Based on Mapplepie's absolutely hilarious story, "The Art of Pillow Giving" - a companion-piece written with the author's permission. Although reading the original isn't necessary for understanding what the story's about, you absolutely HAVE TO read the original. NOW. (Please ;D)
The "Sherlock" series should all be rated T at least, but the story is K+Rating worthy at most. All rights related to the TV show "BBC Sherlock" go to BBC, obviously (what are you, an idiot? Wait, don't answer that, of course you are. Why making that face? No, no, don't be like that, practically everyone is).
But first, a couple of absolutely necessary, Very Profound Pillow Quotes:
"No one realizes how beautiful it is to travel until he comes home and rests his head on his old, familiar pillow."
-Lin Yutang
"What pillow can one have like a good conscience?"
-John Steinbeck
"Be a pillow."
-Vera Nazarian
(I know absolutely nothing about any of these people. But they said things about pillows, so there.)
(Now, onward with the story!)
The Art of Pillow Hunting
Emotions were... inconvenient, bothersome things. Exactly the reason why Sherlock didn't do sentiment.
The world's only Consulting Detective sat in his armchair, clad in grey pajamas and staring at the wall with his lips pressed in a thin line.
He should have acted quicker.
He had known - of course he had known, it'd been so obvious! - that the second man was there. Of course he had a knife, Sherlock deduced it before he even saw the man. The confrontation should have been a breeze.
Should have being the key phrase there. Because John got hurt. Because of Sherlock.
As utterly remarkable as he was, despite constantly making an excellent impression that he wasn't, Sherlock kept forgetting that John Watson was in fact normal. Sherlock knew about the second man, but John didn't. The Doctor had no idea, and Sherlock forgot to explain - he just went ahead without telling John what they were up against, he didn't explain a thing, and when John got distracted by the gun pointed at them Sherlock didn't react fast enough because there wasn't time.
Sherlock's eye twitched.
And now John was laying in bed with a stab wound. How could this have happened? And Sherlock now couldn't do anything except wait for John to heal. It was unacceptable.
The Consulting detective frowned in irritation. This was why Sherlock didn't do sentiment.
But, the Detective quietly admitted to himself, he would never give up John, even if he did possess that irksome quality of inspiring obnoxious emotions - particularly in the form of guilt. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud, God forbid, he was a certified high-functioning sociopath and he didn't do guilt, obviously.
Sherlock got up and started pacing.
There had to be something he could do to sooth that irritating thing in the back of his mind (it was probably called conscience, though Sherlock wasn't completely sure - he probably deleted it long ago). There had to be something. Usually Sherlock would play on the violin to release the tension, but John needed peace and quiet. Dull.
Sherlock slapped three nicotine patches on his arm. This was definitely a three-patch-problem.
He pulled out John's laptop and typed:
HOW TO STOP FEELING GUILTY-
Sherlock halted. No, that wouldn't do - because he wasn't feeling guilty, of course not. He just needed to do something.
He tried again.
HOW TO MAKE SOMEONE STOP BEING ANGRY?
That was much better.
102,000,000 results showed up. He looked at the first one. The title read:
THE ART OF APOLOGIZING
Much too sentimental. Skip.
HOW TO ADMIT TO YOUR MISTAKES
Sherlock huffed. Skip.
SHOWING REMORSE
Sherlock wondered if that could even work - as simple as John was, he was surprisingly adept at recognizing when Sherlock was acting, especially if he was trying to be "nice". Probably not then. Skip.
PERFECT GIFTS TO MAKE YOUR LOVED ONES FORGIVE YOU
He blinked. That could work. It was something that he could actually do. But what to give John, without disturbing his rest?
Closing the laptop, he quietly sneaked into John's room, hoping it would inspire an idea.
Sherlock crept up soundlessly like a shadow to the patient's bed. John was asleep, deep under from the painkillers. Sherlock frowned. He looked so uncomfortable. Why did he have only one pillow? He was sure sick people are supposed to have more pillows.
Sherlock's eyes widened in realization. Perfect!
How many pillows did they have in their flat? Sherlock made a quick estimation. There were a couple in the armchair, on the sofa, in his bedroom... That would make six. Would that be enough?
He grabbed the first pillow from the sofa and carried it to John's room. Sherlock froze when John blinked in a daze, but just as he thought he was waking up, the Doctor fell asleep again. Carefully, to avoid disturbing John any further, Sherlock slowly delivered the pillows, one at a time. It was strangely engaging, sneaking up on John whose soldier instincts were trying to snap him out of sleep, yet unable to do so because of the heavy medication.
Before long there were seven pillows in John's bed, each carefully snuggled against his side. Sherlock looked at John's sleeping form with a critical eye. He still didn't look comfortable enough.
Obviously more pillows were necessary.
"Mrs. Hudson, can I borrow some pillows?"
Mrs. Hudson looked up from the pot of tea she was making, understandably confused. "Pillows, Sherlock?"
"Pillows, yes, that's what I said," said Sherlock in his typical "why do I must suffer the idiocy of this world" voice.
"Why, what do you need them for, Sherlock?" asked Mrs. Hudson with curiosity. Sherlock rarely borrowed something from her flat. He took things occasionally, of course, but it wasn't like him to just ask.
"Irrelevant," came the expressionless reply.
"Oh, I see," Mrs. Hudson nodded in sudden understanding. "They are for John?"
Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. That alone spoke volumes.
"Pillows for John. Why, how thoughtful of you Sherlock!" she exclaimed cheerfully. "Taking such good care of your friend...!"
Sherlock immediately cut in. "How many can you lend, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Let me check, dear, I'll be right back." Mrs. Hudson disappeared for a minute. Soon she was back with three medium-sized, silk pillows in her arms: one blue, one green and one orange. "These are all I can give you, Sherlock, I can't give you more - I have a hip, you see."
"Yes, thank you, they will do nicely," Sherlock said quickly, grabbing the pillows and retreating into his flat.
"You're so sweet, Sherlock!" she called after him.
"That will be all, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock replied firmly, closing the door - quietly.
Sherlock stared at the piled up pillows on the floor. No, these were not nearly enough. Quickly, he changed into his usual clothes, threw a coat on his skinny frame and left through the front door.
It was time for a hunt.
"Pillows?" To say that Greg Lestrade was nonplussed was quite the understatement.
He was tempted to ask how was it possible for Sherlock to know his home address, and yet still refuse to remember his first name. But he suspected the answer would only give him a migraine, so he wisely refrained.
"It's for a case," Sherlock told him pertly.
"What case?"
"First degree homicide. Suffocation, possibly. Extremely important. How many can you lend me." He said without a pause.
Lestrade's head was already spinning. "Now?!"
The Consulting Detective rolled his eyes in an ostentatious manner. "Yes, now, obviously."
"Look, Sherlock, crime scenes are one thing, but barging into my house like that-!" Lestrade started protesting.
Sherlock snapped. "This is urgent Lestrade, can you get me some pillows or not?!"
"Alright, alright!" The Detective Inspector knew a lost fight when he saw one. "I'll get you a pillow, ok? Just one. And you better return it spotless condition!"
Sherlock left with one brown, frizzy pillow with tassels under his arm. Lestrade simply shook his head and closed the door.
Molly Hooper wasn't surprised in the least when Sherlock entered the morgue. Honestly, she'd been expecting him sooner, certain that with John's recovering from his injury the Detective would need some experiment to occupy himself with.
"Sherlock, hi! How can I help you?" Molly greeted him with her usual shy smile.
Sherlock suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and pierced her with his most intense gaze. Her knees were instantly turned into jelly. "Molly, I have an incredibly important question to ask of you."
Molly swallowed heavily. She needed several seconds to gather her wits in order to ask. "...Yes, Sherlock?"
As quickly as it happened, Sherlock's intense stare was gone, replaced by an innocently inquiring look. "How many pillows do you have in your apartment?"
Twenty minutes later Sherlock left with six huge, fluffy pillows stuffed in two easily-recyclable, plastic shopping bags.
Sherlock was in the middle of delivering Molly's pillows into John's bed when the patient finally decided to wake up.
"John, stay down," Sherlock ordered firmly.
"I'd prefer not to, Sherlock. Help me up, won't you? My back is stiff."
This man was impossible. "Don't make me repeat myself. Lie down," said Sherlock strictly.
"I've been lying down all day. Sherlock, I just have a small stab wound. I'm fine." Fine! Fine indeed! Sherlock thought with annoyance. Says the man who's supposed to rest for a whole week to recover! "And I'm taking a load of medicine for infections and pain already," John added pacifyingly as if that solved everything.
"The wound will not heal if you insist on irritating the healing process by moving so much," Sherlock replied.
"Christ, Sherlock. You sound like me now... not that you ever listen. Don't worry, I'm the Doctor; I know how much I can pull at it without ripping out the stitches." John was looking amused, the bastard. "And I'm not the one who's liable to jump into the Thames in the middle of the night."
"That was only once," Sherlock huffed grumpily. One miscalculated move, and John never lets it go. "Nevertheless... you have no reason to emulate my behavior."
"Glad to know you realize your own appalling actions," John chuckled to himself.
"They are merely unconventional," Sherlock countered. "Regardless, I get results, unlike the imbeciles in the Yard."
Speaking of which... who Lestrade thought he was fooling, giving him only one pillow? The man had to have more than that. Sherlock filed that thought away for later.
John chuckled a little, then sighed. The Doctor stretched a bit, moving the pillows aside, making Sherlock to automatically walk over and put the pillows back in their places along with a new one. He realized in mid-gesture that John was no longer asleep, and thus would notice what he was doing, so he covered the act by fluffing a flattened pillow by John's elbow.
John blinked at him with a confused expression. "By the way, have you been crossbreeding rabbits and pillows? You know what I say about your experimenting..."
Sherlock turned to face John, startled. "Excuse me?"
John gestured towards the bed. "You know, this. Where are they all coming from?"
Sherlock stared at his Blogger with utter bewilderment. Of all conclusions to draw, John decided that the growing amount of pillows in his bed must have been a a result of a crossbreeding experiment. Interesting idea, Sherlock had to admit, it'd be quite the achievement if he actually managed to pull that off. Sadly for John, it was completely wrong, as usual.
On the other hand, it was quite the relief that John still haven't quite realized what Sherlock had been doing. If he did, he'd probably make yet another incorrect assumption that he was acting out of guilt or something. As false as it would had been, it would be also terribly embarrassing, so Sherlock preferred to keep John in his medication-addled, unaware state of mind for the time being.
"I don't know what you are talking about, John. I suggest you go back to sleep," said Sherlock before turning around and leaving the room.
"You've got to be kidding me." Lestrade stated flatly.
Twice in a day. Lestrade didn't know if he should feel special or annoyed.
"It's for an experiment," said Sherlock as if explained everything. It didn't.
"You know, that doesn't make me any more willing to get you anything, Sherlock," Lestrade told him carefully, as if he was speaking to a five-year-old.
"They're vital, Lestrade," the Consulting Detective responded in the same patronizing tone.
"For what? Are you going to fill them with human organs?"
"Don't be dull Lestrade, of course not," said Sherlock flippantly. "I would clean the covers first."
Lestrade laughed. "You, clean something? That would be the day! Just what kind of experiment are you plotting that you need specifically my poor pillows for?"
"Sound-proofing."
Lestrade stared at Sherlock blankly. "...Sound-proofing."
"As flattering as it is, there's no need to repeat everything I say, Detective Inspector," Sherlock told him. "Now, the pillows."
"Can't you borrow them from anybody else?" asked Lestrade with exasperation.
"Molly is currently out of pillows, I'm afraid."
Lestrade stared some more.
One minute later, he was handing Sherlock a striped, light-yellow pillow with white frills.
"...Just one more, that's it. I need to sleep on something, you know. God knows what you're going to do with them."
"Great, that will do." And Sherlock left with his frilly prize.
Detective Sergeant Donovan was not happy to see Sherlock Holmes at her apartment's doorstep out of the blue. Not in the slightest. "What are you doing here, Freak?"
"Hello to you too, Sally," Sherlock said airily. "I was wondering if I could borrow some pillows."
Sally's eyebrows flew up. Freak was being stranger than usual, and that was saying something. "What, now?"
"Yes, now, why must you simple-minded people always make me repeat myself?" Sherlock muttered to himself, disgruntled.
"Why would I lend you anything, Freak?" Sergeant Donovan crossed her arms in defiance.
"It just so happens that Mrs. Anderson is out of town."
Sally frowned suspiciously. "What about it?"
The Consulting Detective continued nonchalantly: "And since you're obviously not going to spend the night in your own apartament, I thought some of your pillows could use a little bit of company on such lonely evening..."
Sherlock left with a small, tough, plain pillow in hand, and an angry-red slap mark on the left side of his face.
"Sherlock. Sherlock!"
Sherlock had been guarding the door for thirteen minutes, waiting for John to fall asleep again, so his response time was quite impressive.
"What, John?" he asked testily, making it seem like he'd been busy with something else, lest John realized his intentions.
"Not that I don't appreciate all the pillows, but you know, Sherlock, a simple 'sorry' will do. Not that you have anything to apologize for," John told him, a little hastily at the end.
Sherlock froze, uncertain how to response. Two opposite instincts battled within for a moment; agree or deny. Dismiss or take the blame. Finally, he settled on the truth: "I should've acted quicker," he forced the words out, each one leaving a taste of dust on his tongue. He avoided John's gaze.
"Sherlock, the man had a gun trained on us. Who would've noticed the second man with the knife in that situation?"
"I did!" Sherlock growled out angrily, the repressed feelings of self-loathing and denied guilt coming back at full force. "There were two men - it was obvious from the start. But I couldn't react fast enough when the second one leaped in."
"But I did."
"Last minute," Sherlock stressed out. "Only barely realizing he had a knife, or that he was even there at all. Much too late to do anything about it."
John rolled his eyes, "Sorry for not deducing it. I suppose you knew he would have a knife before you even saw him?"
"Yes," Sherlock replied seriously.
"Look, Sherlock..." John shook his head. "Look, it's fine, Sherlock. The stab wound's not that bad. Just... don't do it again, alright?"
Sherlock studied John carefully. He wasn't angry? He'd expected John to at least point out that it was his fault, that he was the one who scampered off ahead without telling John what was going on and what he'd deduced before dragging them both into it. Then again, blaming others for personal injuries simply wasn't in John's nature. Finally, that annoying voice in the back of his mind silenced itself, with John's unspoken forgiveness.
Relieved, Sherlock hummed quietly in agreement (which he would later claim could have been disagreement just as well - Sherlock was careful to leave his options open) and picked up a pillow from the floor, putting it back on the bed along with another one. He still didn't have nearly enough pillows to be completely comfortable, Sherlock decided. This time, John's mind was clear enough that even he noticed the Detective's action.
"...thanks," he said hesitantly.
"You're welcome," Sherlock replied, appearing dismissive to the best of his abilities. Then without another word he left the room and picked up the violin and started playing a soft tune. Seven minutes later John was fast asleep, all according to plan. Careful to quietly close the door on his way out, Sherlock mentally search for possibilities of how to get more pillows for John.
Lestrade was not amused.
"Sherlock, this is getting ridiculous."
"Polyester resilience testing is a very serious issue, Lestrade."
The Detective Inspector gave Sherlock his best deadpan look. "Unsurprisingly, I don't believe you."
"It could make the difference of life and death."
"How?!" he asked with disbelief. "They're pillows, Sherlock! MY pillows! Why can't you just go to a store and buy some, like a normal person?"
"Don't be absurd. Your place is much closer."
Lestrade threw hands in the air. "I already gave you TWO pillows, Sherlock! You can't seriously tell me there's no one else you can exploit?"
"Donovan forewarned Anderson, unfortunately."
Helplessly, Lestrade banged his head against the door-frame.
Eventually he went inside and came back with a round, floral-printed pillow in hand.
"...This is the last one. I mean it, Sherlock! I am not lending you anymore pillows!" Lestrade made a threatening gesture. Then he handed the pillow with a heavy sigh. "Just, make sure they're all clean when you give them back."
"Your cooperation is appreciated, Lestrade." Sherlock protectively tugged the soft, colorful pillow close to his body like a highly valuable possession, then disappeared promptly.
Lestrade took out his phone with a tired sigh.
TO ALL SCOTLAND YARD. IF SHERLOCK SHOWS UP, AVOID CONTACT. -GL
After five seconds of deliberation, he added:
IF HE ASKS FOR PILLOWS, DON'T OPEN DOOR UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES. -GL
Satisfied with the messages, Lestrade blocked all entrances to his apartment and turned off the lights. Hopefully it would throw the crazy genius detective off his track.
When an hour later Sherlock rang the doorbell, Lestrade stubbornly refused to open up for some reason. Same thing happened next with DI Dimmock. Sherlock had a nagging suspicion Lestrade had been plotting behind his back.
Out of options, Sherlock grudgingly decided it was time to call in some favors.
Mycroft Holmes picked up on the second ring. "Sherlock, this is a surprise. Usually when you need me for something you send me a text."
"Mycroft. You owe me."
"Someone is quite testy today, I see." Mycroft smiled to himself, amused. Sherlock could be such a child. "What do you need, brother? I'm quite certain Dr. Watson's condition is stable and the culprits had been apprehended without any additional difficulties."
"Pillows."
Mycroft's left eyebrow moved a millimeter up, which from him translated into a display of utter astonishment. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me Mycroft. I need pillows."
His female assistant sent him a curious look. It wasn't everyday the British Government himself was caught off guard.
"I could make a comment about you going soft, brother, but such obvious pun would be beneath either of us."
"Are your henchmen so incompetent that they can't fulfill such a small request, Mycroft? And when you still owe me for preventing an international disaster in less than 48 hours? Such a disappointment, brother."
Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "How many do you want?"
"Two hundred."
"Be reasonable Sherlock, you're going to flood your flat."
"One hundred."
"Where would you put them all away?"
"...Fifty."
"John will be tripping over them in no time."
"Twenty five... should suffice."
"Matching set or a mixed collection?"
"Mixed."
"Would you like to pick them up yourself?"
"Have them delivered in fifteen minutes to 221b or I'm never doing you a favor again."
"You realize you always say that, Sherlock, I thought you disliked repeating yourself," Mycroft mockingly pointed out.
"Fifteen, Mycroft."
"Wish John a cuddly sleep from me, brother."
"Make that ten." The conversation ended.
Mycroft's request of delivery for twenty five differently-sized-and-colored pillows to 221b Baker Street was executed in exactly nine point seven minutes.
It was an enormous relief, to say the least, for DI Lestrade when he saw Dr. Watson enter the crime scene alongside with Sherlock almost two weeks later.
"John! Great to see you again," Lestrade shook his hand gratefully. "Glad to see you recovered. Sherlock was crankier than usual without you."
John gave him a friendly smile. "Since he'll never do it himself, I sincerely apologize."
"Tell me about it." Both men exchanged amused chuckled, before moving along.
"Murder in a locked bathroom, this is one bizarre case."
"Speaking of bizarre... I think my injury somehow inspired Sherlock to start cross-breeding rabbits and pillows." John scratched his head in puzzlement.
Lestrade turned in a flash, as if electrocuted. "Pillows?"
"Yes. I was dozing in and out, and somehow pillows on my bed kept mysteriously multiplying. I have no idea where Sherlock got over forty pillows from. I know he was feeling responsible for what happened to me during the last case, but really! It seems a single 'sorry' is as foreign concept for him as the solar system." John rolled his eyes. "I suppose for a genius it's easier to steal from a store or something than muster a simple apology. I just hope no one is going to come to our flat accusing us of pillow robbery." Lestrade stared at John as if he just turned into an unidentified alien creature. "What is it, Greg?"
Lestrade blinked twice, then his lips turned into a smirk. "Just a moment John, I'll be right back." The Detective inspector left the room.
Before long he found Sherlock staring at a pair of fuzzy purple slippers.
"You." Lestrade pointed at him with a gleeful expression.
"What, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock asked in disinterest, still focused on the slippers.
"You! I can't believe it."
"What are you blabbering about, Lestrade, be coherent."
"You. Are. A dork. Unbelievable!"
Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade..."
"You tried to bribe forgiveness out of John, with pillows."
"Detective, if could you focus on the case..."
"I can't decide if it's devious or adorable, I seriously can't. And those excuses! You really are a socially awkward nerd, you realize?"
"I am nothing of the sort." The world's only Consulting Detective made an excellent impression of an insulted otter.
"You still owe me three pillows back, by the way," Lestrade continued with a wicked grin.
"Lestrade."
"I'm going to tell John."
Sherlock's head snapped to face him. "You wouldn't dare."
"Hey John!" Lestrade called.
Sherlock was suddenly on the move. "Oh would you look at that, the sister did it, time to go!"
"Now, hold on a minute!" Lestrade sputtered. Sherlock grabbed John, who just entered the room, dragging him outside.
"Look for purple bathrobe!"
"But, Sherlock-!" John feebly protested.
"Shaving cream, left sleeve! Come along, John!" And they were gone.
"SHERLOCK!" Lestrade called out in exasperation.
(Later it turned out the sister really was the culprit. Due to Sherlock's neglect of elaborating on the case, it took almost ten hours for the police to find all the necessary evidence, including the purple bathrobe and the shaving cream can. In payback, DI Lestrade made sure the entire Yard knew of the "Sherlock Pillow Affair". Due to mysterious circumstances, which may or may not have included a Bunsen burner, Lestrade never got any of his pillows back.)
The End.
Author's Note:
No pillows have been harmed for the purpose of creating this story.
Actually, Sherlock never lied to Lestrade: the pillows really were "for a case" - John got hurt during a homicide case, after all; the pillows were indeed used in a sound-proofing experiment, in which Sherlock tried to find the best way to provide John a peaceful rest; and they were also used in a polyester resilience test, to check if they were comfortable enough for an injured Doctor to sleep on. Now, Sherlock burning Lestrade's pillows in petty revenge was an entirely different matter.
Tell me, which one of Sherlock's pillow-hunting-conversations was the most amusing for you? Who wins: Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, Donovan or Mycroft? I'm looking forward to reading your responses!
Thank you very much for reading, please favorite and review but most importantly - read on and enjoy! ;)