“The aftershave! His aftershave is the bloody key, Lestrade. Rosemary-scented aftershave is sold by not more than two companies in Europe, one of which is heavily indebted. Going by Luckman’s current financial status and the fact that he’s thrown away a bottle of aftershave right in front of an empty warehouse it was the only logical conclusion. Anderson, don’t you dare open your mouth, whatever is going to come out will be a disgrace to the human race. Lestrade, you are getting slower every day, is it senility? Alzheimer’s disease? How old are you? Oh, shut up, I don’t want to know. I have written an essay on the chemical composition of body wash and aftershave used by the average British male. There’s a very restricted target group for rosemary scent, and Luckman is definitely not in it. If you were reading my website on a regular basis instead of killing the few operative synapses you have left in you temporal lobe by torturing them with mainstream media and useless data…”
John buries his face in his hands.
“We’re not going to get any more useful information out of him, are we?” Lestrade asks, sounding surprisingly calm.
John makes a vague hmmm noise while Sherlock proceeds to list aftershave preferences dependent on profession and number of siblings. “I suppose not.”
Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Well then. I’ll be expecting your statements by tomorrow afternoon. Apart from that, he’s yours to deal with. “
John chuckles and watches the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes rant and deduce and pace restlessly.
---
Sherlock is by far the smartest and most eloquent person John has ever met. He delivers his deductions at light speed. He could make people question their own identity and manipulate them into eating their toenails just by talking to them. (Not that he’d want to. Dull. He just could.) It’s almost impossible to get the upper hand in a discussion with him (unless the topic of aforementioned discussion revolves around the solar system or accurate prostate stimulation. Those are John’s fields of expertise). Sherlock is the only person to have used the words “electrocution”, “romance”, “water-based lubricant” and “Anderson” in one sentence. (A sentence that actually made sense. John supposes that one must be pretty damned eloquent to pull that off.) The point John is mentally trying to make is that Sherlock is really, really skilled with words.
Sherlock’s also the nutcase that hides human collar bones between John’s pants and continuously makes sure to be the most annoying human being within a radius of ten kilometers. John loves him madly. Because somewhere underneath the smug, infuriating genius and the sulking five-year-old, there’s the man he’s chosen to spend his life with.
John knows that their relationship lives off exceptionally intense emotions. One could argue that this is a bit odd, considering that they are two thoroughly emotionally repressed idiots. (It took them 6 years, countless life-endangering situations and, in John’s case, a failed marriage to work out that they’re actually in love with each other. Surprise.) John knows he is the person Sherlock would give himself up for. John also knows that a part of him constantly feels the urge to punch Sherlock for being the rude arsehole that he is. Another part is proud and amazed and exhilarated that Sherlock is his, wants to kiss him senseless, wants to make love to this strange man until he comes completely undone underneath him. Wants him to know just how much he is appreciated. This utter madness works better than any relationship John has ever had. Anyways, that habit of Sherlock’s, the one where he opens his mouth and words come out, can be quite exhausting. It may be unbelievable, but there’s something that reduces Sherlock’s communication skills/verbal escapades/ability to form sentences to a more… basic state. Said magical off-switch is called Sex. No, wait, that’s not quite accurate. It’s Sex With John.
Re: the only word Sherlock says during sex is "John"
“The aftershave! His aftershave is the bloody key, Lestrade. Rosemary-scented aftershave is sold by not more than two companies in Europe, one of which is heavily indebted. Going by Luckman’s current financial status and the fact that he’s thrown away a bottle of aftershave right in front of an empty warehouse it was the only logical conclusion.
Anderson, don’t you dare open your mouth, whatever is going to come out will be a disgrace to the human race. Lestrade, you are getting slower every day, is it senility? Alzheimer’s disease? How old are you? Oh, shut up, I don’t want to know. I have written an essay on the chemical composition of body wash and aftershave used by the average British male. There’s a very restricted target group for rosemary scent, and Luckman is definitely not in it. If you were reading my website on a regular basis instead of killing the few operative synapses you have left in you temporal lobe by torturing them with mainstream media and useless data…”
John buries his face in his hands.
“We’re not going to get any more useful information out of him, are we?” Lestrade asks, sounding surprisingly calm.
John makes a vague hmmm noise while Sherlock proceeds to list aftershave preferences dependent on profession and number of siblings.
“I suppose not.”
Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Well then. I’ll be expecting your statements by tomorrow afternoon. Apart from that, he’s yours to deal with. “
John chuckles and watches the whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes rant and deduce and pace restlessly.
---
Sherlock is by far the smartest and most eloquent person John has ever met. He delivers his deductions at light speed. He could make people question their own identity and manipulate them into eating their toenails just by talking to them. (Not that he’d want to. Dull. He just could.) It’s almost impossible to get the upper hand in a discussion with him (unless the topic of aforementioned discussion revolves around the solar system or accurate prostate stimulation. Those are John’s fields of expertise). Sherlock is the only person to have used the words “electrocution”, “romance”, “water-based lubricant” and “Anderson” in one sentence. (A sentence that actually made sense. John supposes that one must be pretty damned eloquent to pull that off.)
The point John is mentally trying to make is that Sherlock is really, really skilled with words.
Sherlock’s also the nutcase that hides human collar bones between John’s pants and continuously makes sure to be the most annoying human being within a radius of ten kilometers.
John loves him madly. Because somewhere underneath the smug, infuriating genius and the sulking five-year-old, there’s the man he’s chosen to spend his life with.
John knows that their relationship lives off exceptionally intense emotions. One could argue that this is a bit odd, considering that they are two thoroughly emotionally repressed idiots. (It took them 6 years, countless life-endangering situations and, in John’s case, a failed marriage to work out that they’re actually in love with each other. Surprise.)
John knows he is the person Sherlock would give himself up for. John also knows that a part of him constantly feels the urge to punch Sherlock for being the rude arsehole that he is. Another part is proud and amazed and exhilarated that Sherlock is his, wants to kiss him senseless, wants to make love to this strange man until he comes completely undone underneath him. Wants him to know just how much he is appreciated. This utter madness works better than any relationship John has ever had.
Anyways, that habit of Sherlock’s, the one where he opens his mouth and words come out, can be quite exhausting.
It may be unbelievable, but there’s something that reduces Sherlock’s communication skills/verbal escapades/ability to form sentences to a more… basic state. Said magical off-switch is called Sex. No, wait, that’s not quite accurate. It’s Sex With John.