{Title}

devinleighbee:

kryptaria:

devinleighbee:

sometimes I wish I was a celebrity just so I could read fanfic about myself

John leaned over the back of Sherlock’s chair, fingers digging into the leather. He still couldn’t believe what he’d read. About him. And - and Sherlock…

I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.

Sherlock leaned against one of the Scotland Yard windows, studying the girl in the next room, who was grinning as she carefully signed the many dotted lines on the restraining order. Grinning hardly covered it, actually. She had been nearly giddy as Sally had led her to Lestrade’s office, and let out a cat-like sort of yelp when the DI had entered. The man had tried to keep a stern face through the lecture and briefing on the exact restrictions of the legal document, but even years of dealing with endless Sherlock snarkiness and the occasional Mycroft…well, Mycroftness…had not prepared him for a convict who seemed to be restraining giggles while he talked. Sally was in a second chair, looking between the pair with amusement.

Not to mention the fact that she had come in without the slightest hesitation, humming an oddly catchy little jingle as she sat in the back of the police car, and given Anderson a cheerful finger as she was marched to the office. (Well, Sally and the assisting cop had marched. John had walked along unassumingly behind the group, trying to avoid the girls glances back at him, which suggested he actually WAS some sort of adorable hedgehog. Sherlock had sauntered—or whatever—ahead in his normal fashion, although possibly with his head sunk a bit lower in his coat collar than usual.) With one last lustful stare at his…hair?…the girl had plopped down in the office and been there ever since.

As she passed the form back to Lestrade, he stopped and glanced down at his cell phone. Hmmm…Lestrade wouldn’t answer a textg with a criminal (however cheerful ) in his office, but Sherlock saw a suppressed smile, and Lestrade seemed to almost blush a little bit as he shoved the phone back in his pocket. Not his wife, surely…who…?

The girl leaned made a short comment, and Lestrade looked up at her with astonishment. What…? She glanced back out pointedly at Sherlock, and then said something else and he was definitely blushing now. Her twitching lips broke into a smile almost worthy of Moriarty. Sally’s twin look of surprise had morphed into one of suppressed amusement as Lestrade sat stunned. After a moment, he muttered something and hastily pushed out of his chair. He hurried out the office, mortification written on his face. He did a quick lookaround, then whipped out his phone and started texting at top speed as he hastened past Sherlock, not seeming to notice him.Sherlock, curiosity peaked, looked back at the girl, who was asking Sally a question about one of the pages. 

“What’s got Lestrade in such a bother?” John had reappeared beside him, looking curiously in the Detective Inspector as he hurried down the hall.

“I’m not sure—” 

At that moment Sally and this Devin stood. The woman walked behind the girl, who was still almost prancing, with a bemused expression. She hesitated as she saw the two of them standing there. Sherlock looked down at her with a solid mask of detached condescension, while John looked embarassedly at one of his shoes. “Devin…” Sally warned, but she simply looked from John, to Sherlock, and smiled at them in a way that was positively maniacal. 

Sherlock suddenly had a very vivid flashback to the kiss earlier, and felt suddenly conscious of how very much it had been like all those…things…that the girl had been posting. He felt his ears heating up slightly. 

“You two…have fun.” Said the girl, and swung around and left before Sally could admonish her. 

John and Sherlock stared after her. “D’you have the feeling…that she maybe…knows?” said John. 

Sherlock’s mind rifled again back through some of the things he had read. None of it had bothered him nearly as much as John, and still didn’t…but suddenly that surprisingly plentiful bounty of fictionalized smut seemed like more than teenage tripe. No, as absurd as it was, all those words seemed like a challenge. 

Sherlock didn’t answer, but grabbed John’s wrist and began hauling him toward the stairs. He wanted to get back to the flat, or at least to the back of a taxi, right now…