YOUR DW LAYOUT IS SO SKINNY. Like Nuclear Wintour skinny.
Tennis. Idek, idek. :(
You know what's less sad than tennis?
*
John is inured to sharing his living space with all types of body parts. The riding crop applied to anything save his own person is no longer cause for comment. (His comment was: "Stop that right now unless you want the entire length of it shoved somewhere uncomfortable, and I don't mean the back of a Volkswagen." And then they'd had to watch Mallrats.)
Very little throws him these days, and he takes a certain pride in that. Maybe it's not surprising, then, that he gets the shock of his life from something that, in other circumstances, with other flatmates, would be perfectly normal.
He comes home and finds a strange woman coming out of Sherlock's room, shoes in one hand, purse dangling from the other. She's tall, thin, terribly pale (he hopes that's her natural complexion and not due to one of Sherlock's experiments), with auburn hair that falls just past her shoulders.
His first thought, if expressed on on his blog, would look something like this:
alksdjfa;lskoweir?????!!!!!!
His manners run on automatic pilot though, and he says, "Hi, I'm John, the flatmate. You must be Sherlock's..."
And then he sees the eyes, and the end of that sentence is either going to be "sister" or endless mockery for John, because no one else has eyes like that.
He lets his hand drop, unshaken. "Nice wig," he says.
"Thank you," Sherlock says, gravely. "It's real human hair."
"Is it."
"They're quite expensive."
"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that."
"Get dressed. We're going out."
"I am dressed."
"A suit. A tie. I need an escort. You have ten minutes. No, five."
John goes to his room to change and pretend this isn't going to figure prominently in every fantasy he gets off to for the next, oh, just call it forever.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-12 06:24 pm (UTC)Tennis. Idek, idek. :(
You know what's less sad than tennis?
*
John is inured to sharing his living space with all types of body parts. The riding crop applied to anything save his own person is no longer cause for comment. (His comment was: "Stop that right now unless you want the entire length of it shoved somewhere uncomfortable, and I don't mean the back of a Volkswagen." And then they'd had to watch Mallrats.)
Very little throws him these days, and he takes a certain pride in that. Maybe it's not surprising, then, that he gets the shock of his life from something that, in other circumstances, with other flatmates, would be perfectly normal.
He comes home and finds a strange woman coming out of Sherlock's room, shoes in one hand, purse dangling from the other. She's tall, thin, terribly pale (he hopes that's her natural complexion and not due to one of Sherlock's experiments), with auburn hair that falls just past her shoulders.
His first thought, if expressed on on his blog, would look something like this:
alksdjfa;lskoweir?????!!!!!!
His manners run on automatic pilot though, and he says, "Hi, I'm John, the flatmate. You must be Sherlock's..."
And then he sees the eyes, and the end of that sentence is either going to be "sister" or endless mockery for John, because no one else has eyes like that.
He lets his hand drop, unshaken. "Nice wig," he says.
"Thank you," Sherlock says, gravely. "It's real human hair."
"Is it."
"They're quite expensive."
"You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that."
"Get dressed. We're going out."
"I am dressed."
"A suit. A tie. I need an escort. You have ten minutes. No, five."
John goes to his room to change and pretend this isn't going to figure prominently in every fantasy he gets off to for the next, oh, just call it forever.