(nesting my fill properly from here on..sorry about that) (Also I'm giving up on stating POV at the start of each bit...I thought I was going to switch around among POVs, but it turns out it's just all about Watson/Wilson)
I try not to look guilty when Lestrade shows up to clean up the…crime scene. Yeah. I’m not totally sure which crime is being cleaned up, but there definitely has been at least one. Lestrade acts like he doesn’t know I shot the cabbie, except that when he first catches sight of me he gives me this look: eyes open wide, mouth set in a tight line. Boy are you in for it, or that’s how I read it. Shit. I have no idea how many rules I’ve just broken.
Sherlock, of course, figures it out immediately, and he also gives me a look, and it’s one I know very well from watching him all these years: finally, something interesting. I never in a million years expected to be on the receiving end of that look, from him. I tuck my chin, look away. He talks to me, and I can hear the excitement bubbling up under his words, the interest, the…affection.
We go out for Chinese, and the restaurant is picture-perfect, garlic prawns and crispy lo mein and wonton soup in a little white bowl with wiggly-looking red and gold decorations around the rim, and too many little round cups of jasmine tea, considering it’s nearing two in the morning. Sherlock deduces my year teaching English in Hong Kong from the way I hold my chopsticks, and all the time he’s giving me that look. He looks…hungry.
Lonely. Loneliness is a major theme of Sherlock, of course. His struggles, his brilliance, his isolation. Watching the show, it seems natural: the life of a genius. But now that I’m here, with him, I realize how it must actually feel, and as Sherlock tucks happily into his food and tells me about Jeff Hope and soaks up my admiration like a bone-dry sponge, I start to feel pretty fucking terrible. As we’re cracking our fortune cookies, Sherlock asks if I’m all right. I tell him I’m just tired, joke about needing an orange blanket. My fortune cookie says “A loaded gun can be the sword of justice.”
And then we go home. To Baker Street. I wait around in the sitting room while Sherlock showers and cleans his teeth, and he’s dead asleep by the time I get into the loo. When I enter the small tiled room with its pale green bathtub, I stop in surprise. This place is totally unfamiliar. I don’t think they’ve ever shown the inside of the bathroom on TV.
Fill Part 10
(Also I'm giving up on stating POV at the start of each bit...I thought I was going to switch around among POVs, but it turns out it's just all about Watson/Wilson)
I try not to look guilty when Lestrade shows up to clean up the…crime scene. Yeah. I’m not totally sure which crime is being cleaned up, but there definitely has been at least one. Lestrade acts like he doesn’t know I shot the cabbie, except that when he first catches sight of me he gives me this look: eyes open wide, mouth set in a tight line. Boy are you in for it, or that’s how I read it. Shit. I have no idea how many rules I’ve just broken.
Sherlock, of course, figures it out immediately, and he also gives me a look, and it’s one I know very well from watching him all these years: finally, something interesting. I never in a million years expected to be on the receiving end of that look, from him. I tuck my chin, look away. He talks to me, and I can hear the excitement bubbling up under his words, the interest, the…affection.
We go out for Chinese, and the restaurant is picture-perfect, garlic prawns and crispy lo mein and wonton soup in a little white bowl with wiggly-looking red and gold decorations around the rim, and too many little round cups of jasmine tea, considering it’s nearing two in the morning. Sherlock deduces my year teaching English in Hong Kong from the way I hold my chopsticks, and all the time he’s giving me that look. He looks…hungry.
Lonely. Loneliness is a major theme of Sherlock, of course. His struggles, his brilliance, his isolation. Watching the show, it seems natural: the life of a genius. But now that I’m here, with him, I realize how it must actually feel, and as Sherlock tucks happily into his food and tells me about Jeff Hope and soaks up my admiration like a bone-dry sponge, I start to feel pretty fucking terrible. As we’re cracking our fortune cookies, Sherlock asks if I’m all right. I tell him I’m just tired, joke about needing an orange blanket. My fortune cookie says “A loaded gun can be the sword of justice.”
And then we go home. To Baker Street. I wait around in the sitting room while Sherlock showers and cleans his teeth, and he’s dead asleep by the time I get into the loo. When I enter the small tiled room with its pale green bathtub, I stop in surprise. This place is totally unfamiliar. I don’t think they’ve ever shown the inside of the bathroom on TV.