CHAPTER 11: BREAKFAST
Inspired by a prompt from sparrowismyhummingbird . Despite Benedict's ridiculous awkwardness when eating (or drinking) on screen, I still find the idea of Sherlock relishing breakfast to be rather endearing, if not downright sexy. This chapter turned out a bit different (and quite a bit more sensual) than I had originally thought, but I still like the final product. Always love to hear feedback, as well as prompts!
"Morning." John yawned widely. He stretched, cracking his back in the process. Sherlock gave him a nod in return, adjusting the screen before standing up and meandering into the kitchen, leaving the laptop situated on the coffee table.
"You really shouldn't sleep on your side, you know," John heard from the kitchen. "It's giving you neck problems." There was a flurry of sound in the background as Sherlock opened drawers and turned on the stove. John smirked.
"Is that a hint of compassion that I hear?" John said sarcastically, rubbing his sore neck. "Sentiment finally getting to you?"
"Of course not." Sherlock replied, now opening the fridge and removing a carton of eggs. "But I can't have my blogger disturbing his transport, now can I?" Sherlock shot a glance in John's direction, eyes soft. The early morning light sent shafts of gold onto the detective's playful face, John felt his stomach flutter oddly. Awkwardly, he turned away, quickly glancing back to the heap of paperwork in front of him. He contemplated the case file, skimming through the autopsy report and crime scene photos, and was rather lost in time, until the clatter of silverware shot him back to the present.
"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, through a small bite of toast. He licked the butter off of his fingers before continuing with gusto. "The note is indicative of suicide, but the handwriting does not match the sample I found in the victim's purse." He chewed thoughtfully, taught jaw muscles straining against the buttered surface. John swallowed. The light seemed to be refracting against the white china, and John found himself glancing at the pattern of freckles along the detective's razor sharp jawline, watching those full lips take in each bite of egg. Whatever Sherlock had been going on about had all but turned into white noise, and John watched intently as the detective swallowed, before taking a brief sip of coffee. The mug was lifted with a subtle flick of the wrist, long, sinewy violinist fingers wrapping around the small object. Upon returning the coffee to the table, Sherlock stretched out a hand and began to spread jam on the remaining triangle of bread, fingers strong against the wedge of silver handle. John felt himself blush, and forced himself to look back at Sherlock's face and assume a politely interested expression. Unfortunately, Sherlock was staring rather blandly at him, and John could only assume that a question had just been asked.
"Erm, sorry, what?"
Sherlock scowled. "Have you been listening at all, John?"
"Sorry, I was distracted... would you mind repeating the question?"
"And what precisely was distracting you?"
John felt his ears warm. "Nothing."
Sherlock gave him a long hard look, eyes scrutinizing. John stared back, determined not to back down: two could play at this game. After a moment Sherlock smiled slyly, sinking back into his chair with an amused look.
John was suddenly concerned. "What's that look for?"
Sherlock shrugged, still glinting with an impish glee. "Nothing."
"Right." There was a pause, in which John grew increasingly apprehensive, and Sherlock continued to smile in a way that only made John more nervous. Suddenly Sherlock stood up, seizing the coffee mug off the table and bounding back into the kitchen. John looked back to the case file, shuffling through the pages. "Well you are probably right about it not being suicide- the first wound was more than deep enough to be fatal, and most likely would have prevented her from striking a second time..." John turned the photograph slightly, squinting to make out the knife marks. "But if you turn it this way- and judging from the coroner's report- it's fairly safe to say that the penetration of the- what the hell are you doing?!" John shouted. Nearly toppling over in his chair, John clung to the edge of the hotel table, angrily collecting his balance. Sherlock blinked back innocently, eating a banana with painstakingly slow bites.
"Eating breakfast, John. Honestly, I wonder where your head is, some days." John gaped in shock, watching wordlessly as Sherlock began to break off pieces of fruit and dissect them with painfully precise hands.
"No." John managed after a moment. "Just... no."
Sherlock grinned evilly,
"I hate you." John muttered, scowling.
"No you don't."
"Yeah," John mumbled, watching irritably as Sherlock began to un-peel the remaining fruit in a manner that would probably have put Irene Adler to shame. "I don't."
I apologize if this was way too tasteless or plotless, but I had fun writing it... *grins*
I will be trying to update on a more regular basis, so stay tuned for more!