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saki101Title: Files From a Flashdrive: White Satin, Silver Sequins
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: ~1700
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Also posted on: LJ Sherlockmas
Summary: John doesn't only write about their cases.
A/N: Written for the Sherlockmas 2013 SPF: First Friday Drabble Day Post to fill Prompt No. 81: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (optional Sally); too many memories of a bad case. Their flexible rules permitted fills longer than 500 words as well. As usual, I've interpreted a prompt in my own strange way.
Posted, also, on AO3.
Can be read alone.
It may also be read as part of the Other Experiments series where it would fit in after Revisionist. (Other Experiments begins with Sometimes.)
Excerpt: “The folks from the theatre were more than willing to help; they’re still grateful about The Navel Treatment case. Well, of course, you know that,” I continued, heading towards the fridge. I reached in and seized a water bottle. “They said we could have kept the hats. Just as well we didn't. That must have been the best-documented petty theft in history.”
Files From a Flashdrive:
White Satin, Silver Sequins
“Sherlock, I don’t know if I’m up to this,” I said, pushing open the door to the office with my foot and dropping the heavy stack of manuals on the coffee table. “The folks from the theatre were more than willing to help; they’re still grateful about The Navel Treatment case. Well, of course, you know that,” I continued, heading towards the fridge. I reached in and seized a water bottle. “They said we could have kept the hats. Just as well we didn't. That must have been the best-documented petty theft in history.” I cracked the cap, took a long drink and leaned back against the dark wood of the sideboard. “How’s the composing going?”
Sherlock looked over the top of my laptop, gaze sweeping from the hand holding the bottle, down to my feet and back up to my face. He had narrowed his eyes. I wiped a drop of water from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and his eyes followed. “What?” I asked.
“You never told me how much you liked that dress,” Sherlock replied.
I spotted the flashdrive jutting out from the side of the laptop. I pulled my keys from my jacket pocket. The flashdrive was missing. “I’m surprised you haven’t just copied it,” I said, trying for nonchalance.
“You write more. You edit,” Sherlock replied, his regard probing. “You know I like the most up-to-date information.”
“That happened before we…” I paused. “I didn't really understand what I was feeling.” I took another drink of water. “At one point that night, we thought we’d lost you and Dimmock, so it isn’t a fun case to remember.”
“Didn’t stop you writing about the dress though,” Sherlock said, his eyes still trained on me. “And if you recall, when Lestrade and Donovan finally broke in, I had rendered my assailant unconscious, had a knife to the throat of Dimmock’s captor and had already learned the location of the two kidnap victims they hadn’t killed yet.”
“True. But when we lost the audio, we feared they’d disarmed you as well,” I replied, remembering the prickling sensation spreading over my skin, urging action. “I hated staying by the riverboat, but if they’d brought you back that way…”
“It’s surprising how much one can hide under such a skimpy garment,” Sherlock continued. “Donovan had some unexpectedly helpful tips about that. And the sequins distract the eye.”
“You listened to her?” I asked.
“It's the information that's important, regardless of my feelings about its source. Once or twice Anderson’s even done something useful,” Sherlock said, shutting the laptop, drumming his fingers lightly on the cover. “Your observations about that night were most illuminating.” Sherlock leaned back, steepled his fingers below his lips. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his collar open, the white cloth in vivid contrast to the dark leather of the chair. “Or should I say your reactions?” He arched an eyebrow.
“I was there to help protect you, Sherlock,” I countered. “I was alert to our surroundings.”
“I would never doubt it. You’ve been an army doctor, accustomed to making crucial decisions under fire. I’m confident of your ability to multitask.”
I took another drink of water, my eyes fixing on the white of Sherlock’s shirt, as white as the satin dress. It had accentuated the slenderness of his frame as he walked twenty paces ahead of me along the Embankment. The silver sequins shimmered as they shifted over his hips like the lights on the river.
“If I hadn’t known you and Dimmock were going to be disguised as women, I wouldn’t have recognised you when you came up the steps from the quay,” I said. “God, the way you moved.” It was before me again, the dark buildings to one side, the dark water to the other, the tall, graceful figure like a beacon straight ahead, Dimmock a dull blur to the left.
“Disguised as men dressed as women,” Sherlock corrected. “How was it different from the way I usually walk?” Sherlock asked.
Of course, he knew exactly what he’d done to alter his gait, but he wanted my perceptions, my remembered perceptions, so I answered anyway. I tilted my head and thought of him with his coat swirling about him, running down stairs, leaping over railings. I could feel a smile reshaping my lips. “You always move like a dancer,” I said, “but you’d made the motions smaller. The aloof carriage was the same though.” I recalled how smooth his legs had looked beneath the sheer tights, how my eyes had glided along them, my fingers twitching. “Couldn’t do much else in those shoes. Like you need to be any taller.”
“The shoes, too, then,” Sherlock said, a slightly coaxing note underlying his tone of clinical enquiry.
“More what was between them and the hem of that dress. That short, short dress,” I said. “It barely covered your bum. You couldn’t have leaned forward enough to let someone light your cigarette.” I exhaled and took another gulp of water. “I didn’t like that you had those with you, by the way.”
“Many men like to light their companion’s cigarette,” Sherlock remarked. “It’s such a suggestive gesture. I wonder it was ever allowed in polite company.” I choked a bit on my water. “Not that we were anywhere near polite company that evening.”
“I was right behind you when you crossed the road,” I said. “Dimmock grumbled that you didn’t use the crosswalk. Said something about ‘it always having to be about you.’”
“Did he?” Sherlock said and smiled. “Most of the pedestrians were crossing where I did.”
“Following you, probably,” I said.
“Like you were,” Sherlock replied. “I could smell your aftershave.”
“When you stepped up on the kerb on the other side, your arse was nearly in my face and you were just a few centimetres in front of me. I practically had to hold my arm to keep from slipping my hand between your thighs.”
“So you wrote,” Sherlock said.
I held the water bottle next to my cheek, my eyes roaming the room, not seeing it. “I couldn’t shake the feelings for weeks: watching you walk in that narrow sheath half a block ahead of me, speeding up to get closer, afraid of losing sight of you.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Wanting to slide my fingers under that glittering fabric, right there in that crowd of people crossing the road.”
“There’s always something,” Sherlock muttered. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone back to the Yard with Lestrade afterwards.”
My attention snapped back to him. “You wouldn’t have?”
“I’d been waiting a long while for you to realise what you wanted to do,” Sherlock said. “And I’m not usually a patient man.” His voice had lowered with the last words.
The water bottle crackled in my hand.
“I still have them,” Sherlock added, rolling his chair backwards.
My clothes felt too warm. “What?”
“The dress and the shoes,” Sherlock replied, standing and stalking around the desk. “The tights got ruined when I disabled the procurer. I lost an earring as well.” His hand flicked his ear lobe as he stopped in front of me. His eyes roved, measuring. They stopped at mine. “I may have another pair.”
I swallowed. “Tights or earrings?”
Sherlock smiled and stepped either side of my knees, an upward impulse tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Possibly both.”
I brushed my fingers against his throat. “I could see them dangling below your hair just there.” They had caught the light, too, little signals indicating places to suckle or bite. I felt myself moistening my lips and grew even warmer. It was such a blatant gesture.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked down and back. “I didn’t think your attention focussed much above the waist.” He leaned closer. He is so much taller than I am, he has to bend to get close. I like it. He knows I like it.
“I made a few other observations that night,” I said, “of a non-police investigation sort.”
“Such a leg man,” Sherlock whispered in my ear.
“And you have miles of them.”
“That’s convenient, don’t you think,” Sherlock remarked, drawing away.
“Where are you going?” I said, reaching out, but not fast enough.
“Obvious, John,” Sherlock said, already at the bedroom door. “In an hour, start strolling east from the statue of Boudicca.”
“Westminster Bridge? That’s practically your brother’s sitting room.” I darted across the room. The door closed, the lock clicked. “I thought we were trying to avoid him,” I called through the wood.
“Do what you can, then, to be inconspicuous,” Sherlock replied. “I shall be in disguise.”
On the other side of the door, drawers were opening and closing. “You had a police escort last time. You needed one in that outfit.”
“Bring your gun, if it will make you feel better. It’s in the desk,” Sherlock said. Water began to run.
***
Someone was having a fancy dress party on one of the river boats. I leaned against the balustrade above the landings, in Boudicca’s shadow, watching the revellers approach their destination, some more committed to the idea of costume than others. A few came in groups, some giggling, some unsteady on their high heels, possibly having met up at a pub beforehand. There appeared to be more women attending than men.
There were lovers out, too, kissing in the neon glow of the Eye, silently negotiating with their hands, and tourists, some weary with a day’s trudging, collapsed on the benches, clutching their bags of souvenirs or eating their fast food. Others, still atwitter, snapped photos above me on the bridge and down along the Embankment, their flashes adding to the array of lights bedecking the dark.
A taxi stopped several metres from me. There was a glimmer of white as the door opened and he unfolded himself. He turned east as soon as he closed the door, didn’t glance my way, but I’m sure he’d seen me. Heads were already turning. The sequins shimmered with the subtle sway of his hips. I pushed off from the railing and followed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A continuation may be read here.
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock
Rating: R-ish
Word Count: ~1700
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Also posted on: LJ Sherlockmas
Summary: John doesn't only write about their cases.
A/N: Written for the Sherlockmas 2013 SPF: First Friday Drabble Day Post to fill Prompt No. 81: Sherlock, John, Lestrade (optional Sally); too many memories of a bad case. Their flexible rules permitted fills longer than 500 words as well. As usual, I've interpreted a prompt in my own strange way.
Posted, also, on AO3.
Can be read alone.
It may also be read as part of the Other Experiments series where it would fit in after Revisionist. (Other Experiments begins with Sometimes.)
Excerpt: “The folks from the theatre were more than willing to help; they’re still grateful about The Navel Treatment case. Well, of course, you know that,” I continued, heading towards the fridge. I reached in and seized a water bottle. “They said we could have kept the hats. Just as well we didn't. That must have been the best-documented petty theft in history.”
“Sherlock, I don’t know if I’m up to this,” I said, pushing open the door to the office with my foot and dropping the heavy stack of manuals on the coffee table. “The folks from the theatre were more than willing to help; they’re still grateful about The Navel Treatment case. Well, of course, you know that,” I continued, heading towards the fridge. I reached in and seized a water bottle. “They said we could have kept the hats. Just as well we didn't. That must have been the best-documented petty theft in history.” I cracked the cap, took a long drink and leaned back against the dark wood of the sideboard. “How’s the composing going?”
Sherlock looked over the top of my laptop, gaze sweeping from the hand holding the bottle, down to my feet and back up to my face. He had narrowed his eyes. I wiped a drop of water from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand and his eyes followed. “What?” I asked.
“You never told me how much you liked that dress,” Sherlock replied.
I spotted the flashdrive jutting out from the side of the laptop. I pulled my keys from my jacket pocket. The flashdrive was missing. “I’m surprised you haven’t just copied it,” I said, trying for nonchalance.
“You write more. You edit,” Sherlock replied, his regard probing. “You know I like the most up-to-date information.”
“That happened before we…” I paused. “I didn't really understand what I was feeling.” I took another drink of water. “At one point that night, we thought we’d lost you and Dimmock, so it isn’t a fun case to remember.”
“Didn’t stop you writing about the dress though,” Sherlock said, his eyes still trained on me. “And if you recall, when Lestrade and Donovan finally broke in, I had rendered my assailant unconscious, had a knife to the throat of Dimmock’s captor and had already learned the location of the two kidnap victims they hadn’t killed yet.”
“True. But when we lost the audio, we feared they’d disarmed you as well,” I replied, remembering the prickling sensation spreading over my skin, urging action. “I hated staying by the riverboat, but if they’d brought you back that way…”
“It’s surprising how much one can hide under such a skimpy garment,” Sherlock continued. “Donovan had some unexpectedly helpful tips about that. And the sequins distract the eye.”
“You listened to her?” I asked.
“It's the information that's important, regardless of my feelings about its source. Once or twice Anderson’s even done something useful,” Sherlock said, shutting the laptop, drumming his fingers lightly on the cover. “Your observations about that night were most illuminating.” Sherlock leaned back, steepled his fingers below his lips. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, his collar open, the white cloth in vivid contrast to the dark leather of the chair. “Or should I say your reactions?” He arched an eyebrow.
“I was there to help protect you, Sherlock,” I countered. “I was alert to our surroundings.”
“I would never doubt it. You’ve been an army doctor, accustomed to making crucial decisions under fire. I’m confident of your ability to multitask.”
I took another drink of water, my eyes fixing on the white of Sherlock’s shirt, as white as the satin dress. It had accentuated the slenderness of his frame as he walked twenty paces ahead of me along the Embankment. The silver sequins shimmered as they shifted over his hips like the lights on the river.
“If I hadn’t known you and Dimmock were going to be disguised as women, I wouldn’t have recognised you when you came up the steps from the quay,” I said. “God, the way you moved.” It was before me again, the dark buildings to one side, the dark water to the other, the tall, graceful figure like a beacon straight ahead, Dimmock a dull blur to the left.
“Disguised as men dressed as women,” Sherlock corrected. “How was it different from the way I usually walk?” Sherlock asked.
Of course, he knew exactly what he’d done to alter his gait, but he wanted my perceptions, my remembered perceptions, so I answered anyway. I tilted my head and thought of him with his coat swirling about him, running down stairs, leaping over railings. I could feel a smile reshaping my lips. “You always move like a dancer,” I said, “but you’d made the motions smaller. The aloof carriage was the same though.” I recalled how smooth his legs had looked beneath the sheer tights, how my eyes had glided along them, my fingers twitching. “Couldn’t do much else in those shoes. Like you need to be any taller.”
“The shoes, too, then,” Sherlock said, a slightly coaxing note underlying his tone of clinical enquiry.
“More what was between them and the hem of that dress. That short, short dress,” I said. “It barely covered your bum. You couldn’t have leaned forward enough to let someone light your cigarette.” I exhaled and took another gulp of water. “I didn’t like that you had those with you, by the way.”
“Many men like to light their companion’s cigarette,” Sherlock remarked. “It’s such a suggestive gesture. I wonder it was ever allowed in polite company.” I choked a bit on my water. “Not that we were anywhere near polite company that evening.”
“I was right behind you when you crossed the road,” I said. “Dimmock grumbled that you didn’t use the crosswalk. Said something about ‘it always having to be about you.’”
“Did he?” Sherlock said and smiled. “Most of the pedestrians were crossing where I did.”
“Following you, probably,” I said.
“Like you were,” Sherlock replied. “I could smell your aftershave.”
“When you stepped up on the kerb on the other side, your arse was nearly in my face and you were just a few centimetres in front of me. I practically had to hold my arm to keep from slipping my hand between your thighs.”
“So you wrote,” Sherlock said.
I held the water bottle next to my cheek, my eyes roaming the room, not seeing it. “I couldn’t shake the feelings for weeks: watching you walk in that narrow sheath half a block ahead of me, speeding up to get closer, afraid of losing sight of you.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “Wanting to slide my fingers under that glittering fabric, right there in that crowd of people crossing the road.”
“There’s always something,” Sherlock muttered. “If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone back to the Yard with Lestrade afterwards.”
My attention snapped back to him. “You wouldn’t have?”
“I’d been waiting a long while for you to realise what you wanted to do,” Sherlock said. “And I’m not usually a patient man.” His voice had lowered with the last words.
The water bottle crackled in my hand.
“I still have them,” Sherlock added, rolling his chair backwards.
My clothes felt too warm. “What?”
“The dress and the shoes,” Sherlock replied, standing and stalking around the desk. “The tights got ruined when I disabled the procurer. I lost an earring as well.” His hand flicked his ear lobe as he stopped in front of me. His eyes roved, measuring. They stopped at mine. “I may have another pair.”
I swallowed. “Tights or earrings?”
Sherlock smiled and stepped either side of my knees, an upward impulse tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Possibly both.”
I brushed my fingers against his throat. “I could see them dangling below your hair just there.” They had caught the light, too, little signals indicating places to suckle or bite. I felt myself moistening my lips and grew even warmer. It was such a blatant gesture.
Sherlock’s eyes flicked down and back. “I didn’t think your attention focussed much above the waist.” He leaned closer. He is so much taller than I am, he has to bend to get close. I like it. He knows I like it.
“I made a few other observations that night,” I said, “of a non-police investigation sort.”
“Such a leg man,” Sherlock whispered in my ear.
“And you have miles of them.”
“That’s convenient, don’t you think,” Sherlock remarked, drawing away.
“Where are you going?” I said, reaching out, but not fast enough.
“Obvious, John,” Sherlock said, already at the bedroom door. “In an hour, start strolling east from the statue of Boudicca.”
“Westminster Bridge? That’s practically your brother’s sitting room.” I darted across the room. The door closed, the lock clicked. “I thought we were trying to avoid him,” I called through the wood.
“Do what you can, then, to be inconspicuous,” Sherlock replied. “I shall be in disguise.”
On the other side of the door, drawers were opening and closing. “You had a police escort last time. You needed one in that outfit.”
“Bring your gun, if it will make you feel better. It’s in the desk,” Sherlock said. Water began to run.
***
Someone was having a fancy dress party on one of the river boats. I leaned against the balustrade above the landings, in Boudicca’s shadow, watching the revellers approach their destination, some more committed to the idea of costume than others. A few came in groups, some giggling, some unsteady on their high heels, possibly having met up at a pub beforehand. There appeared to be more women attending than men.
There were lovers out, too, kissing in the neon glow of the Eye, silently negotiating with their hands, and tourists, some weary with a day’s trudging, collapsed on the benches, clutching their bags of souvenirs or eating their fast food. Others, still atwitter, snapped photos above me on the bridge and down along the Embankment, their flashes adding to the array of lights bedecking the dark.
A taxi stopped several metres from me. There was a glimmer of white as the door opened and he unfolded himself. He turned east as soon as he closed the door, didn’t glance my way, but I’m sure he’d seen me. Heads were already turning. The sequins shimmered with the subtle sway of his hips. I pushed off from the railing and followed.
A continuation may be read here.
