institutesamples | you know what I'm sayin'?

What with all the touching, John soon begins to worry about Sherlock. The doubts increase, too, but only to two percent. The rooftop changed Sherlock. It scared him.

He leads him through the halls, giving an elbow to the ribs at his comments, not at all worried about any attention violence might bring.

"I was just trying to be clever with my response. And angry," he grumbles in his defence.... which then turns to teasing. "And who are you to talk about sexual preferences?"

The closest the man seemed to have some to any sort of relationship was that Woman.

"In here."

He unlocks the door and walks in, going to his desk and fetching the bottle out from the back of a drawer. He passes it to Sherlock with the glasses and locks the door once more. He's only on emergency duty for the rest of the day.

"I have made extensive study on the topic," Sherlock asserts, tucking his hands into his pockets and taking a good look around the office. He pauses for a moment, head tilted to the side, listening to the new sounds, carefully noting the entrances. That might be a new habit for him, really consciously observing where anything or anyone could slip in. "And I have every right to talk about it. Perhaps more than you, what with a new girl practically every week. I can barely keep up with them."

After pouring two glasses and setting John's on his desk in easy reach, Sherlock's eyes immediately go for the closest thing to a couch, and he sprawls in it. The posture might be a little too familiar - Sherlock immediately asserting his ownership of the space. He takes a sip of the liquor and says absolutely nothing.

"When it comes to sex, practice makes perfect, Sherlock," he says, casually. But he'ss very curious about Sherlock's experiences. Well, not curious just mildly, scientifically intrigued.

"It wasn't every week and they only changed because YOU kept scaring them away," he points out. "And at least I was getting some."

He takes his drink and sits in his chair watching Sherlock. It doesn't bother him that Sherlock is so at ease, he just can't yet fit him into this place. Put the two worlds together.

"The mechanics are very simple, even for the most complicated of positions," Sherlock takes a sip of his scotch, settling easily into the couch while stretching out his long limbs and somehow managing not to knock anything over. "I don't possibly see what could take practice." Sherlock sets his glass of scotch down somewhere near at hand where it won't be immediately knocked over. "Relationships sound boring anyway. Whole load of domestics I'd rather never have to bother with, I've got better things to do than listen to someone go on and on about how much they hate me and how I'll never measure up to their ideal."

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders, but his attention goes to John, and he stares back, head slightly tilted.

".... You're really clueless. It's like the solar System, only this time you at least know SOME basics," he grins, leaning forward, elbows on the table. It faltered a little when Sherlock went on and he looks at him with a curious expression. "I'm not exactly the right kind of Doctor.... but do want to talk about that?"

He's tempted to outright Freud him and ask about his mother. But, well, dangerous territory, he figures.

John gets the first of Sherlock's warning glares in awhile, and the tall detective just slides down to settle more firmly into the couch. His eyes flutter shut as he takes another sip of his scotch, inhaling the complex aroma that rises from the shot glass. He seems to enjoy the liquor for its taste rather than simply sucking it down like he had during the case of the Hound.

"Hm...." he considers, long and low, letting the glass settle on his sternum as he folds his hands around that. His eyes flick open again, settling on John.

"No." The answer comes immediately after John's finished trying to play therapist.

John shrugs and smiled to himself, taking a sip of brandy before just knocking it back and putting his feet up on the desk.

"I'm not sure what surprises me more, though. That you're possibly a virgin or that Mycroft possibly isn't."

Sherlock drains the rest of his shot glass as well - he didn't have terribly much in it. "Is this honestly that important or are you just trying to get a rise out of me?" Sherlock's hands remain folded over his chest - it's a familiar posture. John seated like a normal human being and Sherlock sprawled akimbo, taking up as much room on a couch as humanly possible for his skinny, whipcord frame. He has one foot propped up on the edge of a filing cabinet, the other stretched into the floor.

The detective's eyes remain closed, though he occasionally opens them to scan John's person in earnest now, trying to figure out what his flatmate's life has been like since he left. The office too, gets that particular, level gaze, Sherlock pulling apart everything he can see for clues without laying a hand on any of it.

"Not important just... interesting, I don't know. I mean it's just what people do, isn't it? Each other. You're not even curious?" he asks, quite genuine now and no longer teasing. "I mean... it's messy, it's complicated... embarrassing... sometimes bad. But generally speaking it's.... pretty damn good."

He catches Sherlock's gaze and frowns a little.

"There's not much to deduce, Sherlock. If you knew a thing or two about sex there would be."

"John that-..." Sherlock presses the tips of his fingers into his eye sockets with a grimace. "That is not what I was trying to figure out, and I am not people, you should know better than that by now." As John questions if he's curious or not, Sherlock just stares at him, looking at once for a loss of anything witty or clever to say. It takes him a second, but he recovers. "Why would I be curious? I'm not interested in progeny and I can't think of a single person the face of this planet that would willingly engage in a relationship with me, and aside from all of that, I can't fairly well have someone trailing after me and getting in my way or being a liability all the time. That's what closeness does, John, that's what romantic relationships or whatever you want to call them do. They get in the way, make for weakness, distraction, and there a thousand other things I could put my mind and effort toward rather than catering to the whims of another person."

Sherlock's tone grows increasingly irritated and picks up in speed as he speaks, until he's scowling at John, confusion written across his face. It's like John might have suggested crossing the alps on a alpaca, or something equally absurd.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes. I don't do love." The word love is almost spoken like a curse. "I have one friend and that's enough for me. As for Mycroft, that is one area where I have remained blissfully ignorant and intend to remains so for the rest of my natural life. Unlike Mycroft, I don't feel the need to constantly interfere with the lives of other people around me." Sherlock reaches out for the empty glass and reaches over to set it down a little roughly on the desk in reach of John. It's a polite of a request as the doctor will get from what seems to be an increasingly surly Sherlock.

Edited 2012-11-01 22:40 (UTC)

There was something beautifully annoying and comforting about Sherlock being irked. Some of the words, however, strike a chord. The things he felt before when Sherlock touched him....sounded almost like his description of a relationship. But a friendship is the same thing without the sex anyway, right?

"You love Mrs Hudson. That's a type of love, so stop trying to act like you're above the rest of us, soft git."

He gets up and fills Sherlock's glass again and considers his own. He fills it.

Sherlock is always watching. Before the fall, he might not have cared nor noticed the play of emotions across John's face, but now he does, and he seems to sulk a bit as he picks up the glass of scotch from the table, sipping at it delicately. He's observed, certainly, that much is obvious by the shift of confusion over Sherlock's face. Why does everyone always take everything he says so personally? An annoyed flick of his eyes to the side as he takes in a stack of books.

"She's my landlady," grumbles Sherlock, curling his fingers around the glass. He had jumped for them. For all of them. Of course he'd had a way out, of course he'd figured out some way for it to all play out correctly (John was an unintended bit of collateral).

"He would have you killed, John," Sherlock's voice is abruptly quieter, a low rumbling in his chest, his words blurring together a bit, but it's not the alcohol. Sherlock seems near impervious to that, at least. "You. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Three snipers, he said. Three bullets. Either you play out that story, or all of your friends die. That's why, John. That's why I'm not curious."

John looks back at Sherlock and then the brandy still in his hand. For a moment, he's not sure what to do, but he knocks it back and returns to Sherlock, budging him a little so he could lean on the edge of the couch.

He puts a hand of Sherlock's shoulder and rubs it.

"I know... and I haven't really said...thank you. So. Thank you, Sherlock. But, you know, h- people, all people, need something to fight for." He looks Sherlock in the eyes and hopes his friend can see that HE is John's reason.

Sherlock budges over a bit more, so that John can sit properly rather than perching like a moron. As soon as the man is settled, Sherlock flops back against him, drawing an a slow breath. Yes John, you are now being used as a pillow, of sorts. Pale eyes turn up toward his friend, and Sherlock regards him quietly for a few moments, contemplation evident on his features.

He's never sure to say when things like this come up. Of course he jumped. It was the logical way to end the situation, to ensure the safety of those around him. Curls fall against the arm of John's jumper as Sherlock turns his head back to look at the expression in his eyes, trying desperately to read the doctor's face.

"I mean," he starts, a touch of discomfort in his tone. "You can handle yourself. You're a fine shot, you don't panic. You're... you're useful." He's trying. Really. He is.

Sherlock has never used him as a pillow before. Touch was always accidental or experimental. Never...casual. But it's not so bad, especially after today. However he does take advantage and finishes Sherlock's scotch.

When Sherlock looks at him, he gently pulls his arm free to flick at some curls. "You need a haircut, Sherlock."

His mind wanders back to the army. To helpless kids out there and fighting as a unit and handling yourself, sure, but so many others too. And then it comes back to this very school and the dangers the kids face.

He's not sure he could ever explain it to Sherlock. The guy needed to get in a game of Rugby or something.

Sherlock's eyes narrow a bit, and he huffs. "I am trying to be complimentary, John, you could at least say thank you." He crosses his arms across his chest as John makes off with his scotch, glaring up at the fellow from his sprawl on the couch. "And I'm comfortable, so don't move." Sherlock stretches, settling himself against John a little more securely. "I don't need a haircut, either. People nattering on about pointless nonsense, oh does this look right, how 'bout a little more here, you have such thick hair, Mister Holmes, I bet your girlfriend loves it!" His voice has gone from being his usual baritone grumble to a rather accurate mimicry of a gay hairdresser. Sherlock's even flipping his wrist and pretending to simper over someone's head from where he lays. "And then they're all offended when I tell them they're making my head hurt. Thinning shears, John, really, who thought that was a good idea? They might as well be pulling my hair out by the roots."

Sherlock's cheeks are very faintly flushed. The man doesn't drink often, apparently. His body temperature has risen against John's. He lets his eyes drift closed, tossing an arm over his eyes with a groan.

"And you've gone and gotten me tipsy. Thank you."

Maybe it's his own intake of the day, but Sherlock sets him off laughing, one hand in his friend's hair, doubling over on him, stomach shaking and generally jolting Sherlock about.

"Have some more," he says, still laughing as he wipes a tear from his eye. "But you have to get it yourself. I'm not allowed to move."

When John starts to laugh, Sherlock's first reaction is to look up at him with a bit of an annoyed quirk to his brows. His pillow is moving. And it needs to stop. He sweeps up from the couch and reaches over with one long arm across John's desk to grab the bottle again, turning over gracefully in spot to flop back on the couch (mercifully not letting his head collide with John's chest at the same velocity he flopped down with.)

He pops the cork off of the top of the bottle with his thumb and takes a light swig of it. The cork gets wedged back in, and the bottle settled between John's legs. Sherlock's not thinking innuendo, he's thinking functional spot to put a bottle of scotch.

"John, stop laughing, I'm serious. Hairdressers are the bane of my existence, I have to pay them all twice over just to keep them from saying anything!"

Clearing his throat when the bottle is placed so awkwardly (for him, anyway) between his legs, he picks it up, has a swig and sets it down on the table after almost missing.

"You're just pissed off because they asked about your girlfriend," he smirks, tugging on a curl. "Let me do it. I can give you a grade one."

Sherlock blinks at the tug on his hair, flips over and leans across John to pick the bottle up again, taking another drink from. He's something like a big, awkward cat, the way he treats John briefly as part of the furniture. After he's gotten his drink, he settles in place, draped partially over the arm of the couch, the scotch bottle dangling in his hand, John beneath his torso. Sherlock turns the bottle in his hand, watching the light from a lamp reflect in the glass.

"John, I would look like a drowned rat with a grade one," Sherlock's words are a bit slurred as turns his head to peer over his shoulder at John.

Edited 2012-11-02 01:05 (UTC)

"Sherlock!" he huffs in weak protest, giving him a little nudge. He gives in soon after and pretends to be more put off than he is. Sherlock was well and truly invading his world, breaking barriers and almost acting like one of the lads.

John finds himself rubbing circles onto Sherlock's shoulder, half blaming his profession.

"I hope no more kids set themselves on fire today...."

Sherlock completely ignores the nudge and the protest. He makes some sort of noise as John's hand somehow seems to find a knot in his shoulder, be it of contentment or relief or something. The sound is muffled by his face buried into the upholstery of the couch. The bottle hits the floor gently with a dull thunk, and whatever tension was in Sherlock's carefully balanced frame drains out of him. His back is an unholy mess of knots and tension, layers of muscle unusually stiff beneath John's palm.

"Let them," mutters Sherlock into the arm of the couch, shifting to make himself more comfortable by sliding down to let his head rest halfway on a pillow and halfway on John's stomach. One long arm slides around John's back - Sherlock's slept this way before, clinging onto his pillow for what looks like dear life, halfway off the bed (or couch) - wherever he's stopped moving long enough for sleep to catch up with him. "Teach them a lesson. This, boys and girls, is what happens when you're stupid! New from Tesco's superior line of products, deep-fried superheroes! Find them on the frozen food aisle so you can eat yourself into a diabetic coma! Now with realistic limb shapes! One hundred percent idiot child!"

Sherlock laughs at his own joke a little too fiercely, his shoulders quiver a bit - and then they don't stop. The detective doesn't make a sound, but his fingers dig into John's back and the pillow beneath him. It's only for a few seconds, Sherlock sniffing tightly once or twice and then seeming to get a tighter hold on himself, tension rippling through his frame before Sherlock relaxes back against John and the couch, drawing his legs toward himself so he curls around John's stomach like a sort of a protective half-shell. When he raises his face, he's a little flushed.

"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. I'm drunk, but I'm fine. Don't worry, John. Maybe it'll turn up that Mycroft has the secret superpower of flight and we'll see him soaring across the grounds with his brolly like Mary Poppins. And Mrs. Hudson can move objects with her mind because nothing is ever where I put it in the flat. Oh! And Lestrade! His ability? He can dance! Then we'll all get together and have tea and watch crap telly while I tell you all how stupid you are and how boring normal people are and how impressive I am!" There's a faint trace of sarcasm on Sherlock's voice, but there's something else there, wistfulness, shame. "Because I am Sherlock Holmes and I am the greatest consulting git the world has ever known!"

Edited 2012-11-02 08:41 (UTC)

Hearing the reaction from Sherlock, his hand works with more purpose, finding tension and working to release it until Sherlock's laughing sets him off..... crying?

Instead, John's hand finds Sherlock's hair again and rubs at his scalp soothingly, a worried frown on his face until he pictures Mrs H with powers. And Lestrade's ability to....dance?

"Just as I was about to say you'd changed," he sighed. "For a moment you were being quite pleasant and, if I'm honest, I don't think you should be TOO proud. You're the ONLY Consulting Detective."

He'd never be beaten, of course, but that wasn't what modesty was about. Or teasing.

"You really are drunk. You're like a cat..... Or a snake...."

A thought struck him and he awkwardly dug about to get his phone out of his pocket and took a photo. It looked a bit too odd to be real blackmail material.... maybe.

Sherlock's hair is wild enough as it is, but John's found something perhaps no one on the planet knows - it's fairly soft, and Sherlock doesn't at all seem to mind the feeling of John's strong fingers buried in his curls. He makes a rumbling noise somewhere in his chest at the ministrations to his back as well, that contented sound turning to one of protest as John stops. "Hey," he mutters.

"I do not like the way being drunk feels, John." Sherlock unwinds from around the doctor and flips over onto his back, bony elbows prodding John's legs and stomach as Sherlock reorients himself to use John as part of the couch. He folds his hands over his sternum, staring at the ceiling with wide, wide eyes that are just a little too bright to be part of Sherlock's usual hood-eyed, detached stare. "Why is everything tilting to the side?" He tosses an arm over his face, reaching immediately for John's phone. "And I know you just took a picture. Don't you dare. Give me that, John. Now."

If he manages to get a hold of John's phone, Sherlock's quick at clumsily deleting the photo, all thumbs on the screen. If not, Sherlock reaches out for John's arm, draping it across his head again. "Keep doing that," he demands.

Everything about Sherlock is perfect apart from his attitude, but that was bad enough that John has no wish to be more like his friend. At all. Sure women tend to let their eyes linger on the tall idiot but.... well. It was all but said that Sherlock is a virgin.

"There ARE prostitutes," he says, thoughtfully, out of the blue.

Sherlock almost deletes it, John doesn't fight the phone off of him for that, it's the clumsiness and John doesn't want anything else deleted or seen. He snatches it back and continues petting Sherlock.

"Wonder if I can sure hangovers...."

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good morning have a wall of text.

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