The Structural Composition of Folly - 7 - Bears on the Beach

[jessamygriffith]

Title: The Structural Composition of Folly
Rating: Mature
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Word Count: 11,000 for the entire fic
Disclaimer: Interpretation of characters is my own. Standard disclaimers apply. Emails redacted from actual ones sent by Misha Collins. Based upon a real event.
Category: Humour, Fluff, Rom/Com ending
Betas: red_adam for Brit pick, and alltoseek for wrangling and style
Also Found Here: AO3
Summary: John convinces Sherlock to join the Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen, the brainchild of Misha 'Castiel' Collins.
Can Sherlock's superior mental power rise to the insane challenges of the Hunt? How many rules can one consulting detective break? Is he in it to win it? And will John ever be the same after it's over?

Part 1   /  Part 2   /   Part 3   /   Part 4   /   Part 5   /   Part 6  /   Part 8   /   Epilogue

Chapter Seven - Bears on the Beach

Friday, November 25th, 2011

John scrubbed at his hair protectively as he followed Sherlock into Angelo's. "No. Absolutely not, you madman. I've sacrificed a lot to your whims, including the bulk of my sanity, but not my hair."

Sherlock sniffed. "It's not a precious substance, John. You are not Samson, losing your strength each time you get a haircut. Besides, afterwards we can clip it down to a nice military shortness."

"Bugger off, Sherlock. Forfeit your own hair, you vain git."

Sherlock helped John from his coat. The acrid smell of smoke clung to both of them. John pondered how close they'd come to breaking Rule #11 of GISHWHES - don't break the law (or as Sherlock interpreted it, don't get caught). Thankfully when the petrol-powered turtle-neck sweater had begun smoking and burst into green flames, they'd been in a fire department's training facility and extinguishers had been close to hand.

Still, Sherlock was pleased to have another thirty five points, More importantly, he was still ahead of Anderson, who'd boastfully told of the palliative qualities of Snake Oil in a rather well-shot video he'd made. Apparently Anderson had friends within an ad agency that helped him spin up an excellent script. John was sure the video would get the full 79 points, if not more.

"But I love the feel of a nice trim, John," Sherlock coaxed. "Like rough velvet. I particularly love how it feels against my stomach when you do that -"

"Right, that's enough!" interrupted John hastily, driving away the lustful image that had popped up immediately. "It's not going to happen. Find some other poor sap. Anyway, I thought you liked something to hold onto."

The challenge they were arguing over was the last of the five random selections John had approved. He'd laughed out loud when the random number generator had pulled up number one hundred forty one.

[141. The word GISHWHES shaved into a hairy belly, back or back of the head. (23 points)]

That is, he'd laughed until Sherlock had begun his campaign to style John's hair in a fresh post-modern way. He eyed Sherlock with disgruntlement as he flipped open the menu. Sherlock pursed his lips, gaze turning inward as he no doubt plotted which of his street acquaintances he could con into joining more GISHWHES madness.

"John, Sherlock. What can I get for you tonight?" Angelo loomed up suddenly. John smiled up at balding, pony-tailed proprietor.

"Think I'll just go with the special, tonight, thanks. You, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "If I want full points for style, I suppose for interest's sake I should find someone with a hairy back instead. Extreme hirtsutism isn't terribly common in Englishmen, however."

A laughing female voice called, "Angelo is a bit of a bear, though." Angelo growled as a tiny Asian in her early thirties wearing a server's apron made her way over. "Why-ever are you looking for one, Sherlock? Because if you have an interest, find your own. This shaggy Rupert is mine." She wound an arm around the sheepish Angelo's waist.

"Hiromi, please," the burly man complained without any heat. "Gentlemen, my girlfriend Hiromi. Hiromi, this is John and Sherlock, as you've already guessed." She smiled at the doctor and detective.

Sherlock's eyes were alive with interest. "A hairy back? Is that so... and you're taking a holiday to Majorca soon."

"How did you know?" asked Hiromi. Angelo just shook his head and John sighed in amusement as Sherlock leaned forward with his most charming smile, fingers interlaced beneath his chin.

"Nothing like a holiday in the winter, is there, Hiromi? I suppose you'll both be spending some time picking up some colour on the beaches. So, I have a little proposition that might work for both of us..."

~oOo~

All things considered, that had gone well, thought John. And he doubted he'd ever quite erase the images of Sherlock with clippers bent over Angelo as a grinning Hiromi watched. And how clearly GISHWHES could be read on the unfortunate man's back through the...well, pelt. 'Bear' was an understatement.

Though he wished he could delete the mental pictures. John squinched his eyes closed and ran a hand over the smooth skin of his lover's slumbering torso in silent and guilty thanksgiving.

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Notes: Photo Challenge:
141. The word GISHWHES shaved into a hairy belly, back or back of the head. (23 points)

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Part 1   /  Part 2   /   Part 3   /   Part 4   /   Part 5   /   Part 6   /   Part 8   /   Epilogue