Phil of 221C Baker Street
A.N. A series of drabbles while I work on Orpheus in the Grey.
Disclaimer: I'm not affiliated in any way with Sherlock. I write for the LOLs.
Warnings: hints of Sherlock/John, language, and OC alert.
221C Baker Street
Phil Gets Acquainted with His New Neighbors
Phil is in the middle of making his world famous pasta primavera when the lights explode overhead and the ceiling begins to shake. He barely manages to leap to the safety of the living room before it gives out and collapses into rubble onto his kitchen floor.
After a few minutes of silence have absconded, he deems it safe enough to poke his head around the corner and look into what remains of the kitchenette. A bit of plaster has crushed his stove-taking dinner with it, dammit—and he thinks he can see the dusty outline of what remains of his dining table.
He takes a deep breath, trying to think of the sweet Mrs. Hudson and reduced rent before he calls through the hole.
"Everything alright up there?" He doesn't like to judge until he gets all of the facts, which keeps him from ranting over the state of his kitchenette.
There's a brief moment of silence before a rather put upon voice calls back, dripping with sarcasm, "Quite."
The posh voice is suddenly muffled and another man yells, "Oh, Jesus! I am so sorry! That was… that was just a, um, faulty wire on our end. Speak to Mrs. Hudson and she'll put the cost of repairs on our rent." There's an awkward pause and then, "You must be the new neighbor!"
Phil squints upward into the hole and can just barely make out the silhouette of a person, their head titled down toward him. He waves and a blurry hand waves back.
"Yeah," Phil says slowly, wondering what kind of faulty wiring causes an entire ceiling to cave in. "The name's Phil. Just moved in last week."
The person is nodding. "Oh, lovely! I'm John and this one-" A taller silhouette steps carefully around the hole in their floor and moves to stand next to the other one. "-is Sherlock. Say hello to our new neighbor, Sherlock!"
"How long do you plan on staying here?" Sherlock says instead. John jams his elbow into Sherlock, making him cry out. There's a quick scuffle, which Phil can barely keep track of, before the shorter man is back.
"He says hi," John says sheepishly. "It's very lovely to make your acquaintance!"
Phil's just about to respond when John is suddenly dragged backward and away from the hole as Sherlock shouts "Boring!" somewhere off in the distance.
Phil is left, craning his neck and feeling like he missed something important.
"Nice to meet you…" He says to the emptiness.
So goes the first meeting.
221C Baker Street
Phil Gets Ready for Bed
Phil has just finished trimming his mustache and is situating himself in bed when the noises start up. At first it's a soft thumping sound, which makes him chuckle. He remembers his uni days, which had been a pleasant blur of women and keggers. While that had been nice for the time, he's since calmed down and prefers the simplicity of single city living.
He puts on his reading glasses and grabs his Clancy novel, snuggling under the covers.
"Oh, sweet Jesus fuck. Harder!"
Phil pauses in the middle of a paragraph. The voice sounds a hell of a lot like John, one of his neighbors from 221B. 'Good show.' He thinks. 'The man is getting laid. Pleasant chap.'
After a few moments of silence, he picks up where he left off in his novel.
Thud. "Is that hard enough for you, Watson?"
Phil startles, eyebrows shooting up at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He almost winces but really, that'd be a gross overreaction given the day and age. This is London, after all, and he's nothing if not open-minded.
Running on that pep-talk, he takes a calming breath and tries to resume his reading.
'Tries' being the imperative word for not a moment later all hell breaks loose.
THUD THUD THUD "Ohhhhh fuck! Fuck fuck fuck. Yeah, right there! God, Sherlock! M'god, I swear-"
BANG SLAM HISS MOAN THUD
"Yes, take it. Take my cock." THUD "You." Thud. "Belong." Thud. "To." Thud thud thud. "ME!"
BANG SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM
"God, yes! Oh, I'm coming! I'm coming! Mmm, Sherlock."
Phil feels the blood draining from his face as he practically throws himself out of bed and toward the living room; heading for his television set.
He cranks the volume and fumbles a cigarette out from his jacket with shaking fingers. He's searching for his lighter when the telephone begins ringing.
A distraction! Yes!
He practically trips on his way to answer the phone. He finally manages to pick it up on the fourth ring with a deliberately gruff, "Philips residence."
There's a brief stretch of silence before a deep voice drawls, "Phil Philips?"
Phil instantly recognizes the voice as Sherlock and feels his balls shrivel just a bit in abject terror. He's not homophobic by any stretch of the imagination but he'd really rather not be caught overhearing someone else's sexy times—gay or otherwise.
He clears his throat and goes for a curtly nonchalant, "Yup, speaking."
Damn it, that was too nonchalant! The man'll probably think he's been listening with an eager ear pressed to the floor!
Sherlock scoffs, his voice deep and sarcastic. "PHILIP Philips?"
"Right-o."
Lovely! He might as well have invited the man up for a chat about his shagging techniques with how obvious he's being!
"….Anyway. Do keep it down. I don't need you broadcasting your horrendous taste in media while John's trying to rest. I trust I don't need to call again."
The phone clicks and Phil's left staring incredulously at the receiver.
221C Baker Street
Phil Goes Jogging
Phil stares in displeasure at his scale and decides then and there to get healthy. He should take up jogging or something. He's packed on almost a stone since uni and it shows with the way his shirts are beginning to strain. He's only in his mid-thirties; no need to let himself go-especially since he's still single.
Feeling motivated, he changes into a pair of sweats and an older jumper. He finds a water bottle left over from his football days, grabs a rag, and heads out of the apartment building.
He hasn't even cleared the kerb when a white van screeches to a halt beside him. Two large men hurl themselves out of the back; dressed from head to toe in black and carrying pistols. Phil's eyes widen and he turns to go back inside, but he's too slow. One of them grabs him from behind and yanks him around, manhandling him into the van with a vicious shove of their gun. He drops his water bottle and rag on the way.
He's terrified, quite frankly. And gasping for air. God, he really needs to get in shape.
A rough spun bag is shoved over his head and the van is peeling back into traffic; Phil officially kidnapped.
"You think you could get away with it?" One of the two kidnappers growls, both having situated themselves on either side of his person.
Phil swallows. "I-I'm sorry. Get away with what?" He tries to think of any nefarious deeds he may have gotten up to but comes up blank. Unless they mean when he's had a few too many to drink; in that case, he's hopeless because he tends to black out after a few beers.
"Don't play stupid with us, Holmes! We'll get it out of you—one way or another!"
His heart sinks. He isn't a Holmes; he's a Phil. They—whoever they are—have kidnapped the wrong bloke.
"You've got the wrong-" Something hits him in the mouth and pain explodes in his head. He thinks he can taste blood.
He's just about to start throwing punches—read: sobbing in terror- when the van jerks to a sudden stop, sending him pitching forward. Not a second too soon, he hears the back doors being flung open and a woman shouting, "FREEZE!"
Hands grope at the bag on his head and then, suddenly, the daylight is blinding him. Once his eyes adjust, he sees at least ten uniformed coppers with guns aimed at him. He immediately puts his hands over his head, shaking with relief. His kidnappers follow suit.
A tall, lithe man—Phil eyes his physique jealously- steps out neatly from behind the coppers and makes his way toward the van. The man's dressed smartly in tailored grey trousers, gleaming shoes-that are probably Italian in design and obscenely expensive- and a long, thick woolen Belstaff original; just a hint of a starched white collar peeking out from under the dark coat. Phil saw that same coat advertised in Men's Daily and thought it'd be too "Gee, I wonder if he's going to trail me into a back alley" on him. Not to mention the price…
He takes in the man's dark curly hair enviously—which is tamed into a style that's probably fashionable and modern. Phil thinks mournfully of his own bushy ginger froof and despises this posh man on sight. At least he's nowhere near as pasty as this fucker; he's Welsh if he weren't a day, which contributes to his ruddy-cheeked, sun-roughened complexion.
'Milk tea over here's probably never even seen a decent sunny day without bursting into flames.' He thinks maliciously. Outwardly, he smiles. And winces. He's forgotten about his lip. Ow.
Said posh man seems to be assessing him back, almost colourless eyes categorizing and analyzing as they probably take in the sweats and dirty jumper. Phil almost jumps when the man reaches out a pale hand, dangling a handkerchief from between two long fingers.
"For the blood," the man clarifies in a chillingly familiar drawl.
Phil takes the handkerchief and takes note of its ridiculous silky expensiveness. He half expects it to disintegrate in his fat, lower class fingers. He idly makes note of the monogrammed name before his brain catches up and he rereads the stitched lettering in horror: Sherlock
Sherlock…
His gaze flies up and he gets a good look at his neighbor for the first time: Sherlock, the bastard from 221B; Sherlock, the pervert that kept him up all hours buggering the shite out of John; Sherlock, the git somehow involved in his kidnapping; Sherlock, the man he's been cattily picking apart for the better part of five minutes.
Sherlock arches one dark eyebrow at him in bemusement. He's apparently too classy to ask for his face back.
Phil sighs, lowering his gaze as he dabs the cloth to his busted lip. "Cheers."
A.N. More to come. Thanks for playing along! :)