Mrs Hudson's House of Sweets, 4/4
Dec. 15th, 2010 04:19 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
Chapter 1/4
Chapter 2/4
Chapter 3/4
He really should have known better, John thought. It had been going so well. Too well. There had been the second date, the third date, the fourth, then it had somehow reached that point where instead of counting the dates, they counted how long it had been, with only the pettiest of fights.
Then there had been tonight.
He and Greg were at Greg’s flat, watching a film, though it was more of a film playing in the background while they laid on the couch together, Greg braced over John’s body as he kissed his way down his neck and tugged off his jumper. Both of them were panting and shirtless, hands roving over the exposed skin. John wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck and tugged him down, thrusting his hips up, his own groan mixing with Greg’s lower one. Greg tucked his face into John’s neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, one hand busily working to undo John’s belt. He had just pried it loose and opened the front of John’s trousers when John’s mobile buzzed.
They paused for a moment before silently deciding to ignore it, when it began to ring insistently. Greg dropped his head onto John’s shoulder.
“You know it’s Sherlock,” he said, his voice muffled into John’s skin. John ran a hand through Greg’s hair.
“I know.”
“But you’re going to answer it anyway.”
Even though he knew it was going to cause trouble, John found himself defending Sherlock. “It might be something important.”
Greg jumped up with a groan that was definitely not like the ones he had been giving a moment before. “It won’t be!” he said with frustration. “It’ll be, ‘I forgot where we keep the tea’, or, ‘I need someone to go get me some milk.’ Honestly, John, I don’t know why you put up with it.”
“He’s my friend,” John said, buttoning up his trousers. The mobile continued blithely on, cheerfully ignorant of the friction it had caused. “I can’t just ignore him.”
“Yes, you can. It’s easy, watch.” Greg snatched up the mobile before John could protest, flipping it open. He didn’t even put it up to his ear, just held it in front of him as he shouted, “Sod off!” into the receiver.
John grabbed the phone from him as he pulled on his jumper, then redialed Sherlock’s number and waited for it to ring. He glared at Greg and stalked to the door of Greg's flat angrily.
“Take your own advice, Greg,” he said, slamming the door behind him.
John sat on the couch, staring at the wall in front of him and simultaneously hoping Greg would ring and hating himself for wanting him to. God, he thought disgustedly to himself, he was a teenage girl. Any minute now he would start listening to break-up songs and write abominable poetry on his blog.
His flat mate had disappeared as soon as John had come home, somehow sensing something was amiss, despite his cluelessness to most anything emotional in nature. John was torn between wanting his friend here to take his mind off the fight and wanting him here so that he could blame him for beginning the fight in the first place. It wasn’t fair, he knew, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Yes, the man could learn the niceties of social convention, but he wasn’t likely to, and John knew hoping that one day he would suddenly decide they were worth learning was as improbable as John deciding to become a showgirl in America. Greg knew it, too, which was part of the reason John kept having to push down the surges of anger whenever he thought about it. How dare he try to get him to choose between his boyfriend and his friend! How dare he steal John’s mobile! How dare he make John sit wallowing in self-pity in the darkened living room of his flat, thinking things like ‘How dare he’ unironically!
The door opened softly, like whoever was entering wasn’t sure if he was welcome or not. John leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. A weight settled in next to him, then the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted his depressing thoughts.
“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked tiredly.
“I brought you this,” Sherlock said. John opened his eyes and found Sherlock offering him a bag filled with two rented films of the chick-flick variety, a container of ice cream, and what looked to be a bottle of liquor.
“What is this?” he said, not even bothering to guess.
Sherlock looked affronted, then unsure. “It’s break-up things,” he said finally. “I have it on good authority that this is what friends are supposed to do when the other breaks up.”
“By good authority you mean the Internet, don’t you?” John asked. Sherlock looked trapped, which did more to confirm John’s guess than if he had admitted it. “And you do realise these are for girl break-ups, don’t you?”
“I was afraid of that,” Sherlock muttered. “There’s very little data on what to do when a male breaks up with another male.”
John found himself laughing despite himself. “Thanks anyway,” he said sincerely.
Sherlock nodded, clearly a little crest-fallen that his experiment hadn’t worked, and John felt almost sorry for him. Most people, even Greg, only saw the caustic exterior of the man, and to be fair, that was most of his interior as well. But there were flashes of genuine humanity, the occasional glimpse of a person who wanted to be part of the unwashed masses but honestly had no idea how to go about it.
“Come here,” John said, tugging Sherlock closer to him. The other man curled up, feline-like, on the couch, his head near John’s thigh.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock said, and he sounded almost insulted that something as trivial as how to cheer his best, and sometimes only, friend up could be so unexpectedly complicated. John patted his head.
“You’re doing it,” John said honestly. “Just. You know. Be here.”
“That seems too simple,” Sherlock said after a thoughtful pause.
John shrugged. “Not everything has to be complicated, Sherlock. Sometimes things just are.”
The next day at work was unexpectedly quiet, even Sherlock going out of his way to not bother John as he moped by the register, looking up at each customer who wandered in. Mrs Hudson finally ordered him to go on break, then joined him with a cup of tea where he sat.
“You had a tiff with your boyfriend?” she said, sipping at her own tea.
John looked up. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I’ve seen that look before,” Mrs Hudson said, waving him off. “I’ve worn it myself a time or two when I was younger.”
“Yeah,” John admitted, toying with a napkin. He tore it into even strips, then tore each strip into tinier squares until they littered the surface. “We might have broken up.”
“Must have been a bad one, then,” Mrs Hudson commented. “I don’t suppose you and Sherlock—”
“No, Mrs Hudson,” John said with fond exasperation. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Pity,” Mrs Hudson said. “But can’t blame an old woman for trying, can you?”
John gave her a small smile at the long-running joke. For such a sweet lady, she took an uncomfortable interest in trying to push her two tenants into some kind of torrid romance, despite John’s insistence that they were just friends.
“So this is about the handsome young man with the cute bum?”
John felt his face flush and his jaw drop. “Mrs Hudson!”
“Please, John, I’m old, not dead,” Mrs Hudson laughed. “What was the fight about?”
“What else?” John rolled his eyes. “He thinks I spend too much time with Sherlock. He doesn’t get that it’s not like—” He sighed in frustration and his eyes darted toward the back, where he knew Sherlock was probably eavesdropping. He lowered his voice. “I’m the only friend Sherlock has, and Greg just doesn’t seem to get that. He thinks he’s just an annoying prat who calls me up because he’s lazy or something, but it’s just.”
He stopped, at a loss for how to explain it, but Mrs Hudson nodded understandingly. “You get a boyfriend and Sherlock panics, thinking you’re going to leave him.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, have you told Greg that?” Mrs Hudson pointed out reasonably.
“No,” John said. People thought it was so dreadfully simple, like all one had to do was talk to the other person and the whole mess would be cleared up like magic. It wasn’t that easy sometimes. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Mrs Hudson gave him a sympathetic smile. “Well, dear, maybe he’ll come to his senses on his own.”
She gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder as she stood, and John shook off the uncomfortable feeling that she was making fun of him. He sighed and buried his head in his arms.
The week dragged on, neither John nor Greg willing to give in, when Sherlock one day met him outside the door of their flat. He looked uncertain and a tad guilty.
“What did you do this time?” John asked with a sinking feeling of dread.
“Don’t be angry,” Sherlock said, which usually preceded something that would, in fact, make John very angry. “But I did something.”
“I gathered that,” John said irritably. “What is it?”
Sherlock fidgeted, then opened the door of the flat and gestured for John to walk in. He did so cautiously. There on the sofa sat Greg, who smiled wanly at him and gave a little wave.
“Hi.”
John stared at him for a moment. “Excuse me for a moment.” He grabbed his flat mate and hauled him into the hallway, letting the door close behind him.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded.
Sherlock straightened. “I just thought that maybe if I explained some things to him, he would—”
“You just stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong and—” John’s thoughts scattered. “I can’t believe you. No, wait, I can, I completely can. Why on earth did you think this would be a good idea?”
“I overheard you talking with Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said. His voice never softened or wavered, but John felt a little nauseous anyway at the thought of him overhearing what John had said. “I know you and Greg had that fight about me. I’m not a charity case, you know. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I can’t,” John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Just give us a moment, will you?”
Sherlock nodded, sitting down on the steps. John rolled his eyes. “You can go inside, idiot,” he said fondly.
“I’d rather sit out here,” Sherlock said, perched on the landing.
John stared down at him, then shook his head and left him to it.
Greg was still on the couch where he left, looking more nervous than before. John joined him on the sofa, leaving a decent space between them.
“Hi,” he said again, unsure of how to begin.
“Sherlock told me,” Greg blurted. “I mean, not everything, but enough.”
John stared at him, blinking. “Okay.”
Greg sighed. “I still think he’s a prat,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall any more protests. “But he called me and told me that I needed to make things right because your moping was interfering with his thought processes.”
“I wasn’t moping,” John said defensively.
“Really? Because I was. My sister’s ready to kill me for calling her every night, drunk off my arse,” Greg said with a self-deprecating smile. “That’s not the point though. He didn’t say it, but he wants you to be happy. And I don’t get it. I still think he’s an annoying twat, but… you clearly see something in him. And it wasn’t fair of me to make judgements when I barely know the guy.”
John waited for him to finish.
“The point is,” Greg sighed, “I mean, I’d like to still go out with you. It’s been a lot of fun, and I really like you. And if that means putting up with Sherlock bloody Holmes, then I suppose I’ll just have to get to know him better, right?”
“He’s not that bad,” John found himself saying for a second time.
“Yeah, well, maybe I just need to find that out for myself,” Greg said. He stood and held out his hand, pulling John up. They leaned together in a warm embrace, kissing each other softly. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too,” John confessed.
The moment was broken when Sherlock stuck his head in and squinted at them. “Are you quite done with the apologies and sentimental declarations?” he asked.
Greg laughed into John’s shoulder, then lifted his head. “Yeah, we’re done.”
“Good, maybe I can finally get some work done,” said Sherlock with a sniff, though he made a beeline for his room.
“Hey, wait,” Greg said, and Sherlock paused, turning around with one eyebrow raised questioningly. “We were wondering if you wanted to join us.”
Sherlock looked honestly perplexed. “Why?”
Greg shrugged. “Thought it’d be a good idea to get to know you better.”
Sherlock turned it over in his head. “Fine. Where are we going?”
John grinned. “I know of this great little pastry shop down the way…”
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
Chapter 3/4
He really should have known better, John thought. It had been going so well. Too well. There had been the second date, the third date, the fourth, then it had somehow reached that point where instead of counting the dates, they counted how long it had been, with only the pettiest of fights.
Then there had been tonight.
He and Greg were at Greg’s flat, watching a film, though it was more of a film playing in the background while they laid on the couch together, Greg braced over John’s body as he kissed his way down his neck and tugged off his jumper. Both of them were panting and shirtless, hands roving over the exposed skin. John wrapped his arms around Greg’s neck and tugged him down, thrusting his hips up, his own groan mixing with Greg’s lower one. Greg tucked his face into John’s neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss at the juncture of his shoulder and neck, one hand busily working to undo John’s belt. He had just pried it loose and opened the front of John’s trousers when John’s mobile buzzed.
They paused for a moment before silently deciding to ignore it, when it began to ring insistently. Greg dropped his head onto John’s shoulder.
“You know it’s Sherlock,” he said, his voice muffled into John’s skin. John ran a hand through Greg’s hair.
“I know.”
“But you’re going to answer it anyway.”
Even though he knew it was going to cause trouble, John found himself defending Sherlock. “It might be something important.”
Greg jumped up with a groan that was definitely not like the ones he had been giving a moment before. “It won’t be!” he said with frustration. “It’ll be, ‘I forgot where we keep the tea’, or, ‘I need someone to go get me some milk.’ Honestly, John, I don’t know why you put up with it.”
“He’s my friend,” John said, buttoning up his trousers. The mobile continued blithely on, cheerfully ignorant of the friction it had caused. “I can’t just ignore him.”
“Yes, you can. It’s easy, watch.” Greg snatched up the mobile before John could protest, flipping it open. He didn’t even put it up to his ear, just held it in front of him as he shouted, “Sod off!” into the receiver.
John grabbed the phone from him as he pulled on his jumper, then redialed Sherlock’s number and waited for it to ring. He glared at Greg and stalked to the door of Greg's flat angrily.
“Take your own advice, Greg,” he said, slamming the door behind him.
John sat on the couch, staring at the wall in front of him and simultaneously hoping Greg would ring and hating himself for wanting him to. God, he thought disgustedly to himself, he was a teenage girl. Any minute now he would start listening to break-up songs and write abominable poetry on his blog.
His flat mate had disappeared as soon as John had come home, somehow sensing something was amiss, despite his cluelessness to most anything emotional in nature. John was torn between wanting his friend here to take his mind off the fight and wanting him here so that he could blame him for beginning the fight in the first place. It wasn’t fair, he knew, it was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Yes, the man could learn the niceties of social convention, but he wasn’t likely to, and John knew hoping that one day he would suddenly decide they were worth learning was as improbable as John deciding to become a showgirl in America. Greg knew it, too, which was part of the reason John kept having to push down the surges of anger whenever he thought about it. How dare he try to get him to choose between his boyfriend and his friend! How dare he steal John’s mobile! How dare he make John sit wallowing in self-pity in the darkened living room of his flat, thinking things like ‘How dare he’ unironically!
The door opened softly, like whoever was entering wasn’t sure if he was welcome or not. John leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. A weight settled in next to him, then the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted his depressing thoughts.
“What is it, Sherlock?” John asked tiredly.
“I brought you this,” Sherlock said. John opened his eyes and found Sherlock offering him a bag filled with two rented films of the chick-flick variety, a container of ice cream, and what looked to be a bottle of liquor.
“What is this?” he said, not even bothering to guess.
Sherlock looked affronted, then unsure. “It’s break-up things,” he said finally. “I have it on good authority that this is what friends are supposed to do when the other breaks up.”
“By good authority you mean the Internet, don’t you?” John asked. Sherlock looked trapped, which did more to confirm John’s guess than if he had admitted it. “And you do realise these are for girl break-ups, don’t you?”
“I was afraid of that,” Sherlock muttered. “There’s very little data on what to do when a male breaks up with another male.”
John found himself laughing despite himself. “Thanks anyway,” he said sincerely.
Sherlock nodded, clearly a little crest-fallen that his experiment hadn’t worked, and John felt almost sorry for him. Most people, even Greg, only saw the caustic exterior of the man, and to be fair, that was most of his interior as well. But there were flashes of genuine humanity, the occasional glimpse of a person who wanted to be part of the unwashed masses but honestly had no idea how to go about it.
“Come here,” John said, tugging Sherlock closer to him. The other man curled up, feline-like, on the couch, his head near John’s thigh.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sherlock said, and he sounded almost insulted that something as trivial as how to cheer his best, and sometimes only, friend up could be so unexpectedly complicated. John patted his head.
“You’re doing it,” John said honestly. “Just. You know. Be here.”
“That seems too simple,” Sherlock said after a thoughtful pause.
John shrugged. “Not everything has to be complicated, Sherlock. Sometimes things just are.”
The next day at work was unexpectedly quiet, even Sherlock going out of his way to not bother John as he moped by the register, looking up at each customer who wandered in. Mrs Hudson finally ordered him to go on break, then joined him with a cup of tea where he sat.
“You had a tiff with your boyfriend?” she said, sipping at her own tea.
John looked up. “How did you know?”
“Oh, I’ve seen that look before,” Mrs Hudson said, waving him off. “I’ve worn it myself a time or two when I was younger.”
“Yeah,” John admitted, toying with a napkin. He tore it into even strips, then tore each strip into tinier squares until they littered the surface. “We might have broken up.”
“Must have been a bad one, then,” Mrs Hudson commented. “I don’t suppose you and Sherlock—”
“No, Mrs Hudson,” John said with fond exasperation. “It’s not going to happen.”
“Pity,” Mrs Hudson said. “But can’t blame an old woman for trying, can you?”
John gave her a small smile at the long-running joke. For such a sweet lady, she took an uncomfortable interest in trying to push her two tenants into some kind of torrid romance, despite John’s insistence that they were just friends.
“So this is about the handsome young man with the cute bum?”
John felt his face flush and his jaw drop. “Mrs Hudson!”
“Please, John, I’m old, not dead,” Mrs Hudson laughed. “What was the fight about?”
“What else?” John rolled his eyes. “He thinks I spend too much time with Sherlock. He doesn’t get that it’s not like—” He sighed in frustration and his eyes darted toward the back, where he knew Sherlock was probably eavesdropping. He lowered his voice. “I’m the only friend Sherlock has, and Greg just doesn’t seem to get that. He thinks he’s just an annoying prat who calls me up because he’s lazy or something, but it’s just.”
He stopped, at a loss for how to explain it, but Mrs Hudson nodded understandingly. “You get a boyfriend and Sherlock panics, thinking you’re going to leave him.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, have you told Greg that?” Mrs Hudson pointed out reasonably.
“No,” John said. People thought it was so dreadfully simple, like all one had to do was talk to the other person and the whole mess would be cleared up like magic. It wasn’t that easy sometimes. “I don’t know how to explain it.”
Mrs Hudson gave him a sympathetic smile. “Well, dear, maybe he’ll come to his senses on his own.”
She gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder as she stood, and John shook off the uncomfortable feeling that she was making fun of him. He sighed and buried his head in his arms.
The week dragged on, neither John nor Greg willing to give in, when Sherlock one day met him outside the door of their flat. He looked uncertain and a tad guilty.
“What did you do this time?” John asked with a sinking feeling of dread.
“Don’t be angry,” Sherlock said, which usually preceded something that would, in fact, make John very angry. “But I did something.”
“I gathered that,” John said irritably. “What is it?”
Sherlock fidgeted, then opened the door of the flat and gestured for John to walk in. He did so cautiously. There on the sofa sat Greg, who smiled wanly at him and gave a little wave.
“Hi.”
John stared at him for a moment. “Excuse me for a moment.” He grabbed his flat mate and hauled him into the hallway, letting the door close behind him.
“What were you thinking?” he demanded.
Sherlock straightened. “I just thought that maybe if I explained some things to him, he would—”
“You just stuck your nose in where it didn’t belong and—” John’s thoughts scattered. “I can’t believe you. No, wait, I can, I completely can. Why on earth did you think this would be a good idea?”
“I overheard you talking with Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said. His voice never softened or wavered, but John felt a little nauseous anyway at the thought of him overhearing what John had said. “I know you and Greg had that fight about me. I’m not a charity case, you know. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“I can’t,” John ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Just give us a moment, will you?”
Sherlock nodded, sitting down on the steps. John rolled his eyes. “You can go inside, idiot,” he said fondly.
“I’d rather sit out here,” Sherlock said, perched on the landing.
John stared down at him, then shook his head and left him to it.
Greg was still on the couch where he left, looking more nervous than before. John joined him on the sofa, leaving a decent space between them.
“Hi,” he said again, unsure of how to begin.
“Sherlock told me,” Greg blurted. “I mean, not everything, but enough.”
John stared at him, blinking. “Okay.”
Greg sighed. “I still think he’s a prat,” he said, holding up his hand to forestall any more protests. “But he called me and told me that I needed to make things right because your moping was interfering with his thought processes.”
“I wasn’t moping,” John said defensively.
“Really? Because I was. My sister’s ready to kill me for calling her every night, drunk off my arse,” Greg said with a self-deprecating smile. “That’s not the point though. He didn’t say it, but he wants you to be happy. And I don’t get it. I still think he’s an annoying twat, but… you clearly see something in him. And it wasn’t fair of me to make judgements when I barely know the guy.”
John waited for him to finish.
“The point is,” Greg sighed, “I mean, I’d like to still go out with you. It’s been a lot of fun, and I really like you. And if that means putting up with Sherlock bloody Holmes, then I suppose I’ll just have to get to know him better, right?”
“He’s not that bad,” John found himself saying for a second time.
“Yeah, well, maybe I just need to find that out for myself,” Greg said. He stood and held out his hand, pulling John up. They leaned together in a warm embrace, kissing each other softly. “I’ve missed you.”
“Me too,” John confessed.
The moment was broken when Sherlock stuck his head in and squinted at them. “Are you quite done with the apologies and sentimental declarations?” he asked.
Greg laughed into John’s shoulder, then lifted his head. “Yeah, we’re done.”
“Good, maybe I can finally get some work done,” said Sherlock with a sniff, though he made a beeline for his room.
“Hey, wait,” Greg said, and Sherlock paused, turning around with one eyebrow raised questioningly. “We were wondering if you wanted to join us.”
Sherlock looked honestly perplexed. “Why?”
Greg shrugged. “Thought it’d be a good idea to get to know you better.”
Sherlock turned it over in his head. “Fine. Where are we going?”
John grinned. “I know of this great little pastry shop down the way…”
Missing Scene
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2010-12-16 01:57 am (UTC)