|Fic: "Three Times Sherlock Chose a Case Over John, and the First Time He Didn't"
||[Oct. 4th, 2010|10:23 pm]
(lives between pages)
Title: Three Times Sherlock Chose a Case Over John, and the First Time He Didn't
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 1)
Notes: This was written for Challenge #1 (Theme: Firsts) over at thegameison_sh. Seeing as that challenge is now over and most of us have owned up to what we've written, I figured I might as well post it here. Very short, as there's a 750-word limit on our challenge fics. This one clocked in at the max.
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.
Cooking wasn't foremost amongst John's hobbies, but it had always occupied a place comfortably near the top of the list. Harry envied his ability to perfectly execute most recipes.
Sherlock, on the other hand, tended to poke his head into the kitchen every five minutes in order to make sure John wasn't wrecking any of his hideous experiments.
“What is that, and where have you put the petri dishes?”
“On top of the fridge,” John said, giving the onions, ghee, and spices a stir. “Your cultures have all but developed a culture. I don't want that sort of thing in my skillet, thank you.”
“Too cold!” Sherlock protested, rushing across the kitchen to fetch them back down. “You didn't answer my question,” he said a few seconds later as he passed, sniffing. “It's like a curry house exploded in here.”
“Dinner,” John said. “Prawn dhansak, your favorite. You said you were eating today.”
“So I did,” replied Sherlock, carefully arranging the petri dishes on the table. “We'll have to eat in the sitting room, though, if that's all right with you. I'm not relocating these.”
John turned back to the stove. “Whatever it takes.”
“Thank you, by the by,” Sherlock said, lingering in the doorway. “I wouldn't have expected you to remember—”
Sherlock's mobile beeped loudly.
John closed his eyes and cursed.
“I'll have to take a rain check, I'm afraid,” Sherlock called, already on his way down the stairs. “Lestrade. New lead in the Thatcher abduction!”
“I'll keep half in the fridge,” John sighed, unable to compete with the slamming of the door.
John shoved his hands in his pockets, turning towards the awning and out of the rain. The film was set to start in ten minutes, and it was a miracle he'd talked Sherlock into seeing with him. The trouble was, he didn't trust Sherlock not to walk right past the theatre. Best to wait outside.
By the time ten minutes had become fifteen, John was more than a little damp.
Twenty minutes later, he ducked into the theatre, bought two tickets, and found a seat at the back.
His mobile vibrated halfway through the opening credits.
Sorry, won't make it. Fresh specimen at
Bart's, no time to lose. Bring home some of
that sweet/salty mixed popcorn, would you?
John deleted the message, annoyed. He wasn't going to enjoy this nearly as much without Sherlock leaning over every thirty seconds to whisper derisively in his ear.
Two and a half hours later, John returned to Baker Street. The flat was empty.
He left the cold popcorn next to the petri dishes.
“Tea?” John ventured, tapping on Sherlock's bedroom door. “Toast. No jam, I promise.”
A vague groan answered from the other side. Sherlock, three-quarters dead to the world after seventy-two adrenaline-fraught hours without so much as a nap. He'd caught the arsonist.
“I've got the New York Times crossword,” added John, hopefully. “It's doing my head in.”
“Then you're doing it wrong!” Sherlock shouted, although not unkindly. “Too early. Mrgh.”
“Sherlock, it's almost one,” John pointed out. “Seven down has ten letters—”
A loud snore met him in response.
John enjoyed these quiet evenings most of all: the ones where Sherlock tolerated his presence on the sofa and each of them did whatever they felt like doing. Reading. Web-surfing. Texting.
That night, Sherlock's attention was fixed on John's laptop. John hadn't thought that the pages he'd pulled up in half a dozen tabs would be of interest to him. Columnists whose op-eds John enjoyed. Thai curry recipes. Web comics that made Sherlock snort in several failed attempts at pretending he wasn't laughing hard enough to crack a rib.
And then, the inevitable ring-tone.
“Hello? Yes, of course it's me. You found a what?”
John felt the disappointment rise in his chest.
Sherlock was glancing at him sidelong.
“I see,” he continued, his tone abruptly bored. “Sounds like something even Anderson and his trained chimps couldn't bollocks up if they tried. I'll give it a miss.” And he hung up.
It took John nearly a full minute of staring to process this, by which point Sherlock was staring right back, his mouth quirked in that awful, awkward, amazing excuse for a grin.
“What did they find?” John asked finally.
“Don't remember,” Sherlock said, settling in against John's side. “Don't care.” He tilted his head until it rested on John's shoulder, the slight contact electric.
John turned his head until his lips brushed Sherlock's hair, unable to stop grinning.
It was a start.