Mrs Hudson's House of Sweets, 1/4
Dec. 15th, 2010 04:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Mrs Hudson's House of Sweets
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Lestrade
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sometimes when funds get really tight, Sherlock and John work for Mrs Hudson down in her little sandwich store/bakery/corner shop. University AU.
Prologue
John’s shift ended after what seemed an interminably long time, though really it was only four hours, and as expected, Mrs Hudson had slipped him a few biscuits wrapped up in cellophane, tied together with a ribbon. He thanked her, pecked her on the cheek, and wandered up to his flat, feeling bone-tired already. He had a paper due in one of his classes that he had not even looked at in a week, some daily work that was supposed to have been done two weeks ago, and an exam to look forward to next Wednesday. Predictably, Sherlock chose this time to meet him at the door, eyes wild, hair sticking up more than usual.
“Travesty has struck,” Sherlock said with his usual flair for the dramatic.
“Yes? Failed your exam, have you?” Though John didn’t usually consider himself a mean-spirited person, he did occasionally in a very petty place in his heart wish that Sherlock would fail an exam, so that he would appreciate the amount of work normal people had to put into schooling. As yet, the closest he had come was when he was forced to take a basic astronomy class, which John had helpfully tutored him through most of.
“No, worse,” Sherlock said, plucking at his sleeves nervously. “Mycroft called.”
“And?”
“He’s cut me off,” Sherlock said with dismay, as if he could not even fathom the possibility. “He somehow managed to wrangle a look at my records.”
“I didn’t think—those are supposed to be sealed,” John said, frowning.
Sherlock shot him a familiar look, one that said John was being painfully idiotic in some new and unexciting way. “Mycroft has his ways,” he explained cryptically. “He refuses to accept my degree.”
“Which is?” John said, often wondering. The classes Sherlock took seemed to be a motley olio of courses which bore no apparent link to one another.
“I made my own,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively in the air.
John stared at him. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he said finally, though really, it should not have surprised him in the least that Sherlock would find a way.
“Clearly, you can. But Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered at his brother’s name, “has said that my degree is worthless and refuses to fund it unless I take ‘real’ courses.”
“How very awful for you,” John said, not feeling sympathetic in the slightest. “Whatever shall you do, now that you’re one of the unwashed masses?”
Sherlock stopped, affronted at the insult. “I will never be one of the unwashed masses.”
“You could always work at the pastry shop,” John reminded him.
Sherlock tossed his head, hair flipping around him in a way that was entirely not like a model. “Never. How hard can it be to find a job?”
John blinked once, twice, opened his mouth, shut it again. He debated telling Sherlock about how hard it was to submit application upon application, finding you didn’t have enough experience for your employer, interviewing and hoping that the person didn’t ask you something dreadfully obscure, finding that the position had already been filled by somebody’s nephew, and starting anew. Debated, but decided against it. The telly had been out for a month, the bill unpaid amidst a stack of others that Sherlock forgot to pay and John didn’t have the money to, and John could use some entertainment, even if it was at the expense of his often irritating flatmate.
Especially if it was the expense of his flatmate.
After a week, John nodding with false sympathy as Sherlock railed against the idiots he encountered on a daily basis during his Search for a Proper Job, his brother for cutting him off, the world for not being brilliant enough to handle him, Sherlock gave in.
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t hire me,” Sherlock said, curled up on the couch. John had his laptop on his lap and patted Sherlock’s head absent-mindedly. It was rather like having a particularly aloof, ambivalent cat who only paid attention to John when he stopped to complain bitterly that John had forgotten to feed him. Actually, that described pretty much all cats, so never mind, it was exactly like having a cat. An overgrown one named Sherlock.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have said that he was sleeping with the boss’s daughter,” John said. He tilted his head in consideration. “Particularly not when the boss was in the room.”
“Anyone could have figured it out,” Sherlock moaned indignantly. He butted his head up against John’s hand again, who rolled his eyes and soothingly stroked through the dark mess. There was a reason he couldn’t get a date, John thought darkly. Every time he came close, Sherlock would do the equivalent of making his hair stand up and hissing, marking his territory until the poor bloke or girl ran off, then Sherlock would go back to ignoring John again. John was under no illusions that this meant his flatmate actually was interested in John; he was just a petulant toddler who didn’t like to share his toys. The closest John had gotten to getting laid recently was the girl in his biology class, who spent the entire time texting on her Blackberry and whose name may or may not have been Anthea. Or Althea. He couldn’t really tell, and the last time he tried talking to her, she had stared at him blankly and asked him who he was.
“There’s always the pastry shop,” John said for the fortieth time. Rent was due soon and Mrs Hudson’s patience only went so far. Granted, it seemed to go much farther for Sherlock than it would anyone else—she had even forgiven him the unfortunate incident with the microwave and the jar of mayonnaise—but it wasn’t infinite.
Instead of the immediate negative response he had come to expect, however, there was silence. John’s hand stilled in the mass of curls. “Sherlock?”
“How much does it pay?”
John wondered briefly, as he recited the pay and the hours and the responsibilities to Sherlock, if this was entirely a good idea. That thought would later occur to him. Much, much later. So much later, in fact, that it might even be considered by some to be too late.
Chapter 2/4
Chapter 3/4
Chapter 4/4
Missing Scene
Author:
tripatchRating: PG-13
Pairing: John/Lestrade
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, Sometimes when funds get really tight, Sherlock and John work for Mrs Hudson down in her little sandwich store/bakery/corner shop. University AU.
Prologue
John’s shift ended after what seemed an interminably long time, though really it was only four hours, and as expected, Mrs Hudson had slipped him a few biscuits wrapped up in cellophane, tied together with a ribbon. He thanked her, pecked her on the cheek, and wandered up to his flat, feeling bone-tired already. He had a paper due in one of his classes that he had not even looked at in a week, some daily work that was supposed to have been done two weeks ago, and an exam to look forward to next Wednesday. Predictably, Sherlock chose this time to meet him at the door, eyes wild, hair sticking up more than usual.
“Travesty has struck,” Sherlock said with his usual flair for the dramatic.
“Yes? Failed your exam, have you?” Though John didn’t usually consider himself a mean-spirited person, he did occasionally in a very petty place in his heart wish that Sherlock would fail an exam, so that he would appreciate the amount of work normal people had to put into schooling. As yet, the closest he had come was when he was forced to take a basic astronomy class, which John had helpfully tutored him through most of.
“No, worse,” Sherlock said, plucking at his sleeves nervously. “Mycroft called.”
“And?”
“He’s cut me off,” Sherlock said with dismay, as if he could not even fathom the possibility. “He somehow managed to wrangle a look at my records.”
“I didn’t think—those are supposed to be sealed,” John said, frowning.
Sherlock shot him a familiar look, one that said John was being painfully idiotic in some new and unexciting way. “Mycroft has his ways,” he explained cryptically. “He refuses to accept my degree.”
“Which is?” John said, often wondering. The classes Sherlock took seemed to be a motley olio of courses which bore no apparent link to one another.
“I made my own,” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively in the air.
John stared at him. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he said finally, though really, it should not have surprised him in the least that Sherlock would find a way.
“Clearly, you can. But Mycroft,” Sherlock sneered at his brother’s name, “has said that my degree is worthless and refuses to fund it unless I take ‘real’ courses.”
“How very awful for you,” John said, not feeling sympathetic in the slightest. “Whatever shall you do, now that you’re one of the unwashed masses?”
Sherlock stopped, affronted at the insult. “I will never be one of the unwashed masses.”
“You could always work at the pastry shop,” John reminded him.
Sherlock tossed his head, hair flipping around him in a way that was entirely not like a model. “Never. How hard can it be to find a job?”
John blinked once, twice, opened his mouth, shut it again. He debated telling Sherlock about how hard it was to submit application upon application, finding you didn’t have enough experience for your employer, interviewing and hoping that the person didn’t ask you something dreadfully obscure, finding that the position had already been filled by somebody’s nephew, and starting anew. Debated, but decided against it. The telly had been out for a month, the bill unpaid amidst a stack of others that Sherlock forgot to pay and John didn’t have the money to, and John could use some entertainment, even if it was at the expense of his often irritating flatmate.
Especially if it was the expense of his flatmate.
After a week, John nodding with false sympathy as Sherlock railed against the idiots he encountered on a daily basis during his Search for a Proper Job, his brother for cutting him off, the world for not being brilliant enough to handle him, Sherlock gave in.
“I can’t believe he wouldn’t hire me,” Sherlock said, curled up on the couch. John had his laptop on his lap and patted Sherlock’s head absent-mindedly. It was rather like having a particularly aloof, ambivalent cat who only paid attention to John when he stopped to complain bitterly that John had forgotten to feed him. Actually, that described pretty much all cats, so never mind, it was exactly like having a cat. An overgrown one named Sherlock.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have said that he was sleeping with the boss’s daughter,” John said. He tilted his head in consideration. “Particularly not when the boss was in the room.”
“Anyone could have figured it out,” Sherlock moaned indignantly. He butted his head up against John’s hand again, who rolled his eyes and soothingly stroked through the dark mess. There was a reason he couldn’t get a date, John thought darkly. Every time he came close, Sherlock would do the equivalent of making his hair stand up and hissing, marking his territory until the poor bloke or girl ran off, then Sherlock would go back to ignoring John again. John was under no illusions that this meant his flatmate actually was interested in John; he was just a petulant toddler who didn’t like to share his toys. The closest John had gotten to getting laid recently was the girl in his biology class, who spent the entire time texting on her Blackberry and whose name may or may not have been Anthea. Or Althea. He couldn’t really tell, and the last time he tried talking to her, she had stared at him blankly and asked him who he was.
“There’s always the pastry shop,” John said for the fortieth time. Rent was due soon and Mrs Hudson’s patience only went so far. Granted, it seemed to go much farther for Sherlock than it would anyone else—she had even forgiven him the unfortunate incident with the microwave and the jar of mayonnaise—but it wasn’t infinite.
Instead of the immediate negative response he had come to expect, however, there was silence. John’s hand stilled in the mass of curls. “Sherlock?”
“How much does it pay?”
John wondered briefly, as he recited the pay and the hours and the responsibilities to Sherlock, if this was entirely a good idea. That thought would later occur to him. Much, much later. So much later, in fact, that it might even be considered by some to be too late.
Chapter 2/4
Chapter 3/4
Chapter 4/4
Missing Scene
