After much anticipation, I now present the first chapter of a new WIP co-written with the truly wonderful Kikislasha!
Of Oak and Ash
Chapter One: Modulating Metersauthors: kikislasha and BMIK
fandom: BBC Sherlock
chapter rating: pg
word count: 1600
Summary: Sometimes Sherlock is full of surprises, and one of his favourite things is surprising John Watson.
Chapter I - Modulating Meters
Abrupt silence from the computer keyboard.
"If I were to say: 'the woods decay, the woods decay and fall,' what would that mean to you?" Sherlock's deep baritone was clipped, but playful.
John looked up from his newspaper and gave his flat mate a long look. Then his focus was back on the reports of ordinary murders, messed up world politics and boring local news.
"I'd say it means that you are in a rather poetic mood today. Which I find amusing...and alarming." With another, slightly mocking look at Sherlock John turned an uncooperative page of The Times, shook out the wrinkles and reached for a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea.
Sherlock's gaze flicked up from the screen of his laptop, a corner of his lip curled in approval.
"But surely one can do no harm reciting poems."
With a sigh John turned another page. The little hairs on the back of his neck tingled and that was a sure sign that something was up. John felt as if he was sliding into one of Sherlock's traps again-something was going on and he didn't know what it was, but he would stumble through this conversation as best he could.
"Surely," he finally replied, trying to sound as if he didn't care, but inwardly John was curious what witty observation Sherlock would pull off now. As frustrated as he sometimes got with Sherlock's brilliant intellect it also amazed him. Sherlock looked at him-that is, studied and stared unabashed-for a long moment before taking a sharp breath in as he stood from his supine position on the chesterfield.
"Boring. You're missing the point." He swatted at the corner of John's newspaper as he neared. "Did you know the simplest commands in our culture are made up of these patterns of stressed syllables? It is in our very nature to say: 'Go to bed, eat your food, watch out, come here, do this, not that!' From nothing but a heightened state of emotion." Sherlock drifted across the sitting room, leaned on the mantlepiece and started picking at the skull's ocular cavity.
John had another example of the stressed pattern: 'Shut up,' but he remained silent. One of them had to be the adult here. Instead, he folded his paper, put it next to his tea cup and propped his chin on two fingers as he watched his restless friend poke the dead head in the eye.
"That's interesting..." John found he sounded relatively genuine. "But what does this have to do with me?"
"See what you just did demonstrates a 'spondee,' where extra syllables may be stressed on top of the regular structure, describing a different state of heightened emotion. It's quite a predictable indicator of human mood." Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye as a long finger traced along the skull's brow. "And the majority of the population don't even know they're doing it." His smile asked did you know? in that rather annoying way of his. John tilted his head and knitted his brows, as if he was straining to listen to faint music.
"So, what does my...'spondee' tell you about my mood then?" he finally asked, just the tiniest bit waspish, resigned that Sherlock had him, again. Was there anything the man didn't know? Apart from the fact that the moon revolved around the earth and other basic knowledge of the solar system...
"Too easy, John." But that wouldn't stop him, obviously. "You're in quite a relaxed position, so largely, one would argue that your mood itself was not anything exceptional. But that for the presence of more metered speech, there is a much more provocative emotional connection than your posture would allow. Due to the utterly abysmal headlines in the news today, it cannot be caused by any allegiance to any issues of morality-which the posture of your hurt shoulder indicates, where your army training shows, by the way-but more of duty. Oh, John…" Sherlock's smile turned mischievous, "You don't suffer through my deductions of you as a chore, do you?" He laughed shortly. "But I suppose I should be flattered, since it would mean that you are responding to my influence, and since you have yet to flare your nostrils, I'd say you find it charming as opposed to alarming." He grinned.
John needed a moment to follow Sherlock's argumentation. Then he needed another moment to decide whether he should be annoyed and irritated that Sherlock was showing off again-or laugh and take it in stride. Inevitably he went with the latter. Even though Sherlock could get on his nerves like no one else it was also hard to stay mad at him. Indeed, he had his own peculiar charm. Shaking his head, John reached for his tea to take a sip and then leaned back in his favorite chair.
"You seem in a good mood today. Got a new case?"
Sherlock's expression hardened minutely and he hummed.
"Lestrade had an issue connecting his lead witness in a fraud case with the perpetrator, but that is only expected of him. Nobody interesting has been murdered in weeks. So no, no new case." He said slowly and bitterly.
"That's a shame." John said sympathetically. Then realized what he had just said, and cleared his throat, patting the newspaper. "Anyway, nothing interesting in the papers either. I suppose it will be a quiet Sunday evening then. Haven't had that in a while. Got any plans?" he tried to cheer his friend up. Sherlock only lifted his eyebrow: I just said I didn't have a case. Of course I don't have plans.
John didn't have a problem reading the silent message. He sat up straight in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.
"Well then, why don't we go out? The weather's still kind of nice. At least it isn't raining." Which was something for London.
John didn't expect an answer, and was beginning to think of what they might need from the shops, as he'd probably want to run a few errands if Sherlock was just going to be lazing around or running experiments.
"Alright." Sherlock pushed off the mantlepiece towards the front door.
"Alright?" Startled, John followed him. Sherlock agreeing to change his daily schedule was about as rare as a clean countertop, and just as noteworthy. "Alright." He caught up and grabbed his coat
On their way out they passed by Mrs. Hudson who just came up to bring them a tray of fresh tea. She looked no less surprised when John informed her that they were going out as he hurried after Sherlock who lead the way with determined, long strides as if he were on a mission. Outside, John finished zipping up his coat, had a look left and right down Baker Street and put his hands deep into his pockets. It was a bit chilly
"So. Where do we go?"
"Yes, you didn't seem prepared for that eventuality." Sherlock stated with a grin, his attention on the street as he hailed a cab. He didn't acknowledge the chill, his coat and scarf billowing with the slight breeze "But a thought has just come to me, most fortunately, it seems." He pulled open the back door of the cab and slid into the far side. "South Kensington." He directed. John got comfortable as the car got back on the street.
"What's in South Kensington?" John asked, fumbling with his seat belt.
"A woman who owes me a favour."
The cab ride was not long, and the trendy restaurant Sherlock directed them to was again, not what he was expecting. But then, Sherlock knew a lot of people. For very odd reasons. Despite the sign clearly indicating closed on the door, Sherlock waltzed in like he owned the place.
"I-I think it's closed." John pointed at the sign, to no avail. With a sigh, John just followed Sherlock into the restaurant that he absolutely wasn't dressed for. By now he should've gotten used to Sherlock's unpredictable moves. But then again, he probably never would. As he slowly followed his friend, John had a thorough look through the restaurant, trying to imitate Sherlock's deducing stares. All he could see however was that this was a tasteful, relatively expensive place that served international cuisine. It didn't tell him anything about why they were here at all, so he had no choice but to wait and see what was coming next. Or he could ask. There was a slight chance that Sherlock might actually answer.
"What're we doing here? I suppose we won't be eating, it's...closed."
"Sherlock Holmes..." A woman's voice announced from above, both men peered towards the balcony of the second floor. "I never expected you to take me up on it. Leave it to you to crash the night of the Awards Reception. Cheeky bugger. And who's this?" An attractive brunette leaned on the railing above them, dressed skillfully in a simple black dress with a stunning silhouette and an unassuming string of pearls dripping from one wrist. Sherlock's eyes glinted up at her, as if he delighted in being untimely.
"This is John. He insisted that we 'go out.' I immediately thought of your very kind offer."
John was not feeling comfortable but half-heartedly lifted his hand and offered a meek hello. How did Sherlock know this person? The woman was gorgeous. So the matter of her connection to Sherlock was even more pressing. Smiling at her as she descended the spiral staircase connecting the two levels, John whispered through gritted teeth into Sherlock's direction:
"This woman owes you a favour?"
to be continued.