, alright?" He flopped down onto the sofa, sighing indulgently.
"It's a perfectly reasonable transaction, and far less time consuming," Sherlock said. "Anyway, I was merely pointing out the flaw in your reasoning."
John laughed. "Good, yes, thank you. Women are expensive."
Sherlock looked at him a moment, and smiled briefly. He turned and headed for the kitchen.
"Make tea!" John called. "Put bourbon in it!"
*
John was just stepping out for a haircut. It was Saturday, and Sherlock didn't have any cases on that evening, so John was going on a date. That was the plan, except that Sherlock was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, giving him the look.
"No deducing, please. I'm on my way out." John shrugged into his jacket, patted his pockets for his keys, phone, wallet. Check. Sherlock had neither moved nor spoken, which gave John pause. "Alright?" he asked.
Sherlock had his arms crossed over his chest, which was odd because he was usually waving them about or texting. He also looked as though he wanted to speak but was restraining himself, which hadn't ever happened in the history of their friendship.
Okay. It looked like there would have to be some deducing after all. John crossed his own arms and leaned back a bit. He furrowed his brow.
"Have I got something on my face?" he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and retreated into his lair, more commonly known as the kitchen. He began pretending to work on some experiment, and it was John's turn to lean against the door jamb, arms crossed, giving the look.
Sherlock hadn't yet tried to stop him going on his date. There was still time, but John had the feeling he wasn't going to, and this made him feel, not sad, exactly. He rolled the feeling around in his mind. It was something akin to nostalgia, and it settled over him like a fog. It was the feeling you got watching geese fly off in winter, or when you were the last one on the platform, watching the train pull away. John was thirty-seven years old. They couldn't go on like this forever. Sherlock was resolutely silent, lining his solvents into meticulous and atypically organized rows.
"Alright," John said, stepping forward. "Let's give this a shot." Sherlock glanced at him, and stiffened slightly as John approached, but in no other way acknowledged his proximity until John nudged him around so they were face to face. They were talking about feelings now, so obviously Sherlock didn't know what to say.
John studied the lines of his flatmate's face, delicate about the mouth and eyes, incongruously blunt at the bridge of the nose. His hair was in bad need of a trim, and it flung out at the sides in little dips and curls. He really wasn't a bad looking bloke. To be honest, John's cock wasn't fussy about that sort of thing anyway. It was his brain that liked tits, and unlike Sherlock, or because of him usually, John was good at ignoring his brain. It might take some effort, but this could work.
"So, kiss me, then," he said. The effect on Sherlock's normally composed face was rather comical, and John bit his lip to keep from laughing. Alright, he did laugh, some.
"Go on," he said. "It's the only logical solution, isn't it? Try. You might like it."
Sherlock hadn't run away. His expression was level again, and he was eying John's lips speculatively. John leaned forward, and though Sherlock didn't retreat as such, he did go tense, which caused him to straighten up, which put his lips just out of reach. John began to laugh.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he said, and struggled to regain his composure. He wiped at the corner of his eye. Oh bloody hell. He looked at Sherlock, who relaxed minutely, and John leaned in and kissed him.
It was like kissing...Sherlock Holmes. It was what you would expect. His lips were pressed tightly together, and being chronically anemic, the kiss was quite literally cold. John drew back, somewhere halfway between resigned and bemused.
"Um, alright. We're going to try that again. Try, like, moving a little bit, or something. Like on the telly." John waited for the confirming nod. He leaned in again, and they paused, each with his breath on the other's lips. John tried very hard not to giggle. It took a heroic effort, really.
"Do you want me to talk in coefficients?" John said, leaning ever so slightly closer. "Is that what does it? One, one two one," he whispered, and as the question rose on Sherlock's lips, John sealed the kiss. There was a curiosity in the other man, a clinical sense of wonder, and he returned the kiss experimentally, allowing John to press in for one briefly intense moment. John traced his jaw with his fingertips. His other hand curled lightly to the underside of Sherlock's wrist, but that's all it was; an experiment. John drew back, brushed one more kiss over those beautiful, bloodless lips, and he looked at Sherlock, shook his head slightly.
"This isn't going to work, is it?" It wasn't what Sherlock wanted. It never would be.
Sherlock closed his mouth. He exhaled slowly through his nose, and his gaze slid by, over John's shoulder to fix on something obscure. John ran his hand up and down Sherlock's arm.
"Okay?" he asked gently. Sherlock nodded, the smallest movement. They stood just so for a long, still moment, then Sherlock's eyes began to flicker, his shoulders curled forward as he followed a million tiny tangents through the middle distance of his mind. He raised one hand to his temple, let it flutter down his lapel, graze the buttons on his blazer. His other hand rubbed at the back of his neck. Just checking that he was still there, it seemed like. John grinned in spite of himself, in spite of everything. He wrapped Sherlock in a crushing hug and planted a kiss soundly on the side of his head.
"I'm off. Need a haircut," he said. "You need a haircut as well. Come with me?"
Sherlock shook his head, and John started for the door. "You're beginning to look like a sheep dog," he warned, and Sherlock shot him a glare. "You want me to get Mrs. Hudson to do it?"
"No. I'll do it myself." He turned back to the array of chemicals which took the place of spices and dry goods in 221B. A faint blush lingered about his ears. John grinned at him like an idiot - one idiot to another, really - then he opened the door and bounded down the steps. This thing between him and Sherlock - it was whatever it was. Mrs. Hudson was just stepping into A with some shopping as he passed.
"Sherlock needs a haircut, Mrs. Hudson," John said, pulling open the front door.
"I'm not your hairdresser, dear," she called.