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snowwhite and the doctor (sequel, Johnlock)About two to three hours were passed by but John was still not there. Sherlock sat in his chair, thinking about what had happened. What did John say?
"I have had a crush on you since we met and all you can do is fool me? It's no surprise no one likes you!"
Sherlock sighed and shook his head. His flatmate, John Watson, the guy who claimed everyday that he wasn't gay, had a crush on him? That couldn't be. But then he remembered the kiss. John had been the one who kissed Sherlock, not the other way. Whatever, Sherlock thought. He was sure, that John would come back soon. If not, he probably would stay at Sarah's, because every time when they had a dispute, the doctor ran to Sarah. That meant, that Sherlock hadn't to worry about John, but he still did.
The detective sighed again, rose from his chair and looked out of the window. Dark clouds were hiding the starry sky and Sherlock knew there would be a snowstorm soon. Of course John would be back before the storm, except he would sta
all because of one sheet (Johnlock)"John?"
"Mhm?" John looked up from his laptop and raised one eyebrow at his flatmate. "What i-..." He blinked and tried not to concentrate on the completely naked detective in front of him. "Sherlock? What the hell are you doing?"
"I can't find my sheet."
"Put on some clothes!" John stared at his laptop, he didn't dare to look up again, even as Sherlock was laughing.
"I just wanted to ask you, if you have seen my sheet somewhere. But as a result of your reaction I deduce that you haven't. You are ashamed to see your flatmate naked, or possibly like it, because you blushed and you can hardly keep yourself from looking at me again."
"Would you please shut up, Sherlock?"
"I'm right, am I not?"
"Damn, no, Sherlock! You aren't right! And I don't like this experiment very much! I'm begging you, put on some clothes!"
"Why do you think it's an experiment, John? I'm just looking for my sheet, but I can't find it. Maybe Mrs. Hudson put it away..."
"Yeah, maybe." John grumbled. "Go and ask her!"
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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