This part isn’t particularly shippy, but it’ll build up to the porn. Even though the story’s not finished, I do have a broad outline and I wanted to post what I had written so far so that you knew someone was working on it. John dropped onto the stool with much more force than he would have if his brain didn’t feel like it was being squeezed in the grip of an angry giant. “Did you drug me? Again?”
“No.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his slides.
John fondly remembered a more innocent time when he would have thought that was a complete answer. He inquired further.
“Did you tamper with anything I may have ingested yesterday?”
Sherlock was silent.
“What was it, and what did you put in it?”
“It was the sugar. You don’t take sugar. It’s hardly my fault.”
That was, broadly speaking, true. John didn’t normally take sugar, but he’d managed to burn the last of the coffee and had been left with no milk to mask the taste. Rather than admitting defeat – and showing weakness in front of the various kitchen appliances – he’d dumped spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and drank the resulting abomination with impressive stoicism. He suspected he’d actually made the taste far worse, but had decided to forgo acknowledging that. Now he didn’t even know whether it had been so unpalatable because of the sugar or what was in it, and would probably find himself repeating the experience with actual sugar the next time he got desperate enough.
“It’s entirely your fault.”
Sherlock also had something in a petri dish. It was apparently far more fascinating than John.
“I have to go to work, you know. Like this. They’ll think I’ve been on a bender.”
“No you don’t. It’s after five.”
John looked at the clock. He felt like he’d only been out for less than half-an-hour.
“I called in for you,” Sherlock pointed out, as if that were some great favour he deserved praise for.
“Oh, god!” John despaired. “What did you tell them?”
Sherlock looked up, finally, although he had the gall to look vaguely insulted.
“Only that you were sick.”
“Thank you,” John replied, before remembering that he was thanking the man responsible for the problem in the first place. He should not be feeling all warm about Sherlock not being quite as terrible as he could. He wasn’t taking care of John; he was making sure John wouldn’t get fired and stop being able to afford the nice biscuits Sherlock constantly stole from him.
“I’m going back to sleep.”
“Wait!” Sherlock protested as John stood. “You’ll have a headache. Is it stabbing or pounding?”
John showed him an eloquent two fingers before heading up to his bedroom. The headache – a pounding monstrosity – had blocked almost everything else out, but his apparently extended kip on the sofa hadn’t done him any favours, and he didn’t think the effects of… whatever it was had entirely worn off. Sore and irate, he managed to undress before passing out again in his own bed.
Less Sturdy Grounds 01/??
John dropped onto the stool with much more force than he would have if his brain didn’t feel like it was being squeezed in the grip of an angry giant. “Did you drug me? Again?”
“No.” Sherlock didn’t look up from his slides.
John fondly remembered a more innocent time when he would have thought that was a complete answer. He inquired further.
“Did you tamper with anything I may have ingested yesterday?”
Sherlock was silent.
“What was it, and what did you put in it?”
“It was the sugar. You don’t take sugar. It’s hardly my fault.”
That was, broadly speaking, true. John didn’t normally take sugar, but he’d managed to burn the last of the coffee and had been left with no milk to mask the taste. Rather than admitting defeat – and showing weakness in front of the various kitchen appliances – he’d dumped spoonfuls of sugar into his mug and drank the resulting abomination with impressive stoicism. He suspected he’d actually made the taste far worse, but had decided to forgo acknowledging that. Now he didn’t even know whether it had been so unpalatable because of the sugar or what was in it, and would probably find himself repeating the experience with actual sugar the next time he got desperate enough.
“It’s entirely your fault.”
Sherlock also had something in a petri dish. It was apparently far more fascinating than John.
“I have to go to work, you know. Like this. They’ll think I’ve been on a bender.”
“No you don’t. It’s after five.”
John looked at the clock. He felt like he’d only been out for less than half-an-hour.
“I called in for you,” Sherlock pointed out, as if that were some great favour he deserved praise for.
“Oh, god!” John despaired. “What did you tell them?”
Sherlock looked up, finally, although he had the gall to look vaguely insulted.
“Only that you were sick.”
“Thank you,” John replied, before remembering that he was thanking the man responsible for the problem in the first place. He should not be feeling all warm about Sherlock not being quite as terrible as he could. He wasn’t taking care of John; he was making sure John wouldn’t get fired and stop being able to afford the nice biscuits Sherlock constantly stole from him.
“I’m going back to sleep.”
“Wait!” Sherlock protested as John stood. “You’ll have a headache. Is it stabbing or pounding?”
John showed him an eloquent two fingers before heading up to his bedroom. The headache – a pounding monstrosity – had blocked almost everything else out, but his apparently extended kip on the sofa hadn’t done him any favours, and he didn’t think the effects of… whatever it was had entirely worn off. Sore and irate, he managed to undress before passing out again in his own bed.