Aiming for short fics, little pieces as I try and find my way back from that 7500 word fic that nearly killed me.
Anyway ... here's a little word doodle, a post-ep for A Study in Pink. I have more "John and Sherlock giggle a lot" fics in my head. This is the first piece of them.
"Do you know what this fortune cookie tells me?" John asks after one too many beers with his Chinese takeaway.
"Yes," Sherlock intones from his spot on the couch.
John just giggles. And continues, "This fortune cookie tells me that you, Sherlock Holmes, are a fraud."
Sherlock makes a noise that John thinks he might eventually learn to translate, but it's late, he's recently shot a man, and he's a little bit drunk.
"You said you could predict the fortune cookies," John says, as if that's his point. He thinks maybe that was his point. At some point. And then he realizes he is laughing. At nothing, seemingly. Which just makes him laugh harder.
"Christ," he thinks, shaking with laughter, shaking for reasons he's not thinking about, tucked up in a cushy chair in front of a fire, feet propped on a side chair upon which rests a Union Jack pillow. Queen and Country. Bravery and Stupidity. Christ.
"There's a little "hmmm?" noise from across the room, which pulls him out of his thoughts. Sherlock turns, his hair tangling in the bobbles of the damask pillow he's got mashed into the sofa corner behind his head. There is a tiny little smile on his face, just one corner of his mouth quirked up, and a glint in his eye.
"Well, come on you mad bastard," John prods, "Go ahead, prove me wrong."
"Simple," Sherlock said, languidly.
"I'm waiting," John said.
"My dear Doctor Watson. Surely you know this already. The fortunes are never accurate ... and frequently ungrammatical. Therefore I can always predict... that they will always be wrong."
John makes his own sound then, a scoffing noise that, oddly makes Sherlock smile.
Sherlock is on his feet now, pausing to dig something out of his coat pocket, and as he heads towards his bedroom, he drops a set of keys in John's lap.
"The proof John, is in the pudding," he says as he makes his way through the kitchen and goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
And John finds himself giggling once again as he looks around the room. The fire dances shadows across the boxes, and the keys in his hand grow warm under his touch.
This is a place where things happen, where they will happen to me, he thinks.
Christ, what has he gotten himself into?
But he holds the keys out in the palm of his hand. And his hand is steady.
And he can't stop smiling.