Arthur's note:
This story is a translation of the Chinese BBC Sherlock fanfiction "Milk and Violin"(牛奶与小提琴）, which originally appeared in the Sherlock Baidu forum. All the good creation work belongs to the lovely Tezuno, a brilliant writer, seriously you should read her original work. I just do the translation. The Chinese version could be found in Baidu tieba, search "牛奶与小提琴".
I don't do it for money. I don't own BBC Sherlock, though I wish I did so that they would be kissing next season. If you like the story and could now and then forgive my imperfect English, give Tezuno a hurrah.
The story is all bromance, no slash, hurt and comfor, a lot of fluff. Do please leave your lovely reviews at your convenience or inconvenience and tons of thanks for reading.
1. Experiment
Eighteen months was not just about time. It contained other details of their living-together and the on-going rumors of their being-together, one of which, say, centered on the fact they had celebrated their respective birthdays for at least once during the entire period of flat-share.
For all his life, Sherlock Holmes had been doing bizarre experiments, a lot of which backfired on others as well as on himself. But there was only one that deserved the name of a life long souvenir – a test on the narcotic used in a self-directed kidnap.
On the night before he had a little domestic with his flat-mate, deliberately of course. During the news broadcasting on a massive explosion, he persistently mocked at the non-novelty of the criminal. And the punch line "Shame on the bomber, killing mass in a BANG" finally and successfully wore out John's patience. It indeed took little to infuriate the good doctor, say one right dagger into his overflowing sense of justice.
"Sherlock, don't show off your deduction-only philosophy, just because you are bored!"
Upon this John walked out, pounded up to his room, leaving the door behind creaking on its own. whenever Sherlock got bored or manic or just not in the mood，he let it be known by shooting the wall or torturing the violin. John was different. He was above dramatics. He had never slammed doors. The hanging door was so much worse.
So the next morning, Sherlock in the name of a good apology was pouring tea into John's mug when John walked down the stairs apparently in a nice mood - after thousands of similar miffs, the good doctor never seemed to mind. But that wouldn't stop Sherlock from a spontaneous apology. He eyed the unsuspicious flat mate as he moved in - a date with what-is-her-name, a third since Sarah, and handed over the mug. John hesitated a bit but soon a big smile swapped his face. Some sudden premonition hit Sherlock, because John didn't smile in the anticipation of on-coming date, nor in the knowledge that "I know you are apologizing for the last night, and I forgive you", but in that god-damned elementary encourage to some clumsy toddler "I understand that is the best you can do". And he smiled so sincerely that in his blues eyes danced the tender morning light.
Sherlock knew John H. Watson, the ex-army doctor who had invaded Afghanistan, tailed him all over London, constantly shouted at the unwelcomed body parts in fridge and always seemed able to be texted back from middle of his dates, angry yet yielded to his fate, was solid in psyche, marksmanship and fights although he was clumsy in climbing over railings. And now he was smiling at him hopefully and expectantly as if asking a would-be date "I really want to ask you out so please be nice to me". Inevitably, even a Holmes suffered a short-circuit. A quick and main deduction: obviously, John misunderstood my motive.
The question was to which degree John had misunderstood – perhaps, very likely, to some sentiment he couldn't understand - anyway, he finished the mug. Sherlock watched with a feign smile as John sat back, took his papers and before long his arms sank and fell into sleep.
"John, Johansson claimed to have been drugged and lost consciousness until the car reached Southampton."
"He told the police he slept all the way. Only that he has drugged himself to avoid the police questions. The lie is too big, for it is only an 8 hour drive from the spot. Unfortunately, if he had taken that dosage of narcotic, he would have slept for over 20 hours or more. So before he woke up he would have ended up in the English Channel."
"And besides, his bruises, you know, to avoid the eyes and nose stuff… "
Sherlock sank in his chair, fingers to his chin, talking to himself vis-à-vis the sleeping John. It felt strange - his deduction would go unnoticed in John's absence, but the latter was here. He stopped and leaned over, staring at his flatmate as he used to do with Mr. Skull. It was his habit to fix eyes on something and loosen his train of thoughts. But never before had he drifted in the face of John. So that made a novel experience.
Hair: smooth, sandy, doesn't go wild like the curls. Jumper: pattern ridiculous, rising and falling with breathing. Hands: slightly into a fist, maybe because he was holding newspapers, maybe because of inherent defensiveness. Newspapers: half way down, on the knees …
"woo – hoo "
The un-living-room sound made Sherlock snatch John's papers, sink back, pretend to be turning pages and seriously doubt why on earth he did all that. Sub-consciousness? Ms. Hudson knocked before she entered, "I have baked more biscuits than expected", and then put her tray on one tiny spot she cleaned on the not-too-surprisingly-gadgets-occupied table.
"Dr. Watson, haven't you got a date today?"
"He is sound asleep." Sherlock answered on his part.
"Oh? That could not be very good. Only yesterday he was asking me for dating tips. Should I know it, I might have told him that most important is to remember the date and don't stand ladies up. "
"Some random female",Sherlock muttered under his breath and promptly stopped Ms. Hudson's further attempt.
"Leave him alone, Ms. Hudson."
Certainly he wasn't worrying that John might wake up. Any attempt to arouse him would end up in vain given the dose and property of the drug. "oh", obviously Ms. Hudson misunderstood his motive, "if you really care about him, get him a blanket."
"I have no blankets." The voice said from behind the newspapers.
Good news for brain work, Mr. Hudson soon went downstairs. Thinking, yes. He swore he was thinking about cases, not whether an overcoat could do for a blanket or he would tuck John in even if he happened to have one. Annoyed and not knowing how, he put down the papers and rose to the desk. The smiley on the wall had long since been riddled with shots. At least staring at this would not lead astray to some hair color or bloody jumper.
When John woke up, it was already dark. Sherlock, still seated by the desk, fingers to his chin, heard the moan relieved from curving for too long on the sofa. He cast a glance at his phone "15 hours".
"Yum…What?"
John mumbled, stretching his sore limbs as he took to his feet.
"…"
Sherlock texted Lestrade: even a halved dosage could put a soldier into 15 hours sleep. The hostage is lying. He is the accomplice of the kidnapper.
The result was more or less as he had estimated, but John did even better than his 19 hours expectation.
" Sherlock? What have you done?" In the mist of his texts, John's brain switched on. He took a thoroughly slow look at his surroundings. In the dim light of their living room, his light head moved from one direction to another, and finally at Sherlock.
"Wha…oh god…"
"what time is it now?"
"7 past midnight"
"wha.. oh god…"
John checked his phone and sat back with a loud sigh, rubbing his temple - clearly he had missed the date. A wicked curve crept on Sherlock's lips. But it was subtle and far less than being irritating.
"… Sherlock, what have you done?"
The screwed date didn't occupy John for too long before his said mind started working again.
"… You made me teathis morning."
"Err.. There is a case. I need to see Lestrade."
Sherlock stood up and began to strike around the room, pretending to look for coat and scarf. The truth was he had no plan to go out; John would eventually work that out himself and besides - as a real apology, he could make tea for him at least once and without any substances.
"Oh, that milk - It is you, the bloody narcotic test."
It only took one look at Sherlock's smart-arse face for him to realize he really did and acknowledged it. Again John yielded to his fate – anyway, it was not the first time and God knew probably would not be the last one. John shook his head. In the half curtained nocturne he began to take to his bedroom and was stopped by the wakened version that he had just slept for 15 hours. What else could he possibly do? Go out and have fun? It was cold at night and certainly not in the mood - he just stood up his date. Stay with Sherlock? No, not the thrilling results of the experiment with the guinea pig being himself, even though the experiment was solely about him sleeping a whole day on the sofa.
"Alright, now your test is done?"
Eventually he chose his room where he could at least close his eyes and reset his disturbed bio-clock to sleep-at-night-and-sober-at-day mode as the medication went away.
"Then goodnight, Sherlock."
"John."
He halted at the doorway and turned around.
"What …this time?"
Sherlock puckered his lips and looked up.
"This morning, when I gave you the cup, were you happy?"
John frowned the way he usually would say "for love of god, are you actually asking about sentiment?" He held himself from popping out instant tease, but watched as the doctor's expression quickly turned into clouds in recalling the incident.
"oh! That…" his expression eased as memory came vivid back; however, as he eyed at Sherlock, he shook his head all too quickly.
"Nothing, never mind."
Table turned, Sherlock frowned. He did not pursue his questions since he least wanted to impress John as he took a genuine interests in the area he had long despised. As his flatmate disappeared up the steps, he dove into the chair and stared at his phone, the clock ticking away in the background shimmer. He winked at the date.
"why…" He murmured. Something was wrong. Or just a bit familiar. Past 12 pm, it is a new day. The date was a bit…
"…Stupid."
Useless stuff will be deleted from the hard drive. How could he not remember this? He had looked at John's ID. Birthday. Deduction: John smiled this morning because he thought I remembered his birthday and I made him tea because I would not say happy birthday. Only he found out it was an experiment. What put him sleep 15 hours helped him celebrate his birthday.
Alright, Sherlock Holmes would not blame himself for things like this. He was convinced that he was far above caring about the number of the birthday cards received. And John had just proved he cared very little either. He missed the date on his birthday and didn't seem too upset about it. But it was his mistake - to put John under the illusion that he remembered something he actually did not. The illusion formed in John's head, still his tea triggered all of this…
Oh God, since when have I tolerated vagueness and ambiguity in statements? Vagueness and ambiguity show they are shirking facts - criminals' symptom when under questions.
He combed a hand through his hair. Maybe this time he did fell for it. It was simple, very, indeed. He had disappointed John. That smile and the tenderness were for the milk not for the narcotic in it. He knew he would not mind. John was a soldier and besides he had got accustomed to his ways. So he would not produce any above-average complaint, the drug being so much kinder an idea than shooting at wall and keeping the whole street up. Still he could not help himself thinking about compensations. Oh, damn it. Sentiment. Sentiment is annoying. And hey, how come the adjective is not boring?
Upstairs John was preparing to try some boring book to get him into sleep again when he heard the violin from below. Thank God. It is not rocket-in -the-making. The happy birthday song. Brief. 16 seconds before it stopped. He could almost picture the detective bow the strings by the window, too awkward for a second chord. A text came at once he was done
—What was that noise on your floor? I did not quite figure it out. JW
2 Seconds later, buzz on John's,
—Shut up and sleep. SH