Title: Partners in Crime
Authors: Anarion, Ariane DeVere, Atlin Merrick and Verity Burns (though not necessarily in that order ...)
Word count: 221 x 4 (so 884, then)
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to way more powerful and wealthy people than me.
anarion, arianedevere, atlinmerrick, verityburns. Four Sherlock writers in one house. Many bottles of shiraz, many bottles of coke (the drink, not the 7% solution), Marks and Spencer cheese straws, cupcakes with pictures of Benedict’s naked bum on them, and a desperate need to distract ourselves pre-Reichenbach Fall. What else could happen? Yeah, we dun fic.
Four 221Bs forming a continuous story, each one written by one of us. Can you work out who wrote which one?! Partners in Crime
The swearing was now becoming so impressive that Mrs. Hudson hadn't ventured upstairs for two days. John had long run out of all the phrases he learned in the army and was making up new ones which were so creatively inventive that Lestrade, dropping off the packages Sherlock had requested, stopped at the top of the stairs to take out his police issue notebook and write some of them down for future use.
Sherlock as usual was oblivious to the noise; he had had one conversation in the last three days, demanding the copious notes he had dictated two hours previously. As John hadn't even been home during the dictation he had been hopeful that the ensuing argument would eventually lead to some angry and energetic shagging. Regrettably the good doctor's hopes were dashed when Sherlock was inspired as to the identity of one of the perpetrators and turned away to text Lestrade.
This new case required hardly any legwork but involved a great deal of rifling through files, running experiments and researching information online, which left John nothing to do but gaze at his lanky lover's profile in increasing sexual frustration.
But dear God if he didn't get a certain detective inside him today of all days he was going to take the skull hostage and send it back broken.
The thing is, if John would just stop swearing so creatively, and pounding around the flat, and acting so indignant Sherlock was sure he'd have finished this sodding test—
The detective paused, blinked down at his pipette-laden hands.
Well that was interesting. John had so keyed him up Sherlock was actually sympathy swearing in his own head. The detective frowned. This wouldn't do. He had to complete this bloody (no seriously, it was literally bloody) final experiment soon or Mrs. Hudson's work would be for nothing.
Blood, blood, he was used to human blood, but this…wombats might look like fat rats, but their haemoglobin certainly didn't respond to etherocite the way rat's blood did, and the zookeeper's alibi hinged on—
"—you pissing barmy berk; bugger whore dick shit arse—"
John stomped through the kitchen and into their bedroom, slammed the door, taking the rest of his thoughts with him.
Frankly that was fine, just fine. Now maybe Sherlock could finally focus and finish the—
"—it's fucking naff is what it is and—"
John was now careening around the sitting room and so help him Sherlock was sure the man was simply picking things up so he could slam them down again. At this rate Sherlock would never finish the sodding experiment in time to—oh. Oh. Bingo!
I want to bite it…John squeezed his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to focus on something other than the delectable arse waving in front of him.
"Lost something?" he demanded, struggling to stay in his chair and not just fling himself in the direction his dick clearly felt was magnetic north.
"No, John. I'm just crawling around down here because I know you like the view." Sherlock's voice issued from under the table, where he had been scrabbling around since firing off some frantic texts a few minutes before. He emerged quite suddenly, springing up into a familiarly button straining pose.
John reminded himself that he didn't want to change Sherlock. Not really. The 'on case' behaviour had long since been accepted and John was used to being ignored, experimented on, and generally treated as a whipping boy.
Didn't mean he had to like it. Not today. Enough was e-fucking-nough. He got to his feet.
"You need to either solve this case in the next ten minutes, or take a sodding break." He took a pace forward, eyeing the terrain and determining the best angle at which to tackle his infuriating lover. "Fuck it, I can't wait ten minutes."
Sherlock's lips twitched. "Ten seconds will suffice." He raised his phone to his ear. "No disturbances, as agreed. Thank you, brother."
"Did you just thank your brother?"
Sherlock looked at John, who suddenly seemed more stunned than aroused.
"You know. Of course you know. They are all in on it, aren't they? Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even your brother. "
Up until a few months ago Sherlock would have told you very convincingly that there was nothing he did not know about himself. Since then he discovered a lot of things, amongst them that an angry and swearing doctor turned him on immensely. Only surpassed by said doctor deducing a certain detective's actions.
Sherlock raised one eyebrow and stepped closer to John.
"You were crawling around down there because you know I like the view."
He saw the other man's eyes widen slightly and felt the atmosphere shift.
Without warning John growled and then tackled them both onto the sofa.
Sherlock immediately pushed his hand down his lover's front, John being so wound up that he was clinging to him quivering and moaning within seconds.
A few slow strokes, hands clinging, a groan – more – a few fast strokes and John was shuddering violently under Sherlock's touch before falling limply against him.
Sherlock slowly rubbed his still untouched erection against John's hip.
"Let's go to bed and do what you've been thinking about the whole day."
Author’s Note: Ow, my poor aching head.
No, I’m not hung over. Well, not much. But after three days of non-stop giggling, hysteria, shrieking (let’s not mention the hour I spent in my bedroom sobbing after Reichenbach), combined with the lack of sleep and then succumbing to Atlin’s cold after they’d all left (shakes fist in Tennant-like manner: MERRIIIIICK!!!), but ploughing onwards in an attempt to produce the third episode transcript, I am more than a little delicate.
But what a totally fantastic weekend it was. And Saturday night was particularly awesome as we sat around and thrashed out the plot line of the above story, debated who was going to write which bit, eventually went to bed, continued yelling comments, suggestions and thoughts to each other through the open bedroom doors, finally ending with one of us leaping out of bed, running around to each doorway and yelling excitedly, “Can I do the last bit?!” Then we started all over again on Sunday ...
The wombats moment was particularly surreal. One of us asked, “What’s the weirdest animal you can think of?” and two of us simultaneously said, “Wombat”. I know writers can start to channel each other after a while but that was a staggering moment ... followed by hysterical laughter for the next five minutes.
And oh, the non-stop burping...!
The above Author’s Note may just contain 221 words and end with a ‘b’ word ...
The other three authors’ Author’s Notes may also contain 221 words and end with a ‘b’ word ... You’ll just have to go to their blogs and find out, won’t you? ;-)