docwithablog | storyline one.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ As Russell finishes his introduction, one of the dancers leave (23-25 y.o, vegetarian, plays the guitar and owns a yellow canary), giving them a quiet nod on her way. John looks... a lot more observant than normally, going by how he basically follows her with his eyes. Sherlock's jaw tightens a fraction. He looks away, scanning the groups of dancers - because they're in groups, plural, that much is plain to see. A pair by the wall, standing close together; a cluster of seven in the middle, keeping well away from that one, seemingly antisocial girl who keeps staring at them with utter contempt on her face. Two other groups (two and three people, respectively), a larger group of ten by the back wall and the last one, standing by the barre closest to the door. She'd been pairing up with the one who just left, John's little sex fantasy.

Dancing girls. How utterly predictable of him.

Russell motions for him to say something, flapping one arm at him in an inexplicably graceful manner. Sherlock steps forward, hands behind his back and his coat swaying by his ankles. ]

I'd like to talk to some of you. [ He waves one hand at a dark-haired girl, standing amongst the largest cluster of dancers. 24-26 y.o., long-limbed, born in Scotland, does modeling as a side gig, obsessed with nail polish. ] You, especially. Most of you, however, I'll probably ignore. Don't take it personally. [ Pause. A quick sideways nod at John. ] Though, if any female dancers require a willing audience, my colleague here will be happy to oblige.

[ Someone sniggers. A few of the girls look at John, then giggle amongst themselves while the men look mostly unimpressed. ]

Edited 2020-04-24 18:11 (UTC)

[ He only just has time to return his attention to the group of dancers, the girl out the door and gone, before Sherlock ends his speech with a lovely appendix which basically makes John sound like a huge pervert who likes his women too young, too thin and too extended, thank you very much, you utter cock. Clearing his throat as there's a general response of uncomfortable amusement, he shifts his gaze to the floor briefly, mostly to avoid looking at any of the girls in question too closely and stops shifting back and forth altogether, standing still and ramrod straight. His hands at his sides flex a bit, fingers curling and uncurling once before he manages a small smile, looking around finally. ] Don't mind him, he's joking. Of course. [ He's not, though. Sherlock rarely jokes. And only ever scathingly. Lips pursed, he glances from the girl Sherlock's singled out and back to the other man once more, stepping closer to him to buy them a moment of pretend privacy before the dark-haired dance goddess or whoever she is (don't loot at him, he doesn't know yet) decides to join them and have her questionable fun. John sort of wants to tell her to run, get out of here while she still can. Instead he cocks his head and glares up at Sherlock, the tightness of his jawline and the cool of his demeanour. Typical case looks. ]

Trying to be kind again?

[ He knows he's not, come on. Sherlock can actually be quite considerate when the mood strikes him and someone's sacrificed, what, their firstborn to the gods, but this sure isn't it. However, rather than argue the arsehole-ishness of his move, John just comments on it, noting it stubbornly and making it obvious that he's certainly more than ready to move on to whatever it might be Sherlock's no doubt already deduced from the dancers around them.

If you wouldn't bloody well mind. ]

[ John comes through with his usual grace - he's joking, yes, and they're all either stupid enough to believe it or uncaring enough to shrug it off. Sherlock takes a moment to answer him, gaze gliding around the room once more as Russell gets everyone back on track, signalling for the pianist to get on with the programme. Lonely!girl, as he's decided to name the perpetually unimpressed dancer in the middle, isn't looking at them anymore, her focus solely on the music and the steps that follow soon after. The two girls by the wall take a little longer to get going, still smiling and glancing furtively at John, one of them looking decidedly lovelorn, ugh, so pedestrian.

Trying to be kind again? Well, at least the man got the message this time without Sherlock having to spell it out. ]

If at some point, we're in need of someone's phone number, at least you'll come in handy. [ He keeps thinking about John, following the girl with his eyes, checking her out and it shouldn't really piss him off as they fucked only yesterday and certain things should be beneath him, jealousy included. Unfortunately, that one percentage of his mind not currently preoccupied with the case keeps asking stupid questions, such as would John like to sleep with her? and furthermore, why would John like to sleep with her? Consequently, his voice is a little too sharp still when he adds: ] There's a room in the hallway. [ With that, he turns away and heads for the door, coat swishing behind him while Nailpolish follows them at a slight distance. ]

storyline one.

no subject

no subject

no subject