His Majesty, The Queen

Deformed Depictions and Bad Baseball

"Well I've only got about forty five minutes to paint you, if we want to split this up half and half. So whatever I paint, it'll be half finished." John warned, sighing heavily as he turned his eyes back towards Sherlock and stared for a long while. Sherlock felt only a little bit uncomfortable, for in most situations he didn't appreciate people staring. Though in a way John's eyes were welcomed, in a way he almost felt the need to impress him. Perhaps it was his own desperate way of getting the attention he craved, perhaps he thought that his friends hadn't yet noticed his natural beauty and therefore wanted the appreciation he deserved. Or maybe it was a power play, reminding them that while they were athletic and good looking, they could never match his bone structure. Oh it was some sort of irrational desire, yet all the same Sherlock straightened up as best he could, holding his head proudly and parting his lips just enough to give himself a very romantic look. He had practiced facial expressions in the mirror for as long as he could remember, and found in the end that a natural stare with parted lips was indeed the most attractive. Perhaps John thought so too, because his eyes seemed to linger just a moment too long. At last the boy pressed his paintbrush up against the canvas, wincing a bit as he began to trail a line, one which Sherlock could not see from his angle. John seemed to think it was alright, for at last he set down his brush and proceeded to dip it into another color, so as to work on the shading before he got too carried away with facial construction. Sherlock wasn't sure what was going on behind him, though he recognized all too well the nearly contagious laugh of Greg Lestrade, who seemed to be having a wonderful time painting his counterpart.
"You know I do feel as though I'm not doing you justice." John admitted guilty, as he now dipped his brush into black paint. That must be for the curls, then.
"I'll take that as a compliment." Sherlock breathed, trying not to move his mouth so as to allow John a stone still canvas.
"I suppose it is. Then again I couldn't give a toad justice, either." John admitted grumpily. Mrs. Hudson veered over to their stools, looking in on John's painting (which Sherlock still hadn't seen) and began to instruct him on how to do better shading, and how to go about painting the curls. She admitted that it would be a difficult job, but assured John that he was doing very well. For a moment she looked in on Sherlock, perhaps with that same question on her mind. Was he royalty, like the rumors said? The more he noticed people struggling over the question the better the compliment it was, and yet Sherlock didn't allow himself to smile. He just stayed as still as possible, so as to make sure his masterpiece (or lack thereof) stayed consistent. After a while Mrs. Hudson followed the sound of laughter to where Greg was sitting, and Sherlock heard her use a rather shrill voice to scold him on his misrepresentation. After Greg had shut up the room had fallen into silence, as the artists were too focused and the models didn't dare move their mouths. And so it became something of an intimate moment, whether anyone liked it or not. Sherlock stayed stone still, with his hands perched in his lap and his legs crossed in front of him. And john, well he rather lost himself in the process. For a long while he would stare at Sherlock, occasionally getting up from his chair so as to observe closer, coming around the side to master each and individual curl, admiring Sherlock from most every angle he could think of. Of course Sherlock couldn't turn his head to look, and therefore there were times where he could not see what John was doing, when he had crept out of his peripheral vision. Though for a moment he could almost swear he felt something like a quiet volt of magnetic force, a tingling sensation along his neck, one quite like the one you feel when someone's fingers are close enough to touch... When at last the forty five minutes were up, Mrs. Hudson called for everyone to display their paintings and switch roles. Sherlock was to paint John now, and Mike was to paint Greg. But first there was the reveal, and that seemed to be what everyone had been looking forward to most.
"Alright, now don't make fun of it. I tried, I really did." John pleaded, dropping his paintbrush finally into the cup of water provided and raising his hands in surrender.
"I'm sure you did just fine." Sherlock assured, happy now to stretch out his mouth and switch positions on the stool. He never appreciated just how long he had stood still until it was over, and now suddenly his joints had become stiff, and his neck was aching terribly. John sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders before at last taking the canvas off of the aisle and setting it on his lap for Sherlock to see. Well...well the good thing was that Sherlock didn't laugh, though it did take quite a moment for him to recollect himself in time to speak any logical words. He didn't want to be rude, though after so much deep concentration he might've thought the result would have been a little less...lumpy? His face shape was there, though his eyes were definitely in the wrong position, and with interesting lines which connected them to the nose and mouth. John had gotten all of his features, though they were a little bit mismatched on where they sat on his face, allowing for a very large forehead and a mess of curls that were almost hysterically large. Thankfully Sherlock didn't take it as an insult, for he knew that John had tried his very best despite his inaccuracies.
"It's very nice John." Sherlock assured after a moment of biting hid tongue.
"Do you think so?" John muttered, looking at his painting with a frown. "I really don't."
"Well it's practice, it's a starting place." Sherlock offered, a bit more truthfully.
"You say that as if I'm going to be painting you every day, in an attempt to get it right." John teased, to which Sherlock merely smirked.
"If you wanted to, I wouldn't have a rejection." He admitted with a shrug.
"Just so that you can be immortalized in a way that's a bit more..." John frowned, looking again at the painting, "Accurate." He finished at last.
"I think it's lovely." Sherlock assured. John managed a small smile before he set the thing back onto the aisle, looking very happy to forget about it for forty five minutes. Though just as soon as Sherlock was preparing to get his own painting started an explosion of laughter erupted from behind him, and after a disturbing thud he turned to see Greg on the floor, having fallen off of his stool after he had revealed his painting to Mike. He was laughing so hard he was nearly paralyzed, and his portrait still sat on the easel where he had left it. Mrs. Hudson went rushing over to aid him and then to scold him, though it seemed as though the damage had been done. Just as soon as the rest of the class heard the laughter they all huddled around to see what was so funny, and even Sherlock had to let out a little chuckle when he saw a very sloppy, almost childish painting of what was attempting to be Mike Stamford. His head was a mere circle, though his eyes were very detailed, with bushy eyebrows and a thin mouth, and the most enormous nose Sherlock had ever seen attempted in art.