‘I’ll tell you right now, you are out of your goddamn mind if you think—‘
‘John,’ Sherlock snaps, warningly.
‘Sherlock!’ John snaps back, his temper good and roused. ‘I’m not going to cock-slap you across the face, and you’re just as loony as this sick bastard here if you think it’s all right to let one man cock-slap you just because another man with a Mind Palace full of—‘
‘So it’s better that assassins with a grudge come after your wife?’ Sherlock snarls. Why is John making such a big deal out of this, why won’t he let Sherlock do this for him, for the safety of his unborn child?
‘My sharp-shooter, ex-assassin wife? I think she’ll probably have a fighting chance, yeah, especially if we give her a bit of a heads up!’
‘Your heavily pregnant ex-assassin wife? I’ve told you before, it’s all transport to me, what do I care if you hit me in the face with your penis, it’s not like you’re doing it for a lark, or because I left biohazardous material in the refrigerator past expiry-date or destroyed your favorite mug accidentally-on-purpose again!’
‘Oh ho,’ Magnussen chuckles, ‘I had heard things, but confirmation is always satisfying. No wonder your little place at Baker Street is so disgusting.’
Sherlock grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his own thighs as he attempts to regain control of himself. There is no need to make any more of a spectacle of themselves than they have done. Sherlock is usually better than this at ignoring John’s side of their would-be arguments and ensuring he gets his own way, regardless. If only John didn’t insist on being so pointlessly noble!
‘Just do it, John,’ he growls. Then, because one didn’t drag John Watson around to crime scenes and into (ostensibly) abandoned buildings and through scuzzy opium dens at all hours of the night for eighteen months without deducing a thing or two (Previous commander? “Previous” suggests that I currently have a commander.), Sherlock drops his voice a register and glares up at John intently.
‘Take your penis out of your pants and hit me across the face.’ Sherlock lifts his head, turning it just slightly to offer John an optimum target. ‘I want you to do it. For Mary,’ he adds, pointedly, his eyes fixed on John’s.
John’s pulse visibly throbs against the thin skin of his throat, his eyes wide, and a not insignificant bit bewildered. He swallows with obvious effort, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply.
‘And you’ve an excellent track record of wanting things that are any good for you, is that it?’ John needles him weakly, still attempting to stall, to prevaricate. (The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it.)
Of course John didn’t know any better, of course he didn’t know, because Sherlock had done everything in his power since his rather unfortunately timed self-deduction in the midst of his Best Man speech to ensure John would never know. Still, John’s mouth unconsciously echoing the words Sherlock has been forced to ask himself, nearly every single day of these past few months, with John back at Baker Street, painstakingly making his decision to forgive Mary... It cuts more keenly than Sherlock would have anticipated.
‘My apologies. You are right, of course, John.’
Both their gazes flick to Magnussen with suspicion, and they watch the man shake his head, as if disappointed in himself.
‘It was a poor idea. So crass and uncreative, unbefitting of the esteem in which you two so obviously hold one another. But, I believe I have a more appropriate suggestion?’ Magnussen tastes his Chivas, his eyebrows lifted inquisitively.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 2c
‘John,’ Sherlock snaps, warningly.
‘Sherlock!’ John snaps back, his temper good and roused. ‘I’m not going to cock-slap you across the face, and you’re just as loony as this sick bastard here if you think it’s all right to let one man cock-slap you just because another man with a Mind Palace full of—‘
‘So it’s better that assassins with a grudge come after your wife?’ Sherlock snarls. Why is John making such a big deal out of this, why won’t he let Sherlock do this for him, for the safety of his unborn child?
‘My sharp-shooter, ex-assassin wife? I think she’ll probably have a fighting chance, yeah, especially if we give her a bit of a heads up!’
‘Your heavily pregnant ex-assassin wife? I’ve told you before, it’s all transport to me, what do I care if you hit me in the face with your penis, it’s not like you’re doing it for a lark, or because I left biohazardous material in the refrigerator past expiry-date or destroyed your favorite mug accidentally-on-purpose again!’
‘Oh ho,’ Magnussen chuckles, ‘I had heard things, but confirmation is always satisfying. No wonder your little place at Baker Street is so disgusting.’
Sherlock grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his own thighs as he attempts to regain control of himself. There is no need to make any more of a spectacle of themselves than they have done. Sherlock is usually better than this at ignoring John’s side of their would-be arguments and ensuring he gets his own way, regardless. If only John didn’t insist on being so pointlessly noble!
‘Just do it, John,’ he growls. Then, because one didn’t drag John Watson around to crime scenes and into (ostensibly) abandoned buildings and through scuzzy opium dens at all hours of the night for eighteen months without deducing a thing or two (Previous commander? “Previous” suggests that I currently have a commander.), Sherlock drops his voice a register and glares up at John intently.
‘Take your penis out of your pants and hit me across the face.’ Sherlock lifts his head, turning it just slightly to offer John an optimum target. ‘I want you to do it. For Mary,’ he adds, pointedly, his eyes fixed on John’s.
John’s pulse visibly throbs against the thin skin of his throat, his eyes wide, and a not insignificant bit bewildered. He swallows with obvious effort, Adam’s apple bobbing sharply.
‘And you’ve an excellent track record of wanting things that are any good for you, is that it?’ John needles him weakly, still attempting to stall, to prevaricate. (The fact that you know it’s going to happen isn’t going to stop it.)
Of course John didn’t know any better, of course he didn’t know, because Sherlock had done everything in his power since his rather unfortunately timed self-deduction in the midst of his Best Man speech to ensure John would never know. Still, John’s mouth unconsciously echoing the words Sherlock has been forced to ask himself, nearly every single day of these past few months, with John back at Baker Street, painstakingly making his decision to forgive Mary... It cuts more keenly than Sherlock would have anticipated.
‘My apologies. You are right, of course, John.’
Both their gazes flick to Magnussen with suspicion, and they watch the man shake his head, as if disappointed in himself.
‘It was a poor idea. So crass and uncreative, unbefitting of the esteem in which you two so obviously hold one another. But, I believe I have a more appropriate suggestion?’ Magnussen tastes his Chivas, his eyebrows lifted inquisitively.