As the result of a challenge set by Patemalah21, to write a story about Sherlock taking the new Private Investigator Test- and failing several times due to bureaucratic issues - and for said detective to have a melt down of epic proportions. Patemalah21, I hope this hits the spot.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters, or the new PI test
"What do you mean I can't enter the crime scene?" Sherlock looked so shocked that Lestrade had to bite his cheek to stop himself laughing.
"Told you, Sherlock – that letter you received, it was an appointment to take that new training test in order to get a licence." John's expression was suspiciously bland, and Lestrade had to execute a swift about-face to prevent his mirth overflowing.
Sherlock opened his mouth but John held up a hand to silence him.
"Nothing Greg can do about it, Sherlock. Until you take the test and get the licence…."
"Well, what will you do once I've got my licence? You won't be allowed in."
"Oh no, John's okay to come in." Lestrade had his grin firmly under control as he turned back to the consulting detective.
Sherlock sneered.
"What, because he's a doctor?"
"Yeah, that as well, but mainly because he's got his licence."
Sally sniggered. Sherlock turned disbelieving eyes to his friend.
"What? You took the test?"
"Got my appointment last week," John replied proudly, "passed with flying colours!" His smile faded as he saw the look on Sherlock's pale face. "Look, I took the liberty of checking your appointment time, and you've got time to get there if we get a cab now." But he was talking to empty air as Sherlock was stalking away towards the main road. John hurried after him.
xXx
John sat in the coffee shop, opposite the police station that had been designated as Sherlock's test station. He was on his third cup of coffee and beginning to get jittery. He knew he should have stuck to tea, but it was too late now to worry about that – he was more worried that Sherlock should have been…. and there he was, being escorted down the steps by the large Desk Sergeant.
With sinking heart, the blond doctor watched as the lanky genius flounced across the road and into the coffee shop.
"Well that was a waste of time!" he declared, flopping down into the chair opposite his flatmate.
"Did you…"
Sherlock looked around for a waiter as he answered, muffling his words so that John had to ask him to repeat himself, which earned him a glare.
"Look, Sherlock…"
"Well there were spelling mistakes all over the form – by the time I'd corrected the mistakes on the form I had barely enough time to even start answering the questions." He snapped petulantly.
John sat with his mouth open, trying to think of something to say, until his flatmate snapped him out of his stupor by reaching across and pushing his chin up, effectively snapping his jaws shut.
"Home."
xXx
Two days later (and John was sure Mycroft had had something to do with the speed at which the second test came through) Sherlock was heading off, this time to a different station to retake his test.
Opting for the safe option, John decided to stay at home, using the excuse that he really needed to clean the residue of the exploded eyeballs off the inside of the microwave, if only to get rid of the smell – it would never be fit for food again.
Three hours, one tidy kitchen and two cups of tea later, the sound of the front door slamming, and then the stamp of feet on the stairs heralded the return of the genius, but by the time John had risen from his chair to put the kettle on a swirl of long black Belstaff was all he saw as his friend disappeared into his bedroom. That was a bit not good.
"Sherlock?" Tapping gently on his flatmate's door, John listened carefully for sounds of movement, and was only just in time to move as Sherlock erupted from the room, still wearing his coat and scarf, and threw himself angrily into the living room and onto the couch.
With a sigh, John went and made a cup of tea, carried it through and placed it on the coffee table beside Sherlock.
"Wanna tell me what happened?" resignation evident in his voice and posture, John sat in his armchair and stared at the now sulking detective.
"He left."
"Sorry – what? Who left?"
"The moderator. I had almost finished the paper and he was called away! No one else could check the results, and as it wasn't done straight away it was considered void!" Folding his arms over his chest he sunk his chin to his chest. "And I still can't access crime scenes because I'm still not licenced – let me use yours."
"Oh no, oh no no no! You're not stealing my licence – don't even think of pick pocketing me because I don't carry it in my pocket – it's safe where you can't get it."
"But I'm bored! Bored, John, booooooored!
"Then re-book the bloody test, Sherlock!"
xXx
It was actually hard to tell who was the more nervous of the two, although Sherlock would never admit to being nervous, he simply claimed that it was a bureaucratic waste of time that he found irritating in the extreme. John sat and chewed his thumbs, a childhood habit that always resurfaced when he was anxious. He thought that if Sherlock failed again he might just look into immigrating to Canada.
This time they had sent him to a government office, to take the test on a computer. John went with him, and sat outside the test room, chewing until his thumbs were quite sore. Glancing for the fiftieth time at his watch, he allowed himself a smile as he saw there was just three minutes left of test time, and the results would be automatically printed out, no waiting, no moderators no…power! The lights went out with a kind of dull clunk. Little red emergency lights went on everywhere, from inside the computer room came the howl of a beast on the edge of madness and John knew, he just knew it wasn't going to be good.
Flinging the door open, Sherlock stormed out yelling.
"Mycroft? Mycroft you useless receptacle for fairy cakes! Your bloody system crashed as I finished my bloody test – AGAIN! Mycroft!"
All the while he was yelling, the currently redundant consulting detective was speeding through the hallowed halls of Whitehall towards his brother's office, and John had to run to keep up with him.
Totally unprepared for the ferocity of his sibling's attack, Mycroft had risen with the intention of talking his way out of this, but Sherlock didn't give him a chance. He grasped his brother by the throat and dragged him against the wall.
"Your bureaucrats have caused me weeks of boredom and have kept me from my work. I have had to endure idiots who cannot spell on official test papers, bigger idiots who think it okay to just walk out of the test room and void my paper, vagaries of power cuts in the one place in London you would assure me needs constant power and therefore is immune to such happenings. I was one click of the mouse away from completing this stupid and intrusive test that one of your bureaucratic colleagues devised to aggravate and annoy me, and the power went out. It's still out. and Lestrade couldn't solve a crime if it was committed in slow motion in front of him – he needs me at crime scenes but I can't go – oh no, because of your stupid test, but John can, oh yes, John has double the access because not only does he have one of your stupid licences, but he's a doctor. Why can't you just arrange for me to have one of these licences?"
John stood and listened in admiration as all this was said without the man taking a breath, but then he realised that Mycroft was turning an interesting shade of purple, and moved to pull Sherlock off him.
Sliding down the wall, Mycroft wheezed and tried to speak, while Sherlock stood over him, glowering.
John checked the older man's throat, and handed him a glass of water, recommending that he stay down for a moment, to allow his brother time to cool off.
Eventually, the embodiment of the British Government rose gingerly to his feet, and stumbled over to his desk, indicating that his brother and John should be seated. After several deep breaths, he dropped the bombshell.
"Sherlock, if you'd come to me in the first place, I'd have arranged it all for you."