I'm not fully thrilled with this one as I think it could be a whole lot more, but again, the thought was to put words on a page and move on. Which I did. It turned out well enough, but if I have time during NaNoWriMo, I may go back and edit it a bit. We'll see.
There is a companion piece to this. Two, actually. I haven't decided whether or not I'm going to post them here or not yet. If I don't, I will definitely link them to my deviantArt page. One is in the middle of this and the other is floating around through time and space, but it fits in this AU.
Without further ado, I give you the story inspired by the prompt: Don't sign to me in that tone.
Don't Sign to Me in That Tone -- An original work by Julie Lynn Thorpe (C) 2016
His hands flew quickly, signing in an angry tone if
his face was anything to go by. Damn it!
I nearly had it that time! You should know better than to interrupt me!
I rolled my eyes and signed back just as quick,
speaking aloud as I did so, “Don’t you sign to me in that tone. Be nice, your
hair was about to catch fire.”
To hell with
my hair! A scowl settled on his face as he sat back and glared at me.
“You say that now,” I huffed, “But you love your
hair. You’d sulk even more if you’d burnt your damn hair.”
The tall man snorted and pushed away from the
table angrily. He stalked off towards his room and the door slammed shut. I
sighed and rolled my eyes, not bothering to walk down the hall and find out how
upset he was with me. He’d probably forget to sign and simply make rude
gestures instead.
I cleared the table off and threw away the burnt
bits. He’d sulk now, but he’d be fine later and, if I was extremely lucky, I’d
get some sort of apology. He really did love his bloody hair, but the
experiment was probably just as important. I’d find a way to make it up to him.
A few hours later, the dark haired man finally
decided to grace our living room with his presence. He sat in his chair, legs
curled up beneath him as he looked at me, studying me. I didn’t look up from my
paper beyond that initial look, waiting for him to make some noise to get my
attention. I didn’t have to wait long.
I… He
snorted, frowning. I’m sorry, John. I
would have had an awful strop over my hair, thank you for preventing me from
setting it aflame.
“You’re welcome, Sherlock,” I gave my response and
raised an eyebrow, on hand on the paper.
Fine, go
back to reading. I’ll entertain myself then.
“Just don’t set anything else on fire,” I mumbled,
returning to my paper.
-
“Damn it, Sherlock! Stop signing to me in that
bloody tone!” I snapped, forgetting to sign this time. He rolled his eyes,
pretending he couldn’t understand me, but I knew the idiot could read lips. “Keep it up and I will leave you here! Greg can take you home and he’s horrible at signing.”
He wrinkled his nose before blowing out a steam of
air. Fine. Tell them. He paused for a
moment before adding a Please at the
end.
I turned to the DI and outlined what the detective
had said, leaving out the insults and ‘obvious’ remarks. Sherlock gave a sort
of growl, something he always did when I didn’t repeat what he said exactly as
he’d told it to me, but I ignored it.
Sally opened her mouth and Sherlock made a handful
of gestures and I let out a hissed, “Sherlock!”
before turning to the sergeant and shaking my head. “Please, don’t, Sally. I’d
rather not repeat that.”
She blinked, turning a shade darker from blushing
most likely, and shut her mouth with a click of teeth. A quick look toward
Lestrade and she spun, disappearing behind a car, probably to mutter darkly
where the tall man couldn’t see her.
Sherlock spun and took off, signaling the end of
our help and I sighed, following closely behind with a shout to the DI. I had
to nearly jog to keep up to his long legs and ridiculously billowing coat, but
when I caught up he signed a simple thank
you which I smiled at.
He wasn’t so bad, not really.
-
“Don’t sign
to me in that tone, John.”
That was the first time I had ever heard
Sherlock’s voice beyond a handful of grunts, growls, and irritated noises. I
had also been wrapped up in semtex at the time, signing back what Moriarty was
spouting off in my ear. I’d been so startled that I stopped and stared at him
like some idiot.
“So the great Sherlock Holmes can speak!” Moriarty
appeared around the corner, delight rolling off his tongue as he laughed and
clapped his hands together. “How interesting!”
“Don’t be stupid,” Holmes rolled his eyes, gun
pointed at the madman, “Talking is boring.”
“You bloody git!” I hissed, glaring at him, but he
didn’t spare me more than a glance. If we survived this, I would strangle him
myself for forcing me to put up with him for this long.
They both continued to ignore me, I assumed
because I was no longer useful to either of them at the moment, which gave me
time to prepare an attack. Of course my meager attempt was useless and we
eventually got away with our lives, all three of us that bastard, and we headed
back to Baker Street.
Once there I simply headed to my room and locked
myself in, effectively ignoring my flatmate. I went about doing so for several
weeks, during which Sherlock spent his time obsessing over his new puzzle (one
Jim Moriarty) or sending Lestrade frustrated texts because I refused to
accompany him during his consultations with the Yard. He could just talk to Greg anyway, so why did he need
me?
I ignored his off-handed remarks and piss-poor
attempts to explain why he refused to talk since childhood. I found a reason to
be out of the flat: work at the surgery or need to get some air, might go see
what Mike’s up to today. Hell, I’d put up with Harry if it meant I didn’t have
to spend time with that lying bastard. Whatever reason I could come up with, I
used, no matter how stupid it seemed.
It was only after Mycroft interfered with a black
car pulling up to the curb and driving me away from the flat that I begin to
think that I should probably listen to what Sherlock had to say. Blessfully,
the elder Holmes simply insisted that I listen to his brother than explain the
whole thing for him. He sent me back with a smile I knew was fake, and I
stalked up the stairs and demanded an explanation.
-
“For the thousandth time, do not sign to me in that tone, you bloody git!” I snapped at the
crime scene. I signed rapidly, if you
keep up your attitude, I’ll out your damn arse to the entire Yard.
Sherlock hesitated and stared at me, eyes wide. You would. He decided. His lip raised in
annoyance. That would be not good, John,
you know that. It would ruin everything.
“Exactly,” I muttered. But I wouldn’t be the only one putting up with your insults and foul
signs.
Lestrade
guesses, or knows, haven’t decided yet. Need more data. He doesn’t care though,
either way. Likes it when you take charge of me. Interesting. He began
wondering if he’d prefer Mycroft more because of how controlling his brother
was and I blushed.
“Oi! Case!” I snapped.
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “I saw my name and his
brother’s a few times. What’s going on?”
I shook my head as he switched gears and began to
outline his deductions. I repeated them back, glad for the change in topic. The
DI said nothing as I accepted the switch of conversation and shouted orders to
his officers.
Come along,
John! Sherlock signed, The game is
on!
-
Don’t sign
it, I smiled, stilling his hands, “Please?”
He sighed and rolled his eyes. For several long
moments, there was silence before Sherlock took a breath and spoke,
“I do.”
I'm a sucker for comments and critics. Let me know what you think down in the comment section below! Thank you for reading!
(If you find you have a desire to share this elsewhere, PLEASE PLEASE let me know first. I have shared it in a couple of places, so I know it's out there already, but for the love of all that is holy, ASK ME to share this. I'll probably give it the okay, but I'd like to know where you're sharing it and if you're going to give me proper credit for it. It is my work after all. Thanks! :3 )
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