jackofknaves (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jackofknaves) wrote2010-12-15 04:17 pm
jackofknaves) wrote2010-12-15 04:17 pm
Mrs Hudson's House of Sweets, 3/4
Title: 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
Chapter 1/4
Chapter 2/4
The weeks flew by, most of their younger customers disappearing home after exams. Even Sherlock grew bored with tinkering with the recipes and now mostly sat in the back, legs propped up on one of the ovens as he read.
John propped his head up with one elbow on the counter, alternating between sparing vacantly into space and watching the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster.
The door chimed and he straightened.
“Hello, how can I—“ He stopped as he realised who it was, then smiled with genuine delight. “Greg! How are you?”
“Good,” Greg said with a smile. “Just back from holiday.”
“How’d your mum take the news?”
“Pretty well, considering,” Greg said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “It helped that my sister went and got herself pregnant. My problems kind of paled in comparison.”
Sherlock, hearing the conversation, joined them at the front.
“Lestrade,” he said stiffly, nodding his head.
“Holmes,” Greg shot back.
“What can we do for you?” John asked.
“I need two dozen shortbreads.”
“I’m afraid we’re all out,” John said apologetically. “Do you mind waiting?”
“We’re not out,” Sherlock interrupted, his brow wrinkling. “We have some in the back.”
“Those are old,” John lied desperately.
“They’re not old,” said Sherlock. “You made them—”
“Sherlock!” John bit out between gritted teeth, willing his flatmate to catch on. “Just make some new ones, will you?”
Greg was smirking and John wanted to hide behind the counter with embarrassment. Sherlock just sniffed, disappearing into the kitchen, which had become his domain ever since he discovered Mrs Hudson’s hidden stubborn streak.
“Sorry about that,” John said, turning to Greg again. “It’ll be a bit of a wait, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. Would you care to join me?” he gestured to the small café style chairs dotting the open area.
“Sure,” John pounced on the opportunity. “I’ll just take a break. Want some tea while we wait?”
“That’d be great.”
John popped his head into the back, spotting Sherlock looking for all the world like a mad scientist, meting out the perfect amount of butter for the biscuits to crumble in the oven. “Sherlock, I’m taking a bit of a break, okay?”
“Mm.”
“Sherlock, are you paying attention? You’ll have to handle any new customers for the next twenty minutes,” John said, pouring two cups of tea and grabbing some sugar and cream just in case.
“Right,” Sherlock waved his hand without looking at John. “Go. Enjoy your mating ritual. You can do much better, by the way."
John just rolled his eyes and joined Greg at the table with the tea. “So, where were we?”
“We were just at the point where you admitted that you’re terrible at flirting and I said I thought it was cute and asked you out,” Greg said calmly, ignoring the flush crawling up John’s neck and settling on his cheeks. “So, how about it? Say tomorrow, eight o’clock?”
John cleared his throat. “Eight sounds lovely.”
“Good. Now how about you tell me how you came to work with such a complete tosser?”
“He’s not that bad,” John said weakly. At Greg’s raised eyebrow, he admitted, “Alright, he is that bad, but you get used to it. I actually share a flat with him just around the corner, 221 B.”
“That’s… horrifying,” Greg said with a wince. He took a sip of his tea and added some more sugar to it.
“It’s not too awful,” John shook his head, defending his friend. “He’s just a tad on the eccentric side. Brilliant, but eccentric.”
“I remember,” Greg said with a commiserating smile. “I wasn’t kidding when I said he gave the instructor fits. I think at one point he made the poor man cry.”
“That sounds like him.”
“So what are you studying, John?”
“Medicine,” John told him.
“Going to be a doctor?” Greg seemed impressed. “Is that something your parents pushed you into?”
“No, not really,” John said, musing on it. “I mean, they were happy, of course, but they aren’t the type to push me into anything. And besides which, my sister, Harry, dropped out of uni and went kind of wild, so anything I do is fine by them in comparison. But I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Greg said hesitantly, as if he were unsure how what he was about to say would be received, “but you seem like the type who really cares about people. Sorry. That’s creepy, right, because we don’t really know each other?”
John felt a warm rush of pleasure in the pit of his stomach and he looked down into his tea. “No,” he mumbled. “Not creepy at all.”
“The biscuits are ready,” Sherlock said with theatrical flair. He placed the box on the counter and stood, waiting for Greg to collect them and leave. John could almost hear the growling and hissing from here. If he craned his neck, he was sure he would be able to see a tail swishing angrily from behind his jealous flat mate.
Greg rolled his eyes, but slipped a piece of paper into John’s hands. “My number, just in case,” he told him. “Remember, eight o’clock tomorrow.”
“I won’t forget,” John said, collecting the two cups and standing. Greg grinned, then seemingly on a whim, leaned forward and gave John a peck on his cheek before disappearing out the door with a cheeky wave. John stood in the centre of the room, the two cups forgotten in his hands, and smiled like an idiot. Despite Sherlock’s disdainful look and running commentary on Greg’s intelligence, John found himself smiling like that the rest of his shift.
The next day couldn't come fast enough, but an hour before his date, John wished that time would slow down. He went through his closet, discarding clothes right and left as he tried to find the perfect attire. Sherlock sat cross-legged on his bed, occasionally looking up and offering commentary on John's choices.
"No. No. Definitely not, why do you even own that?" With a sigh of despair, Sherlock set aside his beloved laptop and pushed John out of the way, sifting through his wardrobe. "Don't you own anything but jumpers and checkered shirts?"
On the verge of giving up, Sherlock finally unearthed a plain blue button-up and a pair of charcoal trousers. He shoved them into John's arms and ordered him to try them on, giving an approving nod when John reappeared wearing the outfit.
"Much better," Sherlock said with an assessing eye. "Though why I'm helping you on this I will never understand."
"Because you're my friend and you're trying to remind me why I don't want to kill you."
"The maintenance man said the heating would be back in no time," Sherlock said, though even he sounded a little sheepish. "Besides, if you really wanted my advice--"
"No, I don't want to hear it," John said. He grabbed his keys and phone, checking to make sure he had everything he needed. There was a knock at the door and he met Sherlock's eyes, suddenly feeling a little nauseous. John was a friendly bloke, loved to date, but he never got over that feeling of butterflies and nervousness that preceded the first date. Sherlock seemed to sense this and helpfully opened the door and shoved him outside into the hallway where Greg was waiting.
"Hi," John said, regaining his balance.
"Hi," Greg said with an amused smile. "Ready to go?"
John smiled, his anxiety easing under Greg's careless ease. "Ready."
Their date went extraordinarily well. Greg was warm, friendly, with a slight air of rebelliousness that John in all honesty found intriguing. He was funny, too, sharing John’s quirky sense of humour and laughing openly when John slipped in his own joke or too.
They went and saw a film, then retired to a small pub frequented mainly by students and shared a meal, talking about the terrible acting and the atrocious plot. The conversation stalled occasionally, as it so often did during first dates, each wondering what to say and how to say it, but quickly picked up again over their plate of chips. At the end of the night, Greg walked with him back to the flat. He looked nervous for the first time all night, and John hid a smile.
“I had a good time,” John offered.
Greg ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his shoes. “Me, too. Do you want to go out again? Sometime next week?”
“Sounds great.”
There was an awkward pause, then John took a step forward, grabbing the lapels of Greg’s jacket and shoving him against the wall, meeting his lips with reckless abandon. Greg made a small noise of surprise, then his hands settled on John’s shoulders, pulling him closer to his body. John nipped at Greg’s lower lip, slipping his tongue in when the other man’s mouth opened invitingly. Their tongues met and John had to remind himself to pull back before it went too far. The kiss softened into something almost sweet, both of them reluctant to break apart. John finally gathered his will power and took a step back, breathing heavily. Greg looked dazed and rumpled, leaning against the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up at this point.
“Uh,” he said eloquently. He gave a small cough. “That was, um. Unexpected.”
“When I want something, I go for it.” He straightened his shirt, knowing that it was useless and within minutes of walking into the flat, Sherlock would immediately know how the date went, but feeling like some decorum was called for nonetheless. He smiled at Greg. “See you next week?”
He was gratified to see that Greg’s eyes were still a little unfocussed. “Right. Next week.”
“Night,” John said, opening the door and entering the flat. As soon as the door had shut, he leaned against the wall, laughing with one hand over his eyes.
“What’s so funny?” Sherlock’s voice asked. John looked up to see his friend peering at him curiously over the sofa.
“I just can’t believe I did something,” John waved him off. “How was your night?”
Sherlock’s sharp eyes roamed over him. “Not as good as yours, clearly, though more productive.”
“Finally got that essay done?”
“Yes. Well, in a manner. I wrote him an essay of equal length to that of the requirements explaining why it was an asinine project in the first place.”
“Good luck with that,” John said, too high from his date to even chastise Sherlock.
He wandered into his room and shut the door, getting ready for bed and laughing around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“When I want something, I go for it?” he said into the mirror. “I can’t believe I said that.”
He paused. “I can’t believe that worked.”
Shaking his head, he crawled into bed, wishing that next week would get here sooner.
The next few days he had off from work, but Thursday he was slated to work alongside Sherlock once again. He came into the shop, nodding a hello at Mrs Hudson, and putting on his apron.
“Has it been busy?” he asked.
Sherlock looked up. “Not really. I think most of the regulars know when my schedule is and actively avoid me now.”
“That isn’t a good thing,” John reminded him, counting the till. “Does Mrs Hudson know?”
“How do you think they found out?”
“Made anyone cry today?” John asked.
“Only one,” Sherlock shrugged. He was halfway through his homework, John was pleased to see. The only time Sherlock did his homework was when he was bored. If anything, the work at the shop had probably sent his instructors, who despaired of the brilliant, recalcitrant young man, into throes of ecstasy.
“Good to know.”
The day went by quickly, the regulars indeed having memorised Sherlock’s schedule and accordingly shifting their normal route to come in during John’s. He didn’t even mind the extra work when a familiar face appeared, waiting for the worst of the crowd to disperse.
“Have time for a quick break?” Greg asked, offering John a cup of coffee.
“Uh,” John looked at the clock, then at Mrs Hudson, who gave him a conspiratorial wink and a knowing smile before shooing him out the door and taking over at the register.
They wound up out behind the building, leaning against the crumbling bricks. Greg pulled out a fag, offering one to John, who shook his head disapprovingly. Shrugging, Greg lit one and took a deep breath, blowing out the smoke with a groan of pleasure.
“Those will kill you, you know,” John pointed out. He didn’t mind much, and honestly it was probably healthier than Sherlock’s disquieting habit of putting three nicotine patches on his arm at a time, despite John’s constant reminder that they were not supposed to be used like that. Besides, he himself had stolen a smoke or two, most often around exam time when any excuse for a study break was a welcome one.
“Probably,” Greg said with a smile, taking another drag. “But at least I’ll die happy.”
Greg finished it, stubbing the end out beneath his toe, then grabbed John’s arm and pulled him closer in. John braced his legs to accommodate Greg’s thigh in between his own and settled his hands on Greg’s hips. Their mouths met, Greg’s tasting faintly of ash and coffee. It sent a thrill of illicit pleasure up and down John’s spine, like he was a teenager making out with Amy Ferstadt behind the school. He had to break the kiss because of his sudden smile, laughing softly into Greg’s neck.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” John said, craning back up to kiss Greg again. “Just thought of something.”
“If you’re thinking, then I must be doing something wrong.”
“No,” another kiss, “you’re doing everything exactly right.”
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
Chapter 1/4
Chapter 2/4
The weeks flew by, most of their younger customers disappearing home after exams. Even Sherlock grew bored with tinkering with the recipes and now mostly sat in the back, legs propped up on one of the ovens as he read.
John propped his head up with one elbow on the counter, alternating between sparing vacantly into space and watching the clock on the wall, willing it to go faster.
The door chimed and he straightened.
“Hello, how can I—“ He stopped as he realised who it was, then smiled with genuine delight. “Greg! How are you?”
“Good,” Greg said with a smile. “Just back from holiday.”
“How’d your mum take the news?”
“Pretty well, considering,” Greg said, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “It helped that my sister went and got herself pregnant. My problems kind of paled in comparison.”
Sherlock, hearing the conversation, joined them at the front.
“Lestrade,” he said stiffly, nodding his head.
“Holmes,” Greg shot back.
“What can we do for you?” John asked.
“I need two dozen shortbreads.”
“I’m afraid we’re all out,” John said apologetically. “Do you mind waiting?”
“We’re not out,” Sherlock interrupted, his brow wrinkling. “We have some in the back.”
“Those are old,” John lied desperately.
“They’re not old,” said Sherlock. “You made them—”
“Sherlock!” John bit out between gritted teeth, willing his flatmate to catch on. “Just make some new ones, will you?”
Greg was smirking and John wanted to hide behind the counter with embarrassment. Sherlock just sniffed, disappearing into the kitchen, which had become his domain ever since he discovered Mrs Hudson’s hidden stubborn streak.
“Sorry about that,” John said, turning to Greg again. “It’ll be a bit of a wait, I’m afraid.”
“No problem. Would you care to join me?” he gestured to the small café style chairs dotting the open area.
“Sure,” John pounced on the opportunity. “I’ll just take a break. Want some tea while we wait?”
“That’d be great.”
John popped his head into the back, spotting Sherlock looking for all the world like a mad scientist, meting out the perfect amount of butter for the biscuits to crumble in the oven. “Sherlock, I’m taking a bit of a break, okay?”
“Mm.”
“Sherlock, are you paying attention? You’ll have to handle any new customers for the next twenty minutes,” John said, pouring two cups of tea and grabbing some sugar and cream just in case.
“Right,” Sherlock waved his hand without looking at John. “Go. Enjoy your mating ritual. You can do much better, by the way."
John just rolled his eyes and joined Greg at the table with the tea. “So, where were we?”
“We were just at the point where you admitted that you’re terrible at flirting and I said I thought it was cute and asked you out,” Greg said calmly, ignoring the flush crawling up John’s neck and settling on his cheeks. “So, how about it? Say tomorrow, eight o’clock?”
John cleared his throat. “Eight sounds lovely.”
“Good. Now how about you tell me how you came to work with such a complete tosser?”
“He’s not that bad,” John said weakly. At Greg’s raised eyebrow, he admitted, “Alright, he is that bad, but you get used to it. I actually share a flat with him just around the corner, 221 B.”
“That’s… horrifying,” Greg said with a wince. He took a sip of his tea and added some more sugar to it.
“It’s not too awful,” John shook his head, defending his friend. “He’s just a tad on the eccentric side. Brilliant, but eccentric.”
“I remember,” Greg said with a commiserating smile. “I wasn’t kidding when I said he gave the instructor fits. I think at one point he made the poor man cry.”
“That sounds like him.”
“So what are you studying, John?”
“Medicine,” John told him.
“Going to be a doctor?” Greg seemed impressed. “Is that something your parents pushed you into?”
“No, not really,” John said, musing on it. “I mean, they were happy, of course, but they aren’t the type to push me into anything. And besides which, my sister, Harry, dropped out of uni and went kind of wild, so anything I do is fine by them in comparison. But I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Greg said hesitantly, as if he were unsure how what he was about to say would be received, “but you seem like the type who really cares about people. Sorry. That’s creepy, right, because we don’t really know each other?”
John felt a warm rush of pleasure in the pit of his stomach and he looked down into his tea. “No,” he mumbled. “Not creepy at all.”
“The biscuits are ready,” Sherlock said with theatrical flair. He placed the box on the counter and stood, waiting for Greg to collect them and leave. John could almost hear the growling and hissing from here. If he craned his neck, he was sure he would be able to see a tail swishing angrily from behind his jealous flat mate.
Greg rolled his eyes, but slipped a piece of paper into John’s hands. “My number, just in case,” he told him. “Remember, eight o’clock tomorrow.”
“I won’t forget,” John said, collecting the two cups and standing. Greg grinned, then seemingly on a whim, leaned forward and gave John a peck on his cheek before disappearing out the door with a cheeky wave. John stood in the centre of the room, the two cups forgotten in his hands, and smiled like an idiot. Despite Sherlock’s disdainful look and running commentary on Greg’s intelligence, John found himself smiling like that the rest of his shift.
The next day couldn't come fast enough, but an hour before his date, John wished that time would slow down. He went through his closet, discarding clothes right and left as he tried to find the perfect attire. Sherlock sat cross-legged on his bed, occasionally looking up and offering commentary on John's choices.
"No. No. Definitely not, why do you even own that?" With a sigh of despair, Sherlock set aside his beloved laptop and pushed John out of the way, sifting through his wardrobe. "Don't you own anything but jumpers and checkered shirts?"
On the verge of giving up, Sherlock finally unearthed a plain blue button-up and a pair of charcoal trousers. He shoved them into John's arms and ordered him to try them on, giving an approving nod when John reappeared wearing the outfit.
"Much better," Sherlock said with an assessing eye. "Though why I'm helping you on this I will never understand."
"Because you're my friend and you're trying to remind me why I don't want to kill you."
"The maintenance man said the heating would be back in no time," Sherlock said, though even he sounded a little sheepish. "Besides, if you really wanted my advice--"
"No, I don't want to hear it," John said. He grabbed his keys and phone, checking to make sure he had everything he needed. There was a knock at the door and he met Sherlock's eyes, suddenly feeling a little nauseous. John was a friendly bloke, loved to date, but he never got over that feeling of butterflies and nervousness that preceded the first date. Sherlock seemed to sense this and helpfully opened the door and shoved him outside into the hallway where Greg was waiting.
"Hi," John said, regaining his balance.
"Hi," Greg said with an amused smile. "Ready to go?"
John smiled, his anxiety easing under Greg's careless ease. "Ready."
Their date went extraordinarily well. Greg was warm, friendly, with a slight air of rebelliousness that John in all honesty found intriguing. He was funny, too, sharing John’s quirky sense of humour and laughing openly when John slipped in his own joke or too.
They went and saw a film, then retired to a small pub frequented mainly by students and shared a meal, talking about the terrible acting and the atrocious plot. The conversation stalled occasionally, as it so often did during first dates, each wondering what to say and how to say it, but quickly picked up again over their plate of chips. At the end of the night, Greg walked with him back to the flat. He looked nervous for the first time all night, and John hid a smile.
“I had a good time,” John offered.
Greg ran a hand through his hair, looking down at his shoes. “Me, too. Do you want to go out again? Sometime next week?”
“Sounds great.”
There was an awkward pause, then John took a step forward, grabbing the lapels of Greg’s jacket and shoving him against the wall, meeting his lips with reckless abandon. Greg made a small noise of surprise, then his hands settled on John’s shoulders, pulling him closer to his body. John nipped at Greg’s lower lip, slipping his tongue in when the other man’s mouth opened invitingly. Their tongues met and John had to remind himself to pull back before it went too far. The kiss softened into something almost sweet, both of them reluctant to break apart. John finally gathered his will power and took a step back, breathing heavily. Greg looked dazed and rumpled, leaning against the wall as if it were the only thing holding him up at this point.
“Uh,” he said eloquently. He gave a small cough. “That was, um. Unexpected.”
“When I want something, I go for it.” He straightened his shirt, knowing that it was useless and within minutes of walking into the flat, Sherlock would immediately know how the date went, but feeling like some decorum was called for nonetheless. He smiled at Greg. “See you next week?”
He was gratified to see that Greg’s eyes were still a little unfocussed. “Right. Next week.”
“Night,” John said, opening the door and entering the flat. As soon as the door had shut, he leaned against the wall, laughing with one hand over his eyes.
“What’s so funny?” Sherlock’s voice asked. John looked up to see his friend peering at him curiously over the sofa.
“I just can’t believe I did something,” John waved him off. “How was your night?”
Sherlock’s sharp eyes roamed over him. “Not as good as yours, clearly, though more productive.”
“Finally got that essay done?”
“Yes. Well, in a manner. I wrote him an essay of equal length to that of the requirements explaining why it was an asinine project in the first place.”
“Good luck with that,” John said, too high from his date to even chastise Sherlock.
He wandered into his room and shut the door, getting ready for bed and laughing around a mouthful of toothpaste.
“When I want something, I go for it?” he said into the mirror. “I can’t believe I said that.”
He paused. “I can’t believe that worked.”
Shaking his head, he crawled into bed, wishing that next week would get here sooner.
The next few days he had off from work, but Thursday he was slated to work alongside Sherlock once again. He came into the shop, nodding a hello at Mrs Hudson, and putting on his apron.
“Has it been busy?” he asked.
Sherlock looked up. “Not really. I think most of the regulars know when my schedule is and actively avoid me now.”
“That isn’t a good thing,” John reminded him, counting the till. “Does Mrs Hudson know?”
“How do you think they found out?”
“Made anyone cry today?” John asked.
“Only one,” Sherlock shrugged. He was halfway through his homework, John was pleased to see. The only time Sherlock did his homework was when he was bored. If anything, the work at the shop had probably sent his instructors, who despaired of the brilliant, recalcitrant young man, into throes of ecstasy.
“Good to know.”
The day went by quickly, the regulars indeed having memorised Sherlock’s schedule and accordingly shifting their normal route to come in during John’s. He didn’t even mind the extra work when a familiar face appeared, waiting for the worst of the crowd to disperse.
“Have time for a quick break?” Greg asked, offering John a cup of coffee.
“Uh,” John looked at the clock, then at Mrs Hudson, who gave him a conspiratorial wink and a knowing smile before shooing him out the door and taking over at the register.
They wound up out behind the building, leaning against the crumbling bricks. Greg pulled out a fag, offering one to John, who shook his head disapprovingly. Shrugging, Greg lit one and took a deep breath, blowing out the smoke with a groan of pleasure.
“Those will kill you, you know,” John pointed out. He didn’t mind much, and honestly it was probably healthier than Sherlock’s disquieting habit of putting three nicotine patches on his arm at a time, despite John’s constant reminder that they were not supposed to be used like that. Besides, he himself had stolen a smoke or two, most often around exam time when any excuse for a study break was a welcome one.
“Probably,” Greg said with a smile, taking another drag. “But at least I’ll die happy.”
Greg finished it, stubbing the end out beneath his toe, then grabbed John’s arm and pulled him closer in. John braced his legs to accommodate Greg’s thigh in between his own and settled his hands on Greg’s hips. Their mouths met, Greg’s tasting faintly of ash and coffee. It sent a thrill of illicit pleasure up and down John’s spine, like he was a teenager making out with Amy Ferstadt behind the school. He had to break the kiss because of his sudden smile, laughing softly into Greg’s neck.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” John said, craning back up to kiss Greg again. “Just thought of something.”
“If you’re thinking, then I must be doing something wrong.”
“No,” another kiss, “you’re doing everything exactly right.”
Chapter 4/4
Missing Scene