i am sooooo regretting this in the morning...
The flat seemed almost uninhabited – dim and quiet, the loudest sound the tip-tapping of the rain on the window outside. But with a careful ear, amidst the never-ending chatter of the rain, a less organic tapping could be heard. Clicking. Tapping. Typing.
Two faces lit by the eerie white light of computer screens pronounced themselves in different locations of the darkened room: one with an expression of intense concentration, fingers frantically tapping away at the laptop keyboard. The other, well, was rather expressionless – not that that was uncommon for this particular person, though.
Sherlock was bored.
Very. Very bored.
Bored to the point of throwing random keywords into some internet search engine in attempt to stumble upon something vaguely interesting.
Click.
Dull. Apparently the vast majority of the internet had nothing more than a heap of sexual innuendos and poorly written articles to offer for most of these keywords. Sherlock slumped into the sofa after another random search failed to even vaguely entertain him.
John was busy working on a new post for his blog, sitting there at the desk. Quiet, and being very, very boring.
“Ugh. Dull.” Sherlock let out a small sound of distaste and rolled his eyes.
“What are you looking at?” John inquired distractedly, glancing only briefly at Sherlock’s general direction before returning his gaze to the glow of his screen.
Obviously just posing the question for the sake of one of those I’m-not-entirely-ignoring-you responses. Sherlock sank deeper into the sofa. Well. Better than no response at all.
“A certain type of humor based on plugging in movie or book titles into certain stock phrases.”
“Oh?”
Bloody hell. He probably wasn’t even listening.
Not that Sherlock minded. Much.
The detective set his laptop on the tea table in front of the sofa and hefted himself off his cushiony niche. Turning on the small lamp perched on the round table next to the sofa, Sherlock stretched a little and lazily approached the corner of the room where boxes of a dead man’s books slowly took over more and more space as its contents somehow managed to creep out on the floor in the form of fallen over stacks.
Picking one off the top of a stack, Sherlock tilted his head slightly to read the title.
“A demonstration,” His voice was still quite unamused. “Norwegian Folktales. In your pants.”
“…interesting.”
Judging by the way the tapping of computer keys had no indication of slowing down, John probably didn’t even register the content of Sherlock’s demonstration.
Sherlock picked up another book.
“Lolita. In John Watson’s pants.”
A crash of fingers on keys. Pause. Three taps. Most likely the backspace key judging from placement of right hand.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray. In John Watson’s pants.”
Shoulders twitch. Proper registration of speech content confirmed.
“Wuthering Heights. In John Watson’s pants.”
Typing stopped. Slight tilt of head. Possible break of concentration from blog-typing task.
“Difficult Loves. In John Watson’s pants.”
Sherlock angled his head slightly from the cover of the book as he took note of John’s every reaction.
“Seventeenth-Century Art and Architecture. In John Watson’s pants.”
“Sherlock!” John turned around halfway in his chair, irritation bleeding into his voice.
Ah, finally a verbal reaction.
“I get it already, will you stop using my name in these?”
“You are so easily irritated.”
Sherlock tipped a book off the top of one stack, turning his back towards the other man in a painfully mild attempt of concealing how amused he really was.
“The Adventures of Sherlock Homles. In John Watson’s pants.”
Two faces lit by the eerie white light of computer screens pronounced themselves in different locations of the darkened room: one with an expression of intense concentration, fingers frantically tapping away at the laptop keyboard. The other, well, was rather expressionless – not that that was uncommon for this particular person, though.
Sherlock was bored.
Very. Very bored.
Bored to the point of throwing random keywords into some internet search engine in attempt to stumble upon something vaguely interesting.
Click.
Dull. Apparently the vast majority of the internet had nothing more than a heap of sexual innuendos and poorly written articles to offer for most of these keywords. Sherlock slumped into the sofa after another random search failed to even vaguely entertain him.
John was busy working on a new post for his blog, sitting there at the desk. Quiet, and being very, very boring.
“Ugh. Dull.” Sherlock let out a small sound of distaste and rolled his eyes.
“What are you looking at?” John inquired distractedly, glancing only briefly at Sherlock’s general direction before returning his gaze to the glow of his screen.
Obviously just posing the question for the sake of one of those I’m-not-entirely-ignoring-you responses. Sherlock sank deeper into the sofa. Well. Better than no response at all.
“A certain type of humor based on plugging in movie or book titles into certain stock phrases.”
“Oh?”
Bloody hell. He probably wasn’t even listening.
Not that Sherlock minded. Much.
The detective set his laptop on the tea table in front of the sofa and hefted himself off his cushiony niche. Turning on the small lamp perched on the round table next to the sofa, Sherlock stretched a little and lazily approached the corner of the room where boxes of a dead man’s books slowly took over more and more space as its contents somehow managed to creep out on the floor in the form of fallen over stacks.
Picking one off the top of a stack, Sherlock tilted his head slightly to read the title.
“A demonstration,” His voice was still quite unamused. “Norwegian Folktales. In your pants.”
“…interesting.”
Judging by the way the tapping of computer keys had no indication of slowing down, John probably didn’t even register the content of Sherlock’s demonstration.
Sherlock picked up another book.
“Lolita. In John Watson’s pants.”
A crash of fingers on keys. Pause. Three taps. Most likely the backspace key judging from placement of right hand.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray. In John Watson’s pants.”
Shoulders twitch. Proper registration of speech content confirmed.
“Wuthering Heights. In John Watson’s pants.”
Typing stopped. Slight tilt of head. Possible break of concentration from blog-typing task.
“Difficult Loves. In John Watson’s pants.”
Sherlock angled his head slightly from the cover of the book as he took note of John’s every reaction.
“Seventeenth-Century Art and Architecture. In John Watson’s pants.”
“Sherlock!” John turned around halfway in his chair, irritation bleeding into his voice.
Ah, finally a verbal reaction.
“I get it already, will you stop using my name in these?”
“You are so easily irritated.”
Sherlock tipped a book off the top of one stack, turning his back towards the other man in a painfully mild attempt of concealing how amused he really was.
“The Adventures of Sherlock Homles. In John Watson’s pants.”
