The soap was slipping from Sherlock’s mouth. John tugged on his hair to right his head and pushed the soap back in, fingers breaching Sherlock’s lips. The inside of Sherlock’s mouth was hot and wet, pliant and open. The touch of it sent a coil of pleasure lighting through John. He pulled his hand back, and pushed again, then let go.
“You can rinse now.”
Sherlock spit the soap into the empty glass. He drank the entire cup of water in one long gulp. He climbed up onto the seat beside John and was distracted completely by the sight of his tongue in the mirror affixed to the wall behind them. He examined it with great interest for several seconds before announcing:
"Prolonged exposure to soap creates lesions on mucus membranes."
John put a finger to his lips, frowned to keep from smiling. He felt dizzy, giddy and a bit confused, and not from the alcohol. He picked his drink up and sipped it just to give his hands something to do.
"Of course it does, Sherlock."
"Hn," Sherlock responded with half his attention, as though it was too much to ask to be fully engaged with anything other than a thorough inspection of the inside of his mouth.
Sherlock's eyes flicked over him. The floor suddenly became quite interesting to John. Their scene hadn’t drawn the same sort of crowd as the previous night, and none of them approached. Maybe there was something to Sherlock’s cult pseudo-consperisory love-bombing theory.
Sherlock sat down heavily next to him. “No takers.”
“No,” John agreed.
“Should we try something else?” Sherlock asked, fiddling with his collar.
“Maybe we can find people to talk to the way people normally do,” John suggested.
“How’s that?” Sherlock handed John the collar and leaned in for him to put it on.
John obliged. “By sitting at the bar.”
“Fair enough.”
They made their over to the bar and sat in a silence that John would have liked to have broken had he been able to find anything to say. They sat like this through the rest of his Manhattan and the better part of one more.
Even though he liked Manhattans he didn’t like the cherries that flavored the drink themselves. But, Sherlock did. Sometimes, he would eat Maraschino cherries straight from the jar. He kept them in the fridge next to his science experiments.
Just to break the silence he took a cherry from his glass and offered it to Sherlock. “Here.”
Sherlock took the cherry with his mouth, almost nipped John’s fingers in the process. He pulled the stem between his teeth and tugged until the fruit gave. That greedy mouth with it’s razor sharp tongue, he could just-- He could-- John realized he was staring. He stopped.
Glancing down the bar John saw a heavyset man sporting a mohawk, a bright red tutu, fishnets and a pair of combat boots was also staring. Catching John’s gaze he smiled. Tight lipped, John smiled back. The man took this as a signal for him to approach. He had a friendly face, albeit dim eyes.
“Name’s Kiwi,” he said, sitting down beside them and putting out his hand.
John shook it, “I’m John, and this is Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. Kiwi said, signaling for a beer. John signaled for another drink as well.
“Manhattans are like breasts,” Kiwi offered. “One isn’t enough, but two is just right.”
John laughed, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“That’s some scene you did with the soap. Outside the box. I liked it.”
John glanced at Sherlock. He nodded. John said, “We’re new around here. Do you know this scene well?”
“You might as well call me the mayor.”
Sherlock gave John a look, eyebrow raised, as if to say ‘We’re in luck’ and leaned in closer.
“We have a few questions.”
“I’ll answer anything if you’ll make him do that thing with the cherry again.”
Boys, girls, boys dressed like girls, they all seemed to gravitate toward Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed in complete control of this fact. From what John could see he could turn his charm on and off like a light switch, just so long as he didn’t actually have any semblance emotional involvement. John wondered at this fact for a half beat too long, open mouthed before saying, “Right, what do you think about Tribe?”
“I, personally, don’t have anything against them. Others do.”
“Cherry,” Sherlock advised, softly against his ear.
Fill: The Worst Man in London [6d/?]
“You can rinse now.”
Sherlock spit the soap into the empty glass. He drank the entire cup of water in one long gulp. He climbed up onto the seat beside John and was distracted completely by the sight of his tongue in the mirror affixed to the wall behind them. He examined it with great interest for several seconds before announcing:
"Prolonged exposure to soap creates lesions on mucus membranes."
John put a finger to his lips, frowned to keep from smiling. He felt dizzy, giddy and a bit confused, and not from the alcohol. He picked his drink up and sipped it just to give his hands something to do.
"Of course it does, Sherlock."
"Hn," Sherlock responded with half his attention, as though it was too much to ask to be fully engaged with anything other than a thorough inspection of the inside of his mouth.
Sherlock's eyes flicked over him. The floor suddenly became quite interesting to John. Their scene hadn’t drawn the same sort of crowd as the previous night, and none of them approached. Maybe there was something to Sherlock’s cult pseudo-consperisory love-bombing theory.
Sherlock sat down heavily next to him. “No takers.”
“No,” John agreed.
“Should we try something else?” Sherlock asked, fiddling with his collar.
“Maybe we can find people to talk to the way people normally do,” John suggested.
“How’s that?” Sherlock handed John the collar and leaned in for him to put it on.
John obliged. “By sitting at the bar.”
“Fair enough.”
They made their over to the bar and sat in a silence that John would have liked to have broken had he been able to find anything to say. They sat like this through the rest of his Manhattan and the better part of one more.
Even though he liked Manhattans he didn’t like the cherries that flavored the drink themselves. But, Sherlock did. Sometimes, he would eat Maraschino cherries straight from the jar. He kept them in the fridge next to his science experiments.
Just to break the silence he took a cherry from his glass and offered it to Sherlock. “Here.”
Sherlock took the cherry with his mouth, almost nipped John’s fingers in the process. He pulled the stem between his teeth and tugged until the fruit gave. That greedy mouth with it’s razor sharp tongue, he could just-- He could-- John realized he was staring. He stopped.
Glancing down the bar John saw a heavyset man sporting a mohawk, a bright red tutu, fishnets and a pair of combat boots was also staring. Catching John’s gaze he smiled. Tight lipped, John smiled back. The man took this as a signal for him to approach. He had a friendly face, albeit dim eyes.
“Name’s Kiwi,” he said, sitting down beside them and putting out his hand.
John shook it, “I’m John, and this is Sherlock.”
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement. Kiwi said, signaling for a beer. John signaled for another drink as well.
“Manhattans are like breasts,” Kiwi offered. “One isn’t enough, but two is just right.”
John laughed, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“That’s some scene you did with the soap. Outside the box. I liked it.”
John glanced at Sherlock. He nodded. John said, “We’re new around here. Do you know this scene well?”
“You might as well call me the mayor.”
Sherlock gave John a look, eyebrow raised, as if to say ‘We’re in luck’ and leaned in closer.
“We have a few questions.”
“I’ll answer anything if you’ll make him do that thing with the cherry again.”
Boys, girls, boys dressed like girls, they all seemed to gravitate toward Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed in complete control of this fact. From what John could see he could turn his charm on and off like a light switch, just so long as he didn’t actually have any semblance emotional involvement. John wondered at this fact for a half beat too long, open mouthed before saying, “Right, what do you think about Tribe?”
“I, personally, don’t have anything against them. Others do.”
“Cherry,” Sherlock advised, softly against his ear.