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It depends on my mood

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Requested by [personal profile] involuntaryorange 

“Are you trying to get me drunk, darling?” Eames asked, admiring the casks of wine around them.

“This is research. We need to know everything about wine for this extraction.”

Eames lifted his eyebrows. “What makes you think I don’t already know everything there is to know about wine?”

“Because you always drink terrible beers.”

“Let’s make a bet: I identify more wines than you correctly, you make out with me.”

“Make out?” said Arthur. “Are you 12?”

“Scared?” asked Eames.

“You’re on,” said Arthur.

They ended up losing count but making out anyway; they both considered it a win.
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Requested by charlieslola

By the time he was five, Oliver was an expert at ferreting out all of the Christmas gift hiding places and what was inside every gift. No matter how much John tried to disguise the ultimate gift by placing oddly shaped boxes within other oddly shaped boxes and using other materials—crunchy newspaper, jars of marbles—to mask weight and sound, Oliver always knew.

“He is bloody impossible to surprise,” John complained.

“Not impossible,” Sherlock said. “After all, you manage to surprise me every day, just by your very existence. Just by being you.”

This was how middle-of-the-day sex happened.
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Requested by [personal profile] iwritemystrade .

Mycroft stood in front of Greg’s chair and waggled his fingers at him.

Greg blinked at them. “What? What’s that for?”

“Do you not hear the music?” Mycroft gestured; a slow Christmas song was crooning in the background.

“Yes,” said Greg. “It’s been on all day.”

“But this,” said Mycroft, “is a song for dancing to.”

Greg stared. “Do you know how to—Of course you do. You probably took bloody lessons, didn’t you?”

Mycroft just lifted an eyebrow at him.

Greg, grinning, took Mycroft’s hand and let him pull him up into an embrace. He even let him lead.
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Requested by [personal profile] jcd1013 

Playing baseball on the grand stage of the professional level tended to distort the game, John thought. And he had never thought that he’d lost sight of the true joy of baseball but once they were retired, when Sherlock would nudge him into playing catch at moments, John realized that he had, in a way. Because Sherlock pitched alone the same way he pitched in front of an audience, with single-minded dedicated focus, and it made John realize that joyful baseball wasn’t necessarily casual baseball: It was playing this game for nothing but fun but still giving it your all. PLEASE GO TO EARLGREYTEA68.DREAMWIDTH.ORG TO COMMENT ON THIS ENTRY. ANONYMOUS COMMENTS SHOULD BE ALLOWED IF YOU DON'T HAVE A DW ACCOUNT. https://earlgreytea68.dreamwidth.org/520740.html?mode=reply https://earlgreytea68.dreamwidth.org/520740.html
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Requested by anonymous

“And if you compare the hair of a Newfoundland with that of a St. Bernard—” Sherlock cut himself off abruptly as John yawned. “What was that?”

“It was a yawn, Sherlock,” John said.

“Why?” asked Sherlock suspiciously. “The comparison of different dog hairs is vitally important to—”

“It isn’t boredom, Sherlock, it’s exhaustion. It’s four o’clock in the bloody morning and—” John yawned again.

And so, to his horror, did Sherlock.

John smiled. “You might be sleepy, too.”

“Impossible,” sputtered Sherlock. “You know that contagious yawning is a phenomenon unconnected to—”

“Come to bed,” said John.

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Requested by K2togYO

“I need to borrow George Orwell,” Oliver announced upon being shown into Mycroft’s office by Anthea. Mycroft didn’t blink. Oliver, at seven, was a common visitor. “I need a bloodhound. But George Orwell is the only dog I know, so he’ll have to do. He’s much closer to being a bloodhound than the alley cat Mrs. Hudson feeds.”

“Please don’t go near that thing,” said Mycroft. “It’s flea-ridden. What do you need a bloodhound for?”

“Secret consulting detective business,” said Oliver.

“Is this about terrorizing the ducks in the park again?”

“Maybe,” Oliver allowed.

“I respect your determination,” said Mycroft.

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Requested by [personal profile] postynotemusing .

In Rose’s experience, Time Lords were the worst at choosing movies.

“You have the movies of all of space and time to choose from,” Rose complained, “and yet you always want to watch a Godzilla movie.”

“The genre’s called kaiju,” said Brem.

“Can’t we watch a movie without a giant monster? I mean, aren’t giant monsters basically our lives?”

“There is a kaiju planet,” mused the Doctor. “I’ve never brought us there because it isn’t the safest, but…might be worth a visit now the kids are older.”

Her kids clamored for the planet with the giant monsters, and Rose sighed.
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Requested by anonymous

“What’s it supposed to mean?” Oliver asked, tipping his head at the abstract painting.

John didn’t actually know what it meant, and he was loath to admit that to Oliver. Why had he ever thought an art museum would be a good idea?

“Boring!” Sherlock proclaimed. Several other people in the gallery all looked at them.

Terrible idea, thought John. It had been a terrible idea.

“Why are the clocks melting?” asked Oliver, having moved over to the Dali.

Sherlock frowned. “Marginally less boring.”

“Don’t any of these paintings have murders in them?” Oliver complained.

Terrible, terrible idea, thought John.

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Requested by [personal profile] alafaye .

“You’re…decorating,” said Mycroft, in the careful tone of voice he would have used for something like you’re growing feathers.

Greg laughed. “Yes. It’s Christmastime. Didn’t Anthea warn you to buy me a present?”

Mycroft frowned. “I have an alert on my calendar to buy you a present.”

Greg laughed again. “How romantic.”

“I just mean: why are you decorating? Reynolds always takes care of that.”

“You come home from work one day and the house looks like Christmas arrived?”

“Yes,” said Mycroft.

“Well, not this year,” said Greg, grinning. “Help me with the mistletoe.” He leaned in for a kiss.
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Requested by anonymous.


“Is that for Lucky?” asked Eames.

Arthur looked at the plate he was preparing. “Yes?”

“It’s just that you know you can’t have the food touching each other.”

“It’s not.”

“Hmm,” said Eames, nudging one tiny piece of chicken away from the green beans. “Also, she doesn’t eat red food.”

Arthur looked at the ketchup on the plate. “I thought she didn’t eat blue food.”

“She said there’s not enough blue food for that to be a satisfyingly dramatic choice.”

“Your daughter is very fussy,” Arthur informed him.

Eames grinned. “She gets it from you.” He tweaked Arthur’s perfectly-knotted tie.
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