SH - Crap Telly
Thanks to clarrolx "Socks" has a short sequel.
Prompt: "I just imagined Sherlock wearing one polka-dot sock and one black one on with his feet up watching crap telly."
Thank you so much, Clarrolx. *Grin*
Two socks. One polka-dot, the other black. Propped up on the sofa. Crap telly turned to a decent volume.
The sight of Sherlock actually wearing his birthday present was enough to make John partake in a classic once-over, let alone what was going on.
A quick glance at Sherlock's arm. Two patches.
Just checking.
Trips to the grocery were taking longer than John would have preferred, what with the machines insisting on a longer row with every run-in. The plastic was already cross with his fingers, and the eggs, cake-mix, and milk weren't as light as the soldier would have thought they would be. In fact, they were having quite the laugh imitating bricks. As were the candles and lighter in the other plastic.
Moving to place the milk in the ice-box, the man gave pause. He was out for a while, and Sherlock wasn't yelling at the telly. That probably meant he hadn't been watching for very long. Also, he was wearing socks. (God- the man was rubbing off on him.) Normally he just wore shoes around the house, which meant that he was trying to appear as if he hadn't just arrived home.
He gave pause at the ice-box door, with his hand poised at the handle. Bracing himself, he threw it open.
“Saliva coagulation, again?”
“I wouldn't have to repeat it if you didn't keep opening the ice-box at the most inconvenient of times.” Silence. “That scarf does not work with your hair. Just give up trying to impress him- he's not even straight.”
Sometimes John gave himself leave to wish his flatmate was on drugs.
Prompt: "I just imagined Sherlock wearing one polka-dot sock and one black one on with his feet up watching crap telly."
Thank you so much, Clarrolx. *Grin*
Two socks. One polka-dot, the other black. Propped up on the sofa. Crap telly turned to a decent volume.
The sight of Sherlock actually wearing his birthday present was enough to make John partake in a classic once-over, let alone what was going on.
A quick glance at Sherlock's arm. Two patches.
Just checking.
Trips to the grocery were taking longer than John would have preferred, what with the machines insisting on a longer row with every run-in. The plastic was already cross with his fingers, and the eggs, cake-mix, and milk weren't as light as the soldier would have thought they would be. In fact, they were having quite the laugh imitating bricks. As were the candles and lighter in the other plastic.
Moving to place the milk in the ice-box, the man gave pause. He was out for a while, and Sherlock wasn't yelling at the telly. That probably meant he hadn't been watching for very long. Also, he was wearing socks. (God- the man was rubbing off on him.) Normally he just wore shoes around the house, which meant that he was trying to appear as if he hadn't just arrived home.
He gave pause at the ice-box door, with his hand poised at the handle. Bracing himself, he threw it open.
“Saliva coagulation, again?”
“I wouldn't have to repeat it if you didn't keep opening the ice-box at the most inconvenient of times.” Silence. “That scarf does not work with your hair. Just give up trying to impress him- he's not even straight.”
Sometimes John gave himself leave to wish his flatmate was on drugs.