Fic: Speak Friend
Feb. 25th, 2012 02:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
islandofwordsTitle: Speak Friend
Characters: John, Sherlock, OMC
Prompt: The first time John refers to Sherlock as his best friend (from the kink meme)
Genre: Gen
Warnings: None
Rating: PG13 (for drinking and swearing I guess; I don't write anything too racy)
"It'll be fun, Sherlock."
"I simply cannot see how." Sherlock crosses his arms across his chest, a petulant look on his face. "Besides, I have loads of better things to do." He could study the decomposition rate of the liver in the fridge. He could finally microwave those eyeballs to see what happens. He could watch crap telly and yell at the screen for an hour; really, he wasn't entirely particular as to the nature of the distraction.
John sighs. "You ought to get out of the flat."
John might be right about that, but Sherlock will never admit it. It's been a couple days since the last case and he absolutely refuses to do the shopping. He's running out of nicotine patches and John stole all his hidden cigarettes and he needs something to do. The time in between cases was just so boring
"I make no promises about what I will or will not deduce about this friend of yours," he says finally. "Being a friend of yours, he's likely to be quite transparent." John gives him a look. "Oh please, I saw right through you."
The corner of John's mouth quirks up into something approaching a smile. "Fine," John says patiently and moves to hand Sherlock his coat. Sherlock puts it on and ties his scarf a bit more slowly than usual so John knows Sherlock's coming along for the pleasure of deduction and not because he has any desire to meet any of John's friends, former or otherwise.
Besides, after what happened when he introduced John to Sebastian, he's not really keen on being pronounced John's "colleague" again.
He follows John out of the flat and they hail a cab.
They're meeting John's friend at a bar. Sherlock knows this is because relationships with some distance in tend to be awkward and alcohol will help soothe this. He also suspects John is curious to see how Sherlock reacts under the influence, though he has no intention of conducting that little experiment.
John's friend is already there when they arrive. Greying hair, soft around the middle--John's age, probably college athlete but not in shape anymore. He waves them over. He's not surprised to see John's brought Sherlock around, so John must have already told him. It's unclear what exactly John has said about him—the man's face only shows the slightest trace of recognition when turned to Sherlock. Knows John's brought someone, but not the nature of the relationship. No, flatmate, Sherlock corrects himself. John told his friend he was bringing along his flatmate but nothing more. He doesn't look put-upon so Sherlock is fairly certain John didn't tell him he was bringing Sherlock out of necessity.
"Hey there, mate, how've you been?" the friend asks John jovially, extending his hand for John to shake. The question is vague, not specific to health or injury, likely because he knows about the circumstances, but not because he was there. No, this friend lacks the stance and haircut of a military man, but the tone of his voice suggests an adulthood friend. Medical school, Sherlock supposes, possibly university.
"Good, good," says John, equally as vague. So he doesn't know this friend well enough to be honest. Pity, Sherlock thinks. Things are much easier when people are honest. He turns his attention to Sherlock now. “Sherlock, this is Harrison, a mate from medical school.” So he was right the first time. As usual. Sherlock nods slightly, face blank. He knows how introductions go. He remembers the bank, John's careful insistence that they are colleagues, nothing more, not friends, certainly not friends.
Sherlock's pretty good at tuning out emotions when necessary, and he's pretty certain it is about to be necessary.
John turns to Harrison. “Harrison, this is Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.” Harrison extends his hand and Sherlock shakes it stiffly. Leave it to John to define him by his work. Sherlock ignores the voice in his head that reminds him that that is how he defines himself as well.
“Consulting detective, huh? Like a PI?” Harrison chuckles.
“No.” Harrison stops chuckling. “I observe and deduce when the police are out of their depth, which is usually.” Harrison straightens, probably because Sherlock sounds (as intended) intimidating and standoffish. “For example, I know you're married—but not to your college girlfriend; the ring's too new. A recent marriage then, so the children aren't yours. Possibly out of wedlock, but more likely previous marriage; chalk fingerprints on your back show that, size of the hand shows the age. A first-time wife is unlikely to let you leave the house with chalk on your back but one who's been married is less likely to care. You've moved back to London recently, working in hospital. Surgery's your specialty, cardiac if I'm not mistaken. You recently thought you'd take up guitar for the manual dexterity but your wife complained about the racket. And you've got a cat. Six weeks old, calico. Male, surprisingly, but you didn't know that yet.”
Sherlock arranges his face to look something like bored, as if the list of facts he'd just riddled off is nothing spectacular. They're always obvious to Sherlock, of course, but he knows John likes it when he explains how he arrived at the inevitable conclusions, so he does for his benefit.
Harrison's mouth drops open and he turns to stare incredulously at John. “This bloke's your flatmate?” he questions, vocal tone matching his facial expression.
John smiles for real this time, not the awkward fake smile of seeing someone he hasn't seen in a while and not the half smile he gives to Sherlock when he's patronizing but not overly so. No, this smile lights up John's eyes and for a moment Sherlock is confused.
“Yeah,” answers John. “My best mate, actually.”
Sherlock is dimly aware that Harrison has replied, but he's stopped paying attention to that conversation. Not merely colleague or flatmate or even just friend. Best friend. The world around him has turned sort of blurry and everything's a lot quieter and he feels a sort of swelling in his chest that he's not accustomed to. There's a pleasant warmth that spreads to his fingers and toes and Sherlock is at a loss.
When he feels the grin his mouth has formed, he gets it. It's not satisfaction, like solving a case brings This is—not happy, because he's been that, when he's notified of a particularly puzzling murder. It's more than just happy, it's bordering on joy or glee or something equally unfamiliar to Sherlock.
John finally catches the expression Sherlock's wearing, this odd mixture of confusion and happiness. He smiles warmly at Sherlock and says, “Of course, you great idiot.”
Sherlock settles into a seat on the other side of John and listens idly to the ebb and flow of their conversation. He orders a drink and watches the other patrons of the bar, stealing the occasional glance back at John. John, his best mate, his only friend. And it's mutual.
Characters: John, Sherlock, OMC
Prompt: The first time John refers to Sherlock as his best friend (from the kink meme)
Genre: Gen
Warnings: None
Rating: PG13 (for drinking and swearing I guess; I don't write anything too racy)
"It'll be fun, Sherlock."
"I simply cannot see how." Sherlock crosses his arms across his chest, a petulant look on his face. "Besides, I have loads of better things to do." He could study the decomposition rate of the liver in the fridge. He could finally microwave those eyeballs to see what happens. He could watch crap telly and yell at the screen for an hour; really, he wasn't entirely particular as to the nature of the distraction.
John sighs. "You ought to get out of the flat."
John might be right about that, but Sherlock will never admit it. It's been a couple days since the last case and he absolutely refuses to do the shopping. He's running out of nicotine patches and John stole all his hidden cigarettes and he needs something to do. The time in between cases was just so boring
"I make no promises about what I will or will not deduce about this friend of yours," he says finally. "Being a friend of yours, he's likely to be quite transparent." John gives him a look. "Oh please, I saw right through you."
The corner of John's mouth quirks up into something approaching a smile. "Fine," John says patiently and moves to hand Sherlock his coat. Sherlock puts it on and ties his scarf a bit more slowly than usual so John knows Sherlock's coming along for the pleasure of deduction and not because he has any desire to meet any of John's friends, former or otherwise.
Besides, after what happened when he introduced John to Sebastian, he's not really keen on being pronounced John's "colleague" again.
He follows John out of the flat and they hail a cab.
They're meeting John's friend at a bar. Sherlock knows this is because relationships with some distance in tend to be awkward and alcohol will help soothe this. He also suspects John is curious to see how Sherlock reacts under the influence, though he has no intention of conducting that little experiment.
John's friend is already there when they arrive. Greying hair, soft around the middle--John's age, probably college athlete but not in shape anymore. He waves them over. He's not surprised to see John's brought Sherlock around, so John must have already told him. It's unclear what exactly John has said about him—the man's face only shows the slightest trace of recognition when turned to Sherlock. Knows John's brought someone, but not the nature of the relationship. No, flatmate, Sherlock corrects himself. John told his friend he was bringing along his flatmate but nothing more. He doesn't look put-upon so Sherlock is fairly certain John didn't tell him he was bringing Sherlock out of necessity.
"Hey there, mate, how've you been?" the friend asks John jovially, extending his hand for John to shake. The question is vague, not specific to health or injury, likely because he knows about the circumstances, but not because he was there. No, this friend lacks the stance and haircut of a military man, but the tone of his voice suggests an adulthood friend. Medical school, Sherlock supposes, possibly university.
"Good, good," says John, equally as vague. So he doesn't know this friend well enough to be honest. Pity, Sherlock thinks. Things are much easier when people are honest. He turns his attention to Sherlock now. “Sherlock, this is Harrison, a mate from medical school.” So he was right the first time. As usual. Sherlock nods slightly, face blank. He knows how introductions go. He remembers the bank, John's careful insistence that they are colleagues, nothing more, not friends, certainly not friends.
Sherlock's pretty good at tuning out emotions when necessary, and he's pretty certain it is about to be necessary.
John turns to Harrison. “Harrison, this is Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective.” Harrison extends his hand and Sherlock shakes it stiffly. Leave it to John to define him by his work. Sherlock ignores the voice in his head that reminds him that that is how he defines himself as well.
“Consulting detective, huh? Like a PI?” Harrison chuckles.
“No.” Harrison stops chuckling. “I observe and deduce when the police are out of their depth, which is usually.” Harrison straightens, probably because Sherlock sounds (as intended) intimidating and standoffish. “For example, I know you're married—but not to your college girlfriend; the ring's too new. A recent marriage then, so the children aren't yours. Possibly out of wedlock, but more likely previous marriage; chalk fingerprints on your back show that, size of the hand shows the age. A first-time wife is unlikely to let you leave the house with chalk on your back but one who's been married is less likely to care. You've moved back to London recently, working in hospital. Surgery's your specialty, cardiac if I'm not mistaken. You recently thought you'd take up guitar for the manual dexterity but your wife complained about the racket. And you've got a cat. Six weeks old, calico. Male, surprisingly, but you didn't know that yet.”
Sherlock arranges his face to look something like bored, as if the list of facts he'd just riddled off is nothing spectacular. They're always obvious to Sherlock, of course, but he knows John likes it when he explains how he arrived at the inevitable conclusions, so he does for his benefit.
Harrison's mouth drops open and he turns to stare incredulously at John. “This bloke's your flatmate?” he questions, vocal tone matching his facial expression.
John smiles for real this time, not the awkward fake smile of seeing someone he hasn't seen in a while and not the half smile he gives to Sherlock when he's patronizing but not overly so. No, this smile lights up John's eyes and for a moment Sherlock is confused.
“Yeah,” answers John. “My best mate, actually.”
Sherlock is dimly aware that Harrison has replied, but he's stopped paying attention to that conversation. Not merely colleague or flatmate or even just friend. Best friend. The world around him has turned sort of blurry and everything's a lot quieter and he feels a sort of swelling in his chest that he's not accustomed to. There's a pleasant warmth that spreads to his fingers and toes and Sherlock is at a loss.
When he feels the grin his mouth has formed, he gets it. It's not satisfaction, like solving a case brings This is—not happy, because he's been that, when he's notified of a particularly puzzling murder. It's more than just happy, it's bordering on joy or glee or something equally unfamiliar to Sherlock.
John finally catches the expression Sherlock's wearing, this odd mixture of confusion and happiness. He smiles warmly at Sherlock and says, “Of course, you great idiot.”
Sherlock settles into a seat on the other side of John and listens idly to the ebb and flow of their conversation. He orders a drink and watches the other patrons of the bar, stealing the occasional glance back at John. John, his best mate, his only friend. And it's mutual.
