Many thanks for the response to the first chapter :) Loves xXx. Admittedly, this is a short chapter, but the next one will be longer. Pinky Promise and all that shit.
Disclaimer: I own the memory of some of these events, but unfortunately not the characters.
Four Varieties of Mustard
It was 6.31am.
John, bring me a tissue ASAP. SH
"Why should I?" John demanded, from his bedroom.
I was drinking wine in bed and spilt some on my chest. SH
"Then clean yourself up!"
I guided it into my bellybutton but now I don't know what to do. SH
"For fuck's sake..." John pushed himself out of his bed, abandoning his book and mobile in the process. He journeyed to Sherlock's room via the bathroom, and threw a wad of tissue at Sherlock, who caught it deftly.
He lay atop the blankets of his bed -shirtless- with a deep red stain of wine gathered on his pale chest. "Took your time," Sherlock muttered, mopping up the liquid. "Last I read the dictionary, 'ASAP' meant 'as soon as possible', not 'dissect and question the request until it is nearly too late to avoid the inevitable'."
"You're welcome," grumbled John, irritated that his peaceful Sunday morning had been disturbed in such an unnecessary manner.
"I hardly interrupted anything," Sherlock insisted, sitting up.
"It is a Sunday morning," announced John. "It is my god-given right as an Englishman to lay on my couch or bed, and complete The Times crossword!"
"It's my couch," murmured Sherlock, mildly, taking a messy gulp of wine.
"Why are you drinking so early?"
"You have your Sunday ritual; I have mine."
"Of course." John leant against the door-frame; watching his room-mate with something akin to fondness, despite the said room-mate's irritating qualities.
"Besides; you haven't yet left the flat, so you don't have The Times yet."
"I'm also still in my pyjamas," John reminded him, with a half-smile.
Sherlock fluttered a dismissive hand. "Why is there such a social taboo on wearing pyjamas outside the house?"
"I'm not debating with you so early in the morning," John informed him, quite sternly. He disappeared into the kitchen to make himself a mug of tea.
"John!"
John sighed, and returned to Sherlock's room. "What?"
Sherlock made a disbelieving noise, and scrambled across his bed to sit at the end of it, red tartan-clad legs crossed, looking decidedly impish. "John, consider: supermarkets are open 24 hours these days. If your work hours are so antisocial that you are forced to do your shopping at 3am, then who is to tell you that your trousers too closely resemble pyjamas to be socially acceptable?"
"I doubt that would cross anyone's mind," said John, sitting down upon the desk, "especially if said antisocial person was being antisocial enough to use a self-service till."
"Why, then, would it be utterly unacceptable for someone else to wear pyjamas to one at, say, 10am?"
"Because most people are dressed by 10am."
"Pyjama-ed people are dressed," Sherlock scolded him.
"Depends on the nature of the pyjamas."
"Perhaps," Sherlock mused, one hand drifting over to the cigarette packet next to his bed, seemingly of its own accord.
John followed its progress with a pointed stare, and Sherlock slapped his own wandering hand sharply.
John grinned. He finished his tea. "I'm going to get dressed, and go and buy The Times. Anything for you?"
"Three apples, a tin of mushy peas, and some mints," Sherlock requested, leaning over the side of his bed to recover his violin from the floor.
"You're serious?"
Sherlock surveyed him through slightly slitted eyes. "Deadly." He began to play 'Hickory Dickory Dock' on the violin.
John took some money from Sherlock's desk, and ignored the cry of outrage as he went to go and get dressed.
Notes? I respond :)
xXx