Made for a prompt over at sherlockbbc_fic. Rating: G Pairing: None, gen. Summary: Sherlock has to go undercover at a fashion show for a case.
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and avoids his gaze in the mirror, which is surrounded by three neon-light tubes. The cloth whispers over his skin in uncomfortable ways. The backstage area is warm, clothing rattles past. Women with pin-cushions strapped to their wrists and no-nonsense expressions flap from one rack to another. Girls, usually in the first stages of malnutrition, flutter in brightly coloured clothing. Boys, not much better in terms of health, laugh together and brush imaginary specks of dust off tailored clothing, talking about absent collegues with a sneer and a smirk. There’s noise, bustle, music and light and it is all information. He can smell the wax in the make-up in front of him and the product in his hair. All part of the disguise. The suit is ostentatious, and the shoes are impractical and showy. He wasn’t allowed to wear socks, and they chafe. He knows he owes Mycroft a favour, but really it’s all just too dull and he really doesn’t appreciate being coerced into such nonsense when there are better things to do. Like finding an alternate route to Baker Street from the London Eye, or checking on the finger experiment, or lying on the couch and flicking paper pellets at John to see how long it takes before he pays attention.
“Er… Lachie?” the woman with the clipboard mispronounces it. Sherlock closes his eyes with impatience, but looks round with a polite, nervous smile, like any young man about to make his turn. She smiles back, brief, distant. To her, he’s just another prop for a fashion show, and he thinks perhaps he likes her a little more for that, even if she is otherwise quite dull.
“Lockie. It’s pronounced Lockie,” Mycroft’s idea of a joke, no doubt. “Can I help you?”
“Lockie. Right. You’ll be on in five. Break a leg dear,” She gives him an impersonal smile. Sherlock regards himself in the mirror, teased and primped. It’s all quite ridiculous, and he’s not sure it’s entirely necessary. But the thief is one of these oh-so-pretty but oh-so-vapid living coat-hangers. He’s certain. It’ll be worth it if he can get what he needs. His face feels a little stiff under its coating of make-up, and he’s never liked ties. His hair itches from the gel used to make it look exactly like it usually did. To anyone watching, a model sits elegantly at his make-up table, considering his own reflection, not an unusual occupation in his profession. It would take a close observer to notice that the model’s eyes do not meet that of his reflection, rather, they sweep the area around it, observant and keen. Observe, not see… Ah. There. Excellent.
He stands in a liquid movement in the unfamiliar suit. A line of tense men stand on the sideline, touching hair and twitching their sleeves straight, waiting for the call from a balding man with another clipboard and a walkie-talkie.
“I’m always so nervous before going out! They’re saying Madonna’s here. Can you imagine?” the man beside him smiles into his face, too close, he can smell the cologne and knows that the man beside him is using speed to keep his weight down and purges once a week with salt-water.
“Oh really?” he says, a tight smile, as wound-up as anyone else, though for subtly different reasons. Despite himself, he tugs the cuffs of his shirt down so they are straight, and stands a little straighter.
John and Lestrade sit in the crowd, near the front.
“He’ll be out with the next crowd. I hope he can find everything he needs back there,” John checks the brochure in his lap. He’s uncomfortable too, in a fitted shirt and ludicrously fashionable jeans and really, did shoes need to be so pointy?
“It’ll be worth it if he can.” Lestrade is tense too, watching the dark where the models emerge and disappear. The pounding bass of the music is giving John a headache, and he taps the back of his hand with one finger, trying to ignore it. Undercover is fun for Sherlock, he enjoys playing the game, fooling people, no matter what he says, but John finds it all a bit tedious. He’s always hated acting, since the disastrous Nativity play back in primary school. But here, all he has to do is watch. He has a back-stage pass hung round his neck with the press pass that Mycroft gained for them after roping them into this mess… Just in case. The overhead lights go up and the first model begins his stalk down the runway.
Sherlock is shunted slowly forward by the man with the magic walkie-talkie and then into the bright light of the catwalk, although his eyes are not on the step in front of him, rather off to the side…
For a brief hysterical moment, all John can think of is that song: ‘I do my little turn on the catwalk, yeah, on the catwalk, on the catwalk, I do my little turn on the catwalk…’ as Sherlock, graceful; all angles, planes and arrogance sweeps down the platform. He oozes charm, sex and danger in equal parts as he stares down the cameras and the suit moves with him like a second skin. Say what you like, he did look the part. John can see why Mycroft might have insisted on Sherlock for this case. With his height and striking good looks, he looks like he was born to modelling.
Cameras flash as he reaches the end, undoes the buttons on the front of the grey suit and, with a look that suggests that perhaps you should be worshipping a little harder and about five minutes ago he turns on his heel with a dancer’s pivot and a swirl of deep purple silk as the jacket flairs out. He is half-way to the backstage area, already being replaced by a model in a blue shirt when he suddenly dives to one side and tackles the other man. Cameras flash as they tumble into the front row in a mess of long limbs and expensive clothing. Lestrade starts and swears, bringing a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. John scrambles to his friend’s aid. There are shouts, shrieks, flashing bulbs and its all noise and he smiles despite himself as Sherlock pops to the top of a pile of arms and legs. One hand waves for purchase and the other clutches a wrist. John reached out, leaning over the stage, and grabbed his friend’s hand, hauling him out of the mess, still clutching his reply.
Stood by the nondescript black car, Mycroft idly swings his umbrella. Sherlock has a bruise high on his cheekbone and a cut on his knuckle. John wipes his hands down his face in a move that is half exasperation, half amusement.
“You could have been more subtle.” Mycroft says mildly.
“It was the most opportune moment.” Sherlock retorts, doing up his scarf, and if Mycroft sees the mischievous look that he gives John as he walks away, he doesn’t say anything.
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Too sexy For Your Party.
Oct. 4th, 2010 02:03 amRating: G
Pairing: None, gen.
Summary: Sherlock has to go undercover at a fashion show for a case.
Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and avoids his gaze in the mirror, which is surrounded by three neon-light tubes. The cloth whispers over his skin in uncomfortable ways. The backstage area is warm, clothing rattles past. Women with pin-cushions strapped to their wrists and no-nonsense expressions flap from one rack to another. Girls, usually in the first stages of malnutrition, flutter in brightly coloured clothing. Boys, not much better in terms of health, laugh together and brush imaginary specks of dust off tailored clothing, talking about absent collegues with a sneer and a smirk. There’s noise, bustle, music and light and it is all information. He can smell the wax in the make-up in front of him and the product in his hair. All part of the disguise. The suit is ostentatious, and the shoes are impractical and showy. He wasn’t allowed to wear socks, and they chafe. He knows he owes Mycroft a favour, but really it’s all just too dull and he really doesn’t appreciate being coerced into such nonsense when there are better things to do. Like finding an alternate route to Baker Street from the London Eye, or checking on the finger experiment, or lying on the couch and flicking paper pellets at John to see how long it takes before he pays attention.
“Er… Lachie?” the woman with the clipboard mispronounces it. Sherlock closes his eyes with impatience, but looks round with a polite, nervous smile, like any young man about to make his turn. She smiles back, brief, distant. To her, he’s just another prop for a fashion show, and he thinks perhaps he likes her a little more for that, even if she is otherwise quite dull.
“Lockie. It’s pronounced Lockie,” Mycroft’s idea of a joke, no doubt. “Can I help you?”
“Lockie. Right. You’ll be on in five. Break a leg dear,” She gives him an impersonal smile. Sherlock regards himself in the mirror, teased and primped. It’s all quite ridiculous, and he’s not sure it’s entirely necessary. But the thief is one of these oh-so-pretty but oh-so-vapid living coat-hangers. He’s certain. It’ll be worth it if he can get what he needs. His face feels a little stiff under its coating of make-up, and he’s never liked ties. His hair itches from the gel used to make it look exactly like it usually did. To anyone watching, a model sits elegantly at his make-up table, considering his own reflection, not an unusual occupation in his profession. It would take a close observer to notice that the model’s eyes do not meet that of his reflection, rather, they sweep the area around it, observant and keen. Observe, not see… Ah. There. Excellent.
He stands in a liquid movement in the unfamiliar suit. A line of tense men stand on the sideline, touching hair and twitching their sleeves straight, waiting for the call from a balding man with another clipboard and a walkie-talkie.
“I’m always so nervous before going out! They’re saying Madonna’s here. Can you imagine?” the man beside him smiles into his face, too close, he can smell the cologne and knows that the man beside him is using speed to keep his weight down and purges once a week with salt-water.
“Oh really?” he says, a tight smile, as wound-up as anyone else, though for subtly different reasons. Despite himself, he tugs the cuffs of his shirt down so they are straight, and stands a little straighter.
John and Lestrade sit in the crowd, near the front.
“He’ll be out with the next crowd. I hope he can find everything he needs back there,” John checks the brochure in his lap. He’s uncomfortable too, in a fitted shirt and ludicrously fashionable jeans and really, did shoes need to be so pointy?
“It’ll be worth it if he can.” Lestrade is tense too, watching the dark where the models emerge and disappear. The pounding bass of the music is giving John a headache, and he taps the back of his hand with one finger, trying to ignore it. Undercover is fun for Sherlock, he enjoys playing the game, fooling people, no matter what he says, but John finds it all a bit tedious. He’s always hated acting, since the disastrous Nativity play back in primary school. But here, all he has to do is watch. He has a back-stage pass hung round his neck with the press pass that Mycroft gained for them after roping them into this mess… Just in case. The overhead lights go up and the first model begins his stalk down the runway.
Sherlock is shunted slowly forward by the man with the magic walkie-talkie and then into the bright light of the catwalk, although his eyes are not on the step in front of him, rather off to the side…
For a brief hysterical moment, all John can think of is that song: ‘I do my little turn on the catwalk, yeah, on the catwalk, on the catwalk, I do my little turn on the catwalk…’ as Sherlock, graceful; all angles, planes and arrogance sweeps down the platform. He oozes charm, sex and danger in equal parts as he stares down the cameras and the suit moves with him like a second skin. Say what you like, he did look the part. John can see why Mycroft might have insisted on Sherlock for this case. With his height and striking good looks, he looks like he was born to modelling.
Cameras flash as he reaches the end, undoes the buttons on the front of the grey suit and, with a look that suggests that perhaps you should be worshipping a little harder and about five minutes ago he turns on his heel with a dancer’s pivot and a swirl of deep purple silk as the jacket flairs out. He is half-way to the backstage area, already being replaced by a model in a blue shirt when he suddenly dives to one side and tackles the other man. Cameras flash as they tumble into the front row in a mess of long limbs and expensive clothing. Lestrade starts and swears, bringing a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. John scrambles to his friend’s aid. There are shouts, shrieks, flashing bulbs and its all noise and he smiles despite himself as Sherlock pops to the top of a pile of arms and legs. One hand waves for purchase and the other clutches a wrist. John reached out, leaning over the stage, and grabbed his friend’s hand, hauling him out of the mess, still clutching his reply.
Stood by the nondescript black car, Mycroft idly swings his umbrella. Sherlock has a bruise high on his cheekbone and a cut on his knuckle. John wipes his hands down his face in a move that is half exasperation, half amusement.
“You could have been more subtle.” Mycroft says mildly.
“It was the most opportune moment.” Sherlock retorts, doing up his scarf, and if Mycroft sees the mischievous look that he gives John as he walks away, he doesn’t say anything.