| Author: | earlgreytea68 | ISBN: | 9781370659807 |
| Publisher: | earlgreytea68 | Publication: | October 30, 2016 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition | Language: | English |
| Author: | earlgreytea68 |
| ISBN: | 9781370659807 |
| Publisher: | earlgreytea68 |
| Publication: | October 30, 2016 |
| Imprint: | Smashwords Edition |
| Language: | English |
“Can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”
John blinked in surprise. Sherlock had clearly spoken, but he still hadn’t looked at him. John looked from his figure on the chair, both still and restless all at once, to the landline telephone sitting right next to him on the table.
“What’s wrong with the landline?” John asked.
“I prefer to text.”
John fished his cell phone out of his pocket, not really seeing a way not to without coming across as unbearably rude, and glanced at it. He had a signal. He held it up. Sherlock held out a hand. Apparently he had no intention of budging from his perch on the armchair. John considered, then sighed and walked across the clubhouse to him, giving him his phone.
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, with the air of having accepted something he was owed anyway. His fingers flew over the keys, texting with an ease John could never hope to match. Honestly, John hated the phone. Harry had insisted he buy it, saying he had to get into the modern age.
John stood in awkward silence and thought maybe he ought to introduce himself. “I’m –”
“John Watson, yes, I know. Born in Northumberland, British mother, American father. Moved to Florida at the age of 14. Star catcher for your ‘high school,’ state championship in your last year. Successful ‘college’ career, as they say here, but decided against graduating in favor of your professional baseball career, having been drafted. Spent one year in the minors before being called up and establishing yourself quickly as an ace caller of games. Nicknamed ‘Doctor’ for your reputed ability to fix whatever ails a pitcher. You intend to retire after this year. And your injuries are primarily psychosomatic. There.” Sherlock handed him back his phone. “That covered most of it, didn’t it?”
John took the phone a bit dazedly. “How …”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock leaped lightly off the armchair, looking much more like the pitcher John had seen, tall and graceful, all lean lines. Perched on the armchair, he had seemed very young, but now, clad in most of what was clearly an expensive suit, he seemed gathered and poised, like he was two seconds away from a fastball down the middle. “Most of it was Wikipedia.”
“Can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”
John blinked in surprise. Sherlock had clearly spoken, but he still hadn’t looked at him. John looked from his figure on the chair, both still and restless all at once, to the landline telephone sitting right next to him on the table.
“What’s wrong with the landline?” John asked.
“I prefer to text.”
John fished his cell phone out of his pocket, not really seeing a way not to without coming across as unbearably rude, and glanced at it. He had a signal. He held it up. Sherlock held out a hand. Apparently he had no intention of budging from his perch on the armchair. John considered, then sighed and walked across the clubhouse to him, giving him his phone.
“Thank you,” said Sherlock, with the air of having accepted something he was owed anyway. His fingers flew over the keys, texting with an ease John could never hope to match. Honestly, John hated the phone. Harry had insisted he buy it, saying he had to get into the modern age.
John stood in awkward silence and thought maybe he ought to introduce himself. “I’m –”
“John Watson, yes, I know. Born in Northumberland, British mother, American father. Moved to Florida at the age of 14. Star catcher for your ‘high school,’ state championship in your last year. Successful ‘college’ career, as they say here, but decided against graduating in favor of your professional baseball career, having been drafted. Spent one year in the minors before being called up and establishing yourself quickly as an ace caller of games. Nicknamed ‘Doctor’ for your reputed ability to fix whatever ails a pitcher. You intend to retire after this year. And your injuries are primarily psychosomatic. There.” Sherlock handed him back his phone. “That covered most of it, didn’t it?”
John took the phone a bit dazedly. “How …”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Sherlock leaped lightly off the armchair, looking much more like the pitcher John had seen, tall and graceful, all lean lines. Perched on the armchair, he had seemed very young, but now, clad in most of what was clearly an expensive suit, he seemed gathered and poised, like he was two seconds away from a fastball down the middle. “Most of it was Wikipedia.”
