the "get a room" meme

[showstarter]

The "Get A Room" Meme





Tonight you're staying at a hotel. Your suitcase is packed, you're ready to check in - a relaxing night with a king suite all to yourself, but wait... There's been a mistake, they say. Your room has been double booked and nothing else is available. Sorry. Looks like you're stuck with a stranger tonight. Question is, who gets the bed?




¤ Post with your character. Name, canon and any preferences in the subject line (particularly whether you'd be okay with smut).
¤ Others reply to your character as if their character has just walked through the door to the room the two are about to share.
¤ Play out their reactions! Who stays and who goes? Can two people really share one bed?
¤ Profit!

Comments

[consultingblogger]

[She's fast, as fast as Sherlock. It's like a kick in the teeth, those words.] A slip, that's all.

[Because he can't fully accept it, even when he felt death beneath his fingers, when he watched Sherlock's coffin go into the ground.]

What do you care? Why are you even here?

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She wouldn't be the woman, the one woman who matters, if she wasn't quick. She tosses the towel back into the washroom and crosses the room to sit on the other bed. She has no luggage, save a small handbag, and she kicks off her shoes as she sits down, curling her feet beneath her.]

A matter of happenstance, I assure you, Dr. watson. [A wry smile tugs at the corner of her lips.] My flight was delayed.

[And she's completely ignoring his first question.]

[consultingblogger]

[She is the damn woman in John's mind. More to the question, why is she staying now that he's found her out? Bit of a chilling thought, that.]

I see.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She could leave, but John Watson is known far better than her current pseudonym, and to leave could make people curious, and the last thing the dead needed was anyone to start digging. She expects that anyone still watching John Watson would pass off a glancing resemblance to Irene Adler as a trick of the light if the woman in question stayed and remained firmly the expected American tourist.

To run would be to draw attention, and to draw attention would be death. Again.]

I'm surprised my passing made your radar.

[consultingblogger]

[His eyes narrow with a tight, quiet anger.]

It made his radar.

[Which, in itself, explains everything. Anything that made Sherlock's radar that John was privy to became part of his radar. Then, another realization.]

No wonder he wanted your damned phone.

[womanwhobeatyou]

[There it goes again, the glimpse of controlled anger. She has a few guesses what that means, and with every glimpse she can discard another possibility.

She does give him a look of careful, pleased surprise though, at the mention of the cameraphone.]

So that was where it had gone to. I'd wondered when it didn't end up back at the MoD.

[She'd suspected, of course, but it wasn't like she was going to ask Sherlock Holmes. That wasn't how they worked.]

[consultingblogger]

[All of this is rough, and the last thing he wants to be doing. In times like this, he wished he smoked.]

I don't know or care where it ended up after he-- [He couldn't say it. It didn't matter how much time had past, he still can't say it. Funeral, coffin, grave, long dead. Can't.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

[She doesn't, of course, believe for a moment that Sherlock Holmes is actually dead. She's curious, of course, how it had been done, and why, but as a peculira quirk of her own circumstances, she doesn't believe it's actually true.

But on the other hand, she hadn't seen him jump off a building with her own eyes.]

Which is what you're doing here, of all places. Not caring.

[consultingblogger]

You have no idea what I'm doing here. Don't try to play detective on me; I've had it done enough in my life.

[And now it's gone, has been. Almost two solid years now since he felt the still warm, silent wrist in his hands.]

[womanwhobeatyou]

Playing detective would be telling you how long you've been traveling by the mud on your shoes, and how the wrinkles in your shirt are indicative of the mode of transportation.

[A shrug, and she leans back against the headboard, staring up at nothing in particular on the hotel ceiling. A series of hairline cracks, a few flaws in the repaint.]

I was just making small talk. I have no idea why you decided to be here of all places.

[Fine difference, that.]