I thought of this while listening to my History professor slip into French with the International Studies Chairperson like it was nothing. We knew he spoke German, but had no idea that he could speak French.

His Language

Sherlock's ears perked at the sound. A sweet melody of words flowing from a man's mouth. Nothing but absolute fluency moving over letters and accents that Sherlock had only heard in his head.

Another voice spoke back, this one sounding rougher, tongue not quite familiar with the language compared to his flatmate's. Sherlock leaned back, straining to peek through the doorway. He could feel Lestrade moving to stand next to him.

"I didn't know he could do that." He said, blinking as the man rolled off another string of foreign words. Sherlock shook his head.

"Nor did I. Not something I would expect from him." Lestrade glanced down to the notepad in his hand, flipping the pages to skim his notes.

"Back to the body, Sherlock. What happened here? Where's his foot?" With a sigh, Sherlock went into his deductions. Every now and then, he could steal a glimpse into the kitchen and watch the blond's mouth move around words he's never spoken to him, in an accent he's never heard from him.

Half way through his rant, he moved to the victim's mouth and his thoughts suddenly drifted to another mouth he could still hear.

Mouth. Tongue. The way the mouth opened and tongue moved to speak, how it flicked against teeth and clucked against the roof of the mouth to emphasize certain syllables.

He wondered how skilled that tongue was. From the swivel of it darting out now and then to lick his lips, he would bet it knew a few tricks.

And those lips. To be able to open and close at the right time, drop open to sound out long vowels and cut tight to speak short consonants. Those thin lips puckering and relaxing around the accent.

Oh, he could see the accent on his lips, feel the breath moving with the accent, taste the letters dripping from the foreign tone.

It was marvelous.

How had he not seen it? Actually, it was more like, how did the man hide it from him? They live together and are around each other practically 24/7 and he didn't hear a single bit of this language. What else could he be hiding? Does he know any more languages, more ways his tongue can turn and flip in his mouth?

He looked back down at the body. Lestrade had moved over to Donovan, who was explaining details of the victim's relationship. With a sneer, he strode up to the DI.

"Check the girlfriend's car. There should be handcuffs from the looks of his wrists and a cricket bat from the blunt force trauma there." Greg gives him a look.

"A cricket bat?" Sherlock pointed to the fireplace.

"The picture on the end. It was taken at a cricket game and he is obviously a player from the awards on the shelves. It's his bat, but she obviously wouldn't leave it here, now would she?" He explained, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into a bin. He was out of the room before Lestrade could question him further. There was another case on his mind, mostly involving the mouth moving faster each second as he continued to chat with the land lord who had found the body.

That short blond with the tongue forming words so foreign in a voice so familiar. He stared at the land lord, watching him begin to cower under his gaze and end the conversation short. The blond reached out for him as he fled the room. Turning on his heel, he faced his flatmate with a scowl, knowing Sherlock had to have been the cause for the land lord's departure. Before a word could even move passed his lips, Sherlock had grabbed his wrist and was tugging him out of the room. There was a mouth he needed to learn more about.

Who knew Doctor John Watson could speak French?

I hope you enjoyed it and thanks for reading. Again, if you have an idea and like to see me do something with it, let me know. Message me here on on my tumblr (link on my profile). Thanks again!