When Sherlock returned he sunk to his knees in front of John, and presented the requested items as though procuring them was some great victory. Naturally, Sherlock assessed the situation and found his voice quickly.
"You are planning on washing my mouth out with soap," he popped the 'p' at the end of the sentence, eyes flashing with his pronunciation of the word.
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."
"Hm," Sherlock responded. He never said 'yes' when he could simply hum out a noncommittal syllable.
John unwrapped the soap, dipped it into the glass of water, ran it between his hands until suds formed, and held it out to his friend.
"Go ahead," he prompted.
Sherlock took the soap in his hands. He squinted at it, head tilted and face scrunched the way he did when he was pretending to think over the best way to contradict someone. Sherlock shoved the soap into his mouth, looking for just a second like he had taken vindictive satisfaction in stuffing something someplace it did not belong. Then his eyes started to water.
"Don't spit it out," John ordered.
John shoved Sherlock gently, sat him back on his heels. Sherlock swallowed, gagged, and started coughing violently. He moved to get up. John put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again. Sherlock growled. His voice was rough with lofty derision though whatever he was trying to say was garbled around the soap. However, he sat back down, leaning heavily into John's hands.
Sherlock was touch starved. John was convinced. Looking at the pair of them people always came up to John, hugged him, patted him, when the last thing he wanted was for strangers to put their hands on him. It made his skin crawl. But, Sherlock, unapproachable and statuesque, was the one who craved touch. He would find any excuse to put his hands all over a stranger, to lean his weight into them, as though he had no concept of personal space. John wondered how long, before this, it had been since Sherlock had felt the touch of someone who loved him, even as a friend. Likely, it had been a very long while.
John squeezed his shoulders. Sherlock rested his head on John's arm and rolled his eyes dramatically. There was spit pooling in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock probably didn't want to swallow again and risk triggering another coughing fit.
"Not yet."
It occurred to John that maybe Sherlock liked this. There was something about being humiliated that made a person feel small, like a piece of paper folded in half. When the world was too big, when there was too much to think about, it was comforting to be crumpled like that. With a person you trusted, it gave a fixed point to focus. It was fucked up, but maybe that was what Sherlock needed sometimes, though he would die before he admitted it, even to himself. Then again, maybe John was just telling himself that because he was enjoying this.
John put a hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock leaned into this too. John tipped Sherlock's head forward. Sherlock made a spectacularly undignified slurping sound trying not to drool down the front of his jacket, but it didn't do him any good. Dark, shining trails of spit stained his shirt and coat.
Fill: The Worst Man in London [6c/?]
"You are planning on washing my mouth out with soap," he popped the 'p' at the end of the sentence, eyes flashing with his pronunciation of the word.
"Brilliant deduction, Sherlock."
"Hm," Sherlock responded. He never said 'yes' when he could simply hum out a noncommittal syllable.
John unwrapped the soap, dipped it into the glass of water, ran it between his hands until suds formed, and held it out to his friend.
"Go ahead," he prompted.
Sherlock took the soap in his hands. He squinted at it, head tilted and face scrunched the way he did when he was pretending to think over the best way to contradict someone. Sherlock shoved the soap into his mouth, looking for just a second like he had taken vindictive satisfaction in stuffing something someplace it did not belong. Then his eyes started to water.
"Don't spit it out," John ordered.
John shoved Sherlock gently, sat him back on his heels. Sherlock swallowed, gagged, and started coughing violently. He moved to get up. John put his hands on his shoulders and pushed him down again. Sherlock growled. His voice was rough with lofty derision though whatever he was trying to say was garbled around the soap. However, he sat back down, leaning heavily into John's hands.
Sherlock was touch starved. John was convinced. Looking at the pair of them people always came up to John, hugged him, patted him, when the last thing he wanted was for strangers to put their hands on him. It made his skin crawl. But, Sherlock, unapproachable and statuesque, was the one who craved touch. He would find any excuse to put his hands all over a stranger, to lean his weight into them, as though he had no concept of personal space. John wondered how long, before this, it had been since Sherlock had felt the touch of someone who loved him, even as a friend. Likely, it had been a very long while.
John squeezed his shoulders. Sherlock rested his head on John's arm and rolled his eyes dramatically. There was spit pooling in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock probably didn't want to swallow again and risk triggering another coughing fit.
"Not yet."
It occurred to John that maybe Sherlock liked this. There was something about being humiliated that made a person feel small, like a piece of paper folded in half. When the world was too big, when there was too much to think about, it was comforting to be crumpled like that. With a person you trusted, it gave a fixed point to focus. It was fucked up, but maybe that was what Sherlock needed sometimes, though he would die before he admitted it, even to himself. Then again, maybe John was just telling himself that because he was enjoying this.
John put a hand in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock leaned into this too. John tipped Sherlock's head forward. Sherlock made a spectacularly undignified slurping sound trying not to drool down the front of his jacket, but it didn't do him any good. Dark, shining trails of spit stained his shirt and coat.