A blog dedicated to this fundamental truth: John Simm and David Tennant are two wonderful (and wonderfully sexy) men, and together they are conspiring to incite riots and spontaneous combustion. In our pants.
“Sam,” he called, and Christ but did he have a sexy voice, all gruff and plaintive, but Sam couldn’t let himself be distracted. Even if he’d taken this complete stranger home for, well, distraction.
He’d gone to his local the night before, trying to settle his nerves. He was due to start his first shift as a DC in the morning and, though he still felt he was born for this job, he had a lingering worry that he wasn’t ready. That he was too young. As he sat nursing a pint in an empty corner of the pub, he tried to focus on anything other than the pit of tension in his gut. Observing the people around him seemed the surest bet. Two old timers playing dominos by the window. A small and surprisingly subdued hen party at the bar. A couple of students talking about Henry James. And a solitary man. Staring at him.
He called himself John Smith. He talked nonsense at high speed. And, after going quiet for the fourth time to stare at Sam with those intense brown eyes, he confessed to having recently lost someone that could almost be Sam’s twin. “Wellll,” he qualified, “I suppose we lost each other long ago, but only recently did he look like you.” Whatever that meant.