221C Baker Street
Phil Goes for a Job Interview
Phil double-checks the hospital's address with the one circled in the classifieds. Satisfied that they're both the same, he makes his way into Saint Bartholomew's Hospital and toward reception.
He has his best suit on—a grey number rented from the Men's Warehouse almost five years ago and never returned. The fabric strains across his shoulders and the seat of his trousers threaten to rip if he bends down too far but he supposes it could be worse; he could have had to pull out his old maroon-coloured jumper that had been all the fashion in the 90s.
He has a copy of his CV in a manila folder tucked under one arm and a wad of chewing gum wedged between his molar and the inside of cheek; a trick his father taught him to keep his breath fresh without being rude about it.
He discreetly checks his mustache for any leftover bagel crumbs in the reflection of the Plexiglas. Good to go.
He smiles flirtatiously at the lovely brunette receptionist when he enters the main foyer. She stares blandly back. He fidgets with his tie.
"Can I help you, sir?" She says, sounding put-upon. Her eyes flick longingly to the Sudoku book propped against her keyboard.
He clears his throat, adjusts his tie again, and presses the newspaper against the glass. She squints at it a moment before pointing to his left.
"Mortuary's that way. Three lefts, second door on the right."
He is just about to ask her to clarify but she's turned back to her Sudoku, completely ignoring him.
"Right," he mutters to himself. He can figure it out on his own. He is a man, after all. He tries to turn smartly on his heel, like he's seen in films, but almost busts his ass into the splits on the freshly buffed floor.
Great start.
He tries to make it to the mortuary without getting lost. Fate scoffs and causes him to slip twice, walk in on a half-naked elderly woman waiting for her doctor, and get stuck in a broom closet for ten minutes. Lucky for him the janitor had eventually wandered into shouting distance. Incidentally, he also got lost.
When he finally reaches the correct room, his hair has frizzed out, his undershirt is damp from sweat, and he thinks he's developed a blister from walking in his pinching dress shoes. He's also lost his folder somewhere along the way.
"I'M HERE FOR THE INTERVIEW. SO SORRY I'M LATE. I WAS-" He shouts as he swings open the door a smidgen too hard and it slams into the wall. Sherlock stares at him from behind his massive microscope and raises an eyebrow. There's a blonde man sitting on a stool next to him, who looks up from peering over Sherlock's shoulder.
"-lost." Phil finishes, and at a much more subdued level, "Yeah, I'm gunna go ahead and not be surprised that you work here."
Sherlock snorts. "Tedious. Of course I don't. I merely come here to observe. It's pure happenstance that you seem to keep encountering my person." The man's eyes suddenly widen in excitement as if he's just considered something. "You wouldn't happen to be a stalker, perchance?"
"What? No!"
Sherlock's eyes dim a bit at that and he turns his attention back to his microscope. "Dull. Anyway, I believe the person you are looking for is in the backroom just there." He jerks a thumb behind him.
Phil follows his motions toward a petite woman in a white lab coat who's bent over a gurney, her shapely arse obscuring what's probably a corpse.
He is just about to head that way when Sherlock calls out, voice dry. "A bit of neighbourly advice?"
He turns around, trying not to show his impatience. He wants nothing more than to get this interview over with and barring that, perhaps have a bit of a chat-up. He sees the blonde man's curiosity pique.
"Avoid discussing your time delving in pornography. It hardly bears relevance." And with that, Sherlock dismisses him with a wave a pale hand.
Phil is flabbergasted and then, paranoid. How the hell does this posh git know? It had been a rather trying period of his mid-20s when he had been strapped for cash and had been in dire need of the next month's rent. A good friend of his at the time had remarked that he was endowed enough to do some skin flicks, an observation he hadn't thought too much of at the time as he had been a regular at the gym at that point.
Turns out Fast Eddie had meant gay porn.
Phil is just about to deny it all when he notices the blonde man's jumped to his feet. He's a bit of a short fella, yet compact. He is also wearing the same jumper Phil almost ended up wearing earlier that morning.
He has his hand extended, face expectant. "You're Phil, right? I'm John. Sherlock said 'neighbor' and I can only assume…"
Phil can feel himself pale. They shake hands while he desperately tries not to think of this man getting buggered. He fails, of course. He can see Sherlock staring at them out of the corner of his eye.
"Yeah, I think we met during that explosion." He says, carefully removing his hand from the other's firm grip.
John chuckles and scratches the back of his head. "Oh, right! The, uh, wiring. I am sorry about that." He laughs right out this time, throwing his head back a little as he does it.
Phil looks at his Adam's apple and wonders if he's ever sucked Sherlock off. His fingers suddenly itch for a cigarette. He thinks longingly of the pack he left on his coffee table back at his flat.
"Your interview," Sherlock interrupts, sounding several degrees cooler than earlier. "You wouldn't want anyone to get the wrong impression."
"Here I am keeping you!" John exclaims, slapping him on the arm in the process. Phil jumps a bit, wondering what to make of it.
Sherlock stands up just then, with a slow stretch, and saunters over. He comes up next to them, casually sidling in-between.
"You have a smidge of mustard," Sherlock says to John, who raises his eyebrows at him in bewilderment. Phil can't see any mustard from where he's been awkwardly shoved; he has a bad feeling about this.
"Just there," Sherlock insists, and leans in to lick the shorter man's face. John splutters, his face turning an unflattering shade of red.
Yep, he thought it was heading in that direction. His poor, hetero heart.
"Sherlock!" John hisses, scandalized. "We've company!"
"I'm sure Philip doesn't mind. Do you, lad? Not with your foray into homoerotic pornography." The taller man drawls, smirking. He looks slightly insane, making Phil nervous. Those colourless eyes punch holes through his gut.
Phil's eyes start to tear up and he immediately feels ashamed at himself.
"I'm just going to go and do. Do the thing. The loo." Phil stammers, gesturing vaguely in some direction. He can feel his ears burning.
John apologizes as Sherlock's grin widens.
Phil flees to the loo to sob in peace.
He doesn't end up getting the job but he does get a gift basket the next evening in front of his door. There are chocolates, a packet of Digestives, a box of store-brand chamomile, a container of bubble bath, a bottle of champagne, a packet of Kleenex, and stuffed at the very bottom of the basket is a package of feminine pads with the price tag still on it. His face flames at this and searches for a note to indicate who sent the basket.
He finds it carefully tucked under the pads, written on in wide and messy cursive:
Since you insist on weeping like a woman in menstruous over some harmless teasing, I've enclosed all the necessities that you'll need during this trying time of the month. Regards, S.H.
His temper snaps and he grabs the basket, putting all but the pads on his counter, which he carefully tucks under his arm. He grabs a post-it and a marker, and scrawls a hasty note. He then marches up to 221B and places the package—with note—in front of their door.
That'll show him. Sherlock may be laughing but he's going to enjoy every single item in the gift basket. Much deserved, if you ask him.
It's not until hours later, when John comes home from working a double-shift, that he finds the pads. He frowns, picking up the package with cautious curiosity.
"Sherlock," He calls, closing the door behind him with his foot as he reads the note. "I think this might be for you."
Sherlock looks up from his violin, which he's been torturing for the last twenty minutes. "Mm?"
John throws him the pads, which the man catches deftly, and he looks down at the note. A wide grin breaks out over the detective's face and he laughs, startling John.
"I do believe I like this one." Sherlock says and tosses the package onto their side table.
Sherlock, just goes to show how little you know. I use tampons. – Phil
Notes: More to come.