A T-Tied Note: It was a real battle between 'tongue' and 'tea,' but eventually Martin Freeman's amazing habit won the show. And I fit in tea anyway, so HAH!
T is for Tongue
It was as deadly as they came, without a hint of remorse or mercy as it haunted Sherlock's thoughts. It darted in and out constantly, without any true rhythm and without much coaxing. While John said Sherlock had a flare for exaggeration, Sherlock was sure that addressing said adversary as one of his largest puzzles in life was not hyperbole in the least. No matter how many cases he'd solved, this one still haunted him daily. Constantly pressing against his brain just as it pressed against John.
Sherlock was usually awake before the sun was up and before formally explained sworn-enemy, but it was a fairly early riser as well. As the consulting detective's eyes honed in on it darting about, his clear eyes narrowed in concentration.
There were so many questions, and so little answers. It was simply unacceptable.
"Ok, what am I doing now? Or did? Or going to do?" John asked as he carefully put down his cup of tea. He did it slowly, as if Sherlock was truly a wild panther and would spring at any fast activity.
"How you handle said beverage," Sherlock answered calmly as his eyes narrowed at the steaming mug. He cleared his throat a moment later, finding it stiff and crackly from not being used in hours.
"You stayed up all night again, didn't you?"
Sherlock looked away then, tightening his midnight robe tighter around his lean figure as if it was a suitable answer.
"Sherlock," John practically sighed his name in judgement before ambling over to his flatmate. Sherlock barely repressed the urge to look up at his (no doubt concerned-laced) face as John placed his cup down before him. And without a word, John left to get ready for the day.
The other man leaped up to the cup when he heard the the click of the bathroom door and the hiss of a shower beginning. Long fingers hesitantly grabbed up the stripped mug, pulling it closer to his face for inspection. He could see the trail of where his enemy had been, seemingly invisible if Sherlock hadn't known where and how to look. He twisted the mug around absently, watching the tag of the tea (chai - how un-Queen-and-country of John) before he brought it back under his examination. He gave an experimental sniff; the bridge of his nose crinkled at the odd mixture of dairy and sweet.
"It's not poison."
Sherlock's grip on the mug visibly tightened, and he had to ignore the stinging of heat stinging at his fingers. After a few tense moments where he scolded himself, Sherlock looked from where the familiar voice had sounded from and gave a half-meant glare. The shower was still on in the background, but John was still robed and dry. So Sherlock wasn't the only half-clever one who slept here.
The older man shrugged once more before leaving, and this time Sherlock waited to hear the sound of water falling alter before taking a sip.
.
Sherlock looked at the crime scene with demure annoyance at both the see-through case and the consistent petulance of the police. If he hadn't arrived as early as he had, forensics would have mucked up the trail leading from the house to the nearby field and following forest. Thankfully there was at least one competent cabbie in all of London.
He turned back to John and Lestrade, the former taking down notes absently as the later rattled on about the case. Sherlock nearly snorted at the elementary nature of it all, but then his interest was perked as it made an appearance.
It quickly ghosted out and over John's bottom lip before retreating back into his warm and damp home. The next moment John asked something that was the slightest bit insightful. And after Lestrade had answered slowly, thinking himself, John countered with points Sherlock could have figured since he was six, but necessary observations none-the-less.
Sherlock allowed John to play and practice for a few more minutes before he cut in and explained the entire situation in a handful of sentences and seconds.
Soon enough they were off in another cab, leaving the silver-haired detective to do the dirty work. The two men watched the large estate properties fly by, and John wondered how these people lived like this. In such large houses, closed off from the city and hub of life. Maybe that was the reason why the step-daughter had stabbed her new 'Mummy' a dazzling six times in the chest before fleeing to the thicket.
At the thought of the crime scene, John gave a little huff of aggravation. He had felt like he'd been just beginning to understand (especially about the gardener, who had admitted to the murder but was only covering for the young woman he'd become smitten with apparently years ago). Then Sherlock had swooped in with his massive coat and even larger brain and explained it away with ease, like an elementary-level math problem.
Sherlock turned from the window to John at the soft sound of a grunt, and almost smirked as John's tongue came out to run over his lips. Sherlock did not know ever instance why it came out, but when John was either thinking or aggrivated, it often made its presence known.
"Stop acting like I spoiled Santa Clause instead of a crime scene," Sherlock said offhandedly over the blare of a moving truck passing by them (someone with a lot of heavy belongings, probably wooden furniture and musty books, by how low the back of the vehicle was).
John's eyes darted to him for a moment before turning back to the view outside. Sherlock didn't know what was the correct emotion to feel when his partner didn't open his mouth, or even for his tongue to dart out, the entire way back home.
.
Sherlock crept up the stairs one at a time. He did it with such a level of stealth it was as if he intended to grab items and steal away into the night like a common thief. No, what he was doing was much more dangerous, as he was en route to infiltrating an ex-soldier's room.
When he got to the landing, knees remaining bent and muscles ready to dash away, he slunk to the door. Sherlock saw it was wide open and street lights streamed across the modest room, illuminating the sharp curves of furniture and his flatmate underneath a rumbled comforter.
One of the blond's arms were over the blanket and sat on his chest, the other one hidden beneath patterned bedding. He was facing away from the window, causing shadows to greatly obstruct his face, but Sherlock wasn't interested in that right now. What he was interested in was open for public viewing, free of charge.
John's mouth hung open unattractively, a soft snore of heavy breathing echoing out of it. Sherlock felt his spine straighten the slightest bit as he sighted that elusive tongue in it's natural habitat, rarely so vulnerable and open to view.
He tip-toed closer still, his hands now grasped behind his back, as if to stop the tall man from doing anything foolish. It was all John's fault really; all of it. From how during the day his tongue made impromptu, distracting guest appearances to now, with his mouth wide open and egging Sherlock on.
Sherlock dipped his head lower, feeling curls move up and off his forehead at the new angle. From this close-up view it looked like a perfectly normal tongue.
Before he could think the action over, Sherlock's fingers shot out and grabbed it, and John awoke with a snort. Yet after the few startled moments of waking up with someone's fingers in his mouth and saw it was only his ever erratic flatmate, his eyelids and shoulders dropped back tried to mumble something, but Sherlock was still holding his tongue and causing and speech to be impossible.
"It's for a case, John. Now go back to sleep," Sherlock said as he finally released the thing that he still couldn't figure out. Why did it avert his attention to such a degree? It looked, and now he knew felt, like an orthodox, alive tongue.
The doctor muttered something unintelligible (although it did sound something between 'cock-and-bull' and 'bullshit') before burying his face into his pillow, causing Sherlock's lips to pucker in distaste. Well now he couldn't even see the damn thing.
He stood with a start and stared at his sleeping flatmate's back for a few moments before turning to leave. He rubbed off John's spit onto his pajama pants as he left the room and began walking down the stairway, not even bothering to quiet his steps anymore.
.
"You do realize you all but make love to your tea."
Maybe it was the uncharacteristic phrase or the seriousness of Sherlock's tone, but the tall man watched in interest as John began choking. After a rough minute of hacking and clearing his lungs, John turned to him with a look of pure confusion.
"You may also want to condition yourself to wait longer before drinking the beverage. You have a tendency to recklessly burn your tongue in your haste," Sherlock continued to talk and fill any encroaching silence. His eyes remained on his laptop screen before him, blocking John's sight of his fingers absently crossed and uncrossed.
"Er, thanks?" John's hesitant voice finally sounded out.
Maybe it was that tone of confusion and wanting to know why, but Sherlock found himself lunging off the couch and over to the chair John was sitting in. The man started at the sudden action and invasion of private space, but he did not make to move, only cradling his mug closer to his chest. John opened his mouth to say something, and that was when Sherlock grabbed his tongue again.
"'Er'ock!"
Sherlock remained silent, and simply moved his fingers this way and that, the fleshy muscele still clamped in his fingers and moving on demand. John made a move to stand, but Sherlock easily pinned him down by placing his other hand on his shoulder, pinning him down with his over-arching weight. Sherlock noted John wasn't fighting back anywhere near full capacity. Even if he had the advantage of gravity, Sherlock knew John could easily throw him off. Or maybe he just really didn't want to spill any of his tea.
"This muscular hydrostat is naturally a fascinating part of anatomy, especially in humans from not only manipulating food for masticulation, but from its secondary function of phonetic articulation as well. Yet yours seems to have more uses than articulating speech, eating or naturally cleaning your teeth," Sherlock rattled, not focusing on his words by on John.
When the man beneath him made it clear he was about to bite Sherlock's intrusive thumb and index finger, Sherlock retracted his grip.
"Jeez, Sherlock," John said before he moved his tongue, almost experimentally, around his mouth. "You tell me to take it easy on the tea for my tongue and then literally molest it yourself."
Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Molestation would imply the second party was clearly unhappy with contact, yet you did not immediately threaten me with immature biting. More importantly, I do not understand the obsession either."
"Ob-Obsession?" John stuttered baldly, his expression similarly bland. "With my mouth?"
"Specifically your tongue."
"My tongue."
"Correct."
"You're obsessing over my tongue."
"I do not understand why you're repeating something I've just stated."
John sighed and ran a hand over his face, almost tiredy. It was then that Sherlock realized he hadn't retracted his other hand or moved away, so he inched his fingers off of the man's jumper and straightened back up and retreated to a more polite distance.
"Why?" John asked simply.
"I have debating over that for some time myself," Sherlock said, eyes remaining on John's mouth.
"Well, come on then," John sighed as he waved Sherlock back.
Sherlock blinked smarty at him in response.
"I know how your projects go. Never abandoned. So come on, get a good look and let's get this over with."
Again, the dark-haired man continued to study John's face, as if to try and determine if he was lying or being foolish, maybe even childish with a false lure. Tired of waiting, John opened his mouth lazily.
Sherlock was at his mouth the next moment, now both hands prying John's mouth open wider, as if the evidence to their recent case was hidden underneath his gums instead of any wisdom teeth. Yet even with this unrestricted access, Sherlock again didn't see anything unorthodox, anything physically intriguing that would cause such attention.
"In proportion, fine temperature and wetness," Sherlock began to rattle off. "No pungent smell, nothing out of the ordinary..."
He let his fingers slip away from John's mouth and ran them through his hair, not caring about the saliva or germs. It was infurating - why indeed?
John was rubbing his jaw from the abuse and wondering if he should say anything when Sherlock's eyes widened and his mouth opened in a silent gasp. John knew that look, and he sighed in relief. Sherlock had figured it out.
"If I cannot determine it through sight, smell, touch or hearing, I shall test next what it tastes like!" Sherlock exclaimed as he moved forward on John again, and John barely had enough time and sense to duck down and away from the taller man.
"Sherlock! You cannot be serious!" John said as he narrowly avoided Sherlock's arms yet again.
"This puzzle is based not on intellect but primal instinct, and so should be viewed through what propels it: human sensory! I've exhausted the other options, now stop being a petulant child and come here John!"
When Mrs. Hudson came in with tea some minutes later, she decided to come back another time when the two men weren't bustling about, knocking over books and throwing things as they chased circles around the other.
Posted: 12.28.2011
A Personal Note: Saw War Horse today. God I hate how emotional (read: can't stop crying like a sissy) I get during war period-piece movies because of the magnitude of the time they represent, but it was worth it because: not only Benedict Cumberbatch, but Tom Hiddleston as well. On screen at the same time. The same fucking time.
An Ending Note Actually About the Story: This one slightly got a little away from me... haha? As always, feedback?