broke 1930s femlock
Apr. 20th, 2014 03:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
violsvaThe rented room is dim and the sheets are stained and the blinds on the dusty window are broken and the lowering sun turns everything yellow and eye-straining.
Jane makes tea on the chafing dish and pushes her hair back. The wave has grown out entirely, twisting just the ends where they fall over her shoulders, unfashionably long and distracting.
“I could cut it for you,” says Sherlock, draped across the bed, between drags on her cigarette.
“It wouldn’t look any better.”
“I’ve done mine, yours wouldn’t be more difficult.”
“I mean, it’d still be straight. Boring.”
Sherlock shrugs. Jane pours the tea into chipped cups and brings one to the bed for Sherlock. Sherlock shifts her head to stay out of the sunlight.
“You’re not going to be able to afford to go to a salon any time soon. Or even a home kit.”
“Dammit, Sherlock -!”
“I’m sorry, dear, but we both know it.”
“Fine. I’ll cut it myself.”
“When I’m offering to help?”
Jane sighs, pours herself more tea, looks away.
“Maybe.”
Sherlock rolls her eyes expressively at the ceiling and stubs her cigarette out in her empty cup. “Maybe we’ll get a case.”
“If we do, it’s going to the rent.”
“We can make rent.”
Silence.
“Jane!”
“I don’t know. I thought we could. But - do you have anything you’re hiding away?”
“Of course I don’t. I’m not keeping secrets from you.”
Jane’s lips move. She rarely swears out loud, but it’s clear enough.
“Dammit,” says Sherlock. “Fine. We’re going out tonight, dear.”
Jane stares. “Out where?”
“Friends of mine. Do we have anything for dinner?”
Jane makes a face. “Tea. Oatmeal.”
“Tea it is, then.”
*
Jane watches Sherlock change into trousers without much surprise, and throws her threadbare coat on at Sherlock’s request.
“Don’t take it off.”
“All right.”
“And bring all the money we have.”
“What! Sherlock!”
“We’ll make more.”
“Where are we going, Sherlock?” Jane’s wary. Sherlock’s trousers, she thinks, eliminate the worst possibilities, but that just means she has no idea whatsoever what she intends.
Sherlock smirks a little. “Allison’s.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Come on. And for God’s sake call me Holmes.”
Sherlock turns with a flourish of her coat and starts off down the hall, and Jane, as always, follows after her.
Jane makes tea on the chafing dish and pushes her hair back. The wave has grown out entirely, twisting just the ends where they fall over her shoulders, unfashionably long and distracting.
“I could cut it for you,” says Sherlock, draped across the bed, between drags on her cigarette.
“It wouldn’t look any better.”
“I’ve done mine, yours wouldn’t be more difficult.”
“I mean, it’d still be straight. Boring.”
Sherlock shrugs. Jane pours the tea into chipped cups and brings one to the bed for Sherlock. Sherlock shifts her head to stay out of the sunlight.
“You’re not going to be able to afford to go to a salon any time soon. Or even a home kit.”
“Dammit, Sherlock -!”
“I’m sorry, dear, but we both know it.”
“Fine. I’ll cut it myself.”
“When I’m offering to help?”
Jane sighs, pours herself more tea, looks away.
“Maybe.”
Sherlock rolls her eyes expressively at the ceiling and stubs her cigarette out in her empty cup. “Maybe we’ll get a case.”
“If we do, it’s going to the rent.”
“We can make rent.”
Silence.
“Jane!”
“I don’t know. I thought we could. But - do you have anything you’re hiding away?”
“Of course I don’t. I’m not keeping secrets from you.”
Jane’s lips move. She rarely swears out loud, but it’s clear enough.
“Dammit,” says Sherlock. “Fine. We’re going out tonight, dear.”
Jane stares. “Out where?”
“Friends of mine. Do we have anything for dinner?”
Jane makes a face. “Tea. Oatmeal.”
“Tea it is, then.”
*
Jane watches Sherlock change into trousers without much surprise, and throws her threadbare coat on at Sherlock’s request.
“Don’t take it off.”
“All right.”
“And bring all the money we have.”
“What! Sherlock!”
“We’ll make more.”
“Where are we going, Sherlock?” Jane’s wary. Sherlock’s trousers, she thinks, eliminate the worst possibilities, but that just means she has no idea whatsoever what she intends.
Sherlock smirks a little. “Allison’s.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Come on. And for God’s sake call me Holmes.”
Sherlock turns with a flourish of her coat and starts off down the hall, and Jane, as always, follows after her.