Disclaimer: I own nothing. All credit and rights go to Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, the Beeb, Cumberbatch and Freeman. Also, this was partly inspired by Amy Farrah Fowler's remark about hearts in an episode of The Big Bang Theory, so kudos to those guys, too.
Note: Un-Brit-picked, proofread a couple of times, and probably not as in-character as some of you would like, but I enjoyed writing it and I think it's cute, so there. Just a bit of fun for all. Plus, it's a one-shot, so please enjoy. (Although, I have an idea for a sequel... but my fanfic muses are pretty, so don't count on it.)
It was Monday, February the sodding 14th, at 22IB Baker Street.
"Sherlock!" John called from his room upstairs. A banging and clattering was heard as drawers and doors were mercilessly slammed by the doctor before he continued, "Have you seen my tie?"
Sherlock Holmes was stretched out across the sofa in the same clothes he had first donned three days prior, his arm flung across his face to block out the electric light.
"Under your grey jumper on the floor behind your door," he shouted back. Sherlock grinned as he could imagine John's brilliant How-Did-You-Know? face. It was easy: at the end of every day when John retired to bed, he would climb the stairs to his room and pull his shirt off and throw it on the floor. As John usually wore jumpers, that part of the deduction was obvious. And the last time John had worn his tie had been two days ago when he had been called in to testify about his and Sherlock's work in what John had affectionately named on his blog "The Case of the Daft Duchess."
Sherlock had also been threatened with a subpeona but since he deemed it beneath his superior intelligence to go, strings were pulled - i.e. both Lestrade and Mycroft got him out of that one, Lestrade because he was certain that Sherlock would arrogantly refer to Anderson's sloppy police work and get the case thrown out on a technicality (as if Sherlock could ever be that stupid), and Mycroft because he liked to stick it to his little brother just how powerful he was. As Mycroft often said, Sherlock could be the same if he would just learn how to "play nice with the other children."
Sherlock had ignored that advice for twenty-nine years; he saw no reason to begin now.
The radio played a tiresome love song. Sherlock didn't care for the radio, but John had returned home from work and switched it on in the name of this ridiculous holiday with a threat: the experiment incubating under the sink would get it if Sherlock dared to touch the dial.
So Sherlock tried valiantly to ignore the warbled noise - how could anyone hear such rubbish and call it music? It was an offense not just to true music but to the beauty of the English language! - by reciting the elements of the periodic table, backwards. John soon appeared, his shirt untucked, his fingers fumbling with his tie.
"Sherlock," he hissed, "do you think you could make yourself scarce?"
"Why?"
"Because Sarah will be here in three minutes!"
"Isn't it customary for the man to meet the woman at her place of residence?" Sherlock asked, the slightest twinge of curiosity revealing his actual interest behind the snide remark.
"Yes," John sighed, his tie finally on correctly, "but Sarah was visiting her grandmother earlier, and as her grandmother's home is a mere two streets over, it made more sense for her to come here than go all the way back to her place and wait for me."
Sherlock snorted at the word "sense" but didn't speak. He shifted his arm to look up at his flatmate/colleague/friend and appraised him. John caught him out of the corner of his eye and said, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"You're deducing me. Get on with it."
Sherlock smirked but merely answered, "Thank God you're not a complete sap. I've always thought the idea of using Valentine's Day to propose marriage as a little contrived."
"I'm glad I please you."
"Oh, come now, John. If you really wanted to please me, you'd return that ridiculous diamond ring you've been carrying around for three weeks instead of waiting to propose on Sarah's birthday next Tuesday."
Sighing again - John could be so overly dramatic at times - John slipped his suit jacket on and smoothed his hair with his hand as a knock was heard down below.
"Just -" he paused, trying to decide how exactly to phrase his thoughts. Sherlock waited expectantly.
"Just don't speak at all."
The lanky man rolled his eyes as the shorter one quickly ran down the stairs to let his girlfriend in. The muffled sounds of greetings and kissing floated up to Sherlock, and he grinned as he heard Mrs. Hudson shuffle out to spy on the two lovebirds.
He was intrigued when he heard the begrudging voice of John sing out, "Oh Sherlock? Could you come down, please?"
Sherlock swung himself upright and bounded down the stairs two at a time. Sarah's eyes widened at his untidy appearance, and for John's sake he tried to tame his hair by running his fingers through it. From the look on Mrs. Hudson's face, he realized he had failed and probably looked more unkempt than ever, but Sarah had the decency to ignore it.
She held out a small box of chocolates and a red envelope and said, "Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock!"
"For me?" Sherlock gushed, sarcasm dripping like poison, "Sarah, you shouldn't have."
"I know," she said and her eyes twinkled, "and I wouldn't have, but I figured you wouldn't get a card from anyone this year, so -"
"Ah, yes, the pity valentine," Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I know these. Got several from silly girls in school who thought my aloof attitude spawned from a Byronic sense of isolation and passion. Idiots."
"Well, should we go?" John asked, ill at ease.
"Sure," Sarah agreed.
"Thank you, Sarah," Sherlock said, causing the other three to stop and stare at him. "Although I'm surprised that a confident woman such as yourself would feel compelled to take part in a degrading tradition such as sending cards in the shape of a female's ass."
"Sherlock! Language!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.
Sarah looked as if she wasn't certain if she should be amused or offended. John was offended enough for the both of them:
"Sherlock, what the hell?"
"The valentine. The socially accepted 'heart.' It's design is based on how a woman is shaped when viewing her bent over from behind."
Sherlock enjoyed making people blush with the truth.
"Well, Sarah, let's go. Dinner reservations," John mumbled, pushing the woman out the door ahead of him. "Is that true?" Sherlock could hear her whisper as they left. He gave Mrs. Hudson a curt nod of his head and turned to head back upstairs and back to his couch to wallow in silence and boredom when he heard a hand stop the door with a slap. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Sarah leaning past John, her arm outstretched and holding the heavy front door from closing.
"Sherlock Holmes," she declared, "You may have a greeting card representation of my fine ass any time."
He smirked and she grinned up at him before finally leaving, dragging a bewildered John off with her.
"Good Lord!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.
Sherlock ignored her and continued up the stairs. He quite liked that Sarah Sawyer.
It was 9 a.m. on Tuesday, February 15, when John returned to Baker Street, grinning from ear to ear. He practically waltzed his way through the door, skipped up the stairs, and playfully slapped his flatmate on the back of his head, who had for the past 12 hours been lying on the sofa as usual.
"Morning, Sherlock!" He laughed. "Fancy a cuppa?"
"You're in a good mood."
"Yep," John agreed. He rummaged around in the cupboards, laughing as he discovered a jar of what looked like pickled fingernails.
"Must have had a good night?"
"Why, yes I did."
Sherlock wondered how long it would take him to self-induce vomiting. It warranted an experiment.
"Still planning on marriage, I take it?"
"Yup."
"How terribly -" Sherlock searched for the perfect word to express his disappointment. "Conventional," he sneered. "Traditional."
"Yes," John said. "I had a feeling you would deem marriage as 'dull.'"
"Tedious, archaic -"
"Romantic, beautiful -"
"-Patriarchal, failure of an institution."
"What, like the monarchy?"
"I wouldn't let Mycroft hear you say that."
"I'm not afraid of Mycroft Holmes," John declared as he scooped a heaping spoonful of sugar into his tea with glee.
"No," Sherlock corrected, "I am not afraid of Mycroft Holmes. You're a daft prick in love."
"Potato, potahto."
The man was determined to be commonplace. It was quite frustrating for Sherlock to see such a mind wasted on trifles. John wasn't a complete idiot, not like Anderson. He just chose to use his herd instinct. So sad.
As Sherlock mused on the differences between him and John - why couldn't more people be like himself? Without being a power-hungry prat like Mycroft or a psychopath like Moriarty? - John finished preparing his breakfast of tea and toast, stopping to tuck the morning paper under his arms as he headed up to his room. Sherlock could hear him singing - "You say tomato, I say tomahto. Let's call the whole thing off" - and he closed his eyes and began to list in his mind all the ways he could kill a man with his thumb.
The sounds of John moving about his room soon quieted down, and Sherlock assumed his flatmate had fallen asleep. Just as well. Unless Lestrade rang with an interesting enough case, Sherlock didn't have any plans to move from his position on the sofa.
The door above creaked.
What now?
Socked feet softly padded down the stairs.
If he even thinks about singing one more song-
Something light landed with a gentle thump in the middle of Sherlock's chest. His eyes blinked open in surprise, and he could hear the scurried shuffle of feet as John hurried back upstairs to hide in his room.
Peering down, Sherlock discovered a folded paper, size A4. He cautiously and curiously lifted it and turned it over to see what on earth it could possibly be.
There, traced in blue ink from the diagram in Grey's Anatomy, was a human heart. Scrawled at the top was John's messy handwriting - good Lord, did he have to be such a walking cliche? A doctor with bad handwriting? Sherlock brought the valentine - for that is what it was - closer so that he might interpret the inscription:
To Sherlock,
Like I'd ever give you a socially acceptable depiction of a woman's ass.
Sherlock grinned at that and opened the card.
I thought about getting you a real heart, but I didn't want it to end up next to my leftover Chinese in the fridge.
Have a happy Valentine's Day, and sod off.
Love, John
Sherlock closed the card and concentrated. For the first time since primary school, when the other children had been forced to give him a card by their teachers and parents, Sherlock Holmes had received not one but two Valentines. Sure, they were just pieces of paper sent because of a made up holiday in honor of a martyred monk, but just for right now, and just between Sherlock and his skull because God forbid John or Mycroft ever hear him say it, it was rather nice knowing that there was someone who cared about Sherlock.
John cared about him. Liked him. And because of John, now Sarah did, too.
And they didn't expect valentines or chocolates or empty declarations of love in return. They were both just content to let Sherlock be.
Sherlock sat up, having reached a decision. He stood and crossed to his desk and rooted around for the Scotch tape. When he couldn't find it, he began to search John's. Eventually he discovered it under the telly. He gathered up his two valentines and strode with purpose to the wall - his wall, as John now called it - and began to tape the cards beside the leering, bullet - pocked smiley face.
Sherlock took a step back and admired his handiwork. "I'm sure Molly would have snuck you a heart if you had asked," he informed the man behind him without turning around.
"Yes," John said, shifting his weight to lean against the doorframe and choosing to ignore the fact that the world's only consulting detective had known he was there, "But she's still under suspicion about that missing pancreas from last week."
"Again, I had nothing to do with that."
"Sure, sure."
The two fell into a comfortable silence - one of the many things about John that Sherlock appreciated - content with admiring the wall.
It was Sherlock who broke first.
"Well," he said, turning to John and thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his dressing gown. "Should I write the speech myself, or would you rather do it for me? Make sure I don't say anything too embarrassing?"
"Speech?"
"Yes, my speech," Sherlock grinned. "I believe it's an accepted tradition for the best man to give a speech after the wedding?"
John smiled. "Knew you'd figure that one out," he said before shooting him a look. "Seriously thought it would have taken you a lot sooner, though."
"Please, I knew you had proposed the moment you danced through the front door."
John laughed and sighed, but this time it was a happy sigh. A sigh of contentment.
"That, and the fact that Mycroft saw your proposal at the London Eye on his personal CCTV network."
"You sure you want to?"
"Want to what?"
"Give a speech. Be my best man. Isn't that just a little too conventional for a Beautiful Mind genius like yourself?"
"John, don't be an idiot. The job is called 'Best Man.' Who could be better than me?"
"Well, Sarah did mention you'd look great as a bridesmaid -"
"John."
"Or a flower girl -"
"Jo-ohn."
"The officiant! You could preside over the - what was it? The 'tedious, archaic, patriarchal failure of an institution' in which Sarah and I plan to commit ourselves."
The Union Jack pillow went flying through the air and hit John squarely in the face.
"You dare, and I'll have Mycroft kidnap you before the ceremony."
Fin.
Amy Farrah Fowler: Did you know the iconic heart shape isn't based on an actual human heart? It's based on what a woman's ass looks like bending over.
Penny: So in 8th grade, I was dotting my i's with little asses? That's cool.
The Big Bang Theory, "The Alien Parasite Hypothesis"
Note: Yes, it's me. And if you're interested in knowing if "Fully Alive" will ever be updated, I seriously doubt it. That muse is dead. Gone. Finished. In fact, I think she committed suicide. If someone else wants to take it and run with it, you have my blessing.
Now, back to Sherlock.
God, I love this show. Okay, first of all, the TBBT connection: I never would have connected the two shows together had I not read an American review that compared Sherlock to Sheldon Cooper. I don't really think it's quite that fair of a comparison, but since then whenever I watch TBBT something will be said or done that pings Sherlock! in my brain.
Second: Sarah. I love Sarah. Love, love, love Sarah. I love Molly and Mrs. Hudson and yes, even Sally Donovan, but Sarah is by far my favorite female character. She's smart (dude, she's the one who notices the translations of the symbols in "The Blind Banker." Come ON!), she's kickass (I cheered when she started whacking the guy over the head at the circus), and she's got balls. I mean, seriously, she gets attacked twice, kidnapped once, and almost killed on her very first date, and she's still there by the next episode? Maybe she's crazy, but I think she's perfect for John, and I think that eventually she would gain Sherlock's approval, although I doubt he'd ever admit it.
Third, because it will probably come up in the comments: Is Sherlock heterosexual? homosexual? bisexual? asexual? pansexual? (Look it up.) Well, I'm going to go with the people I trust, and the people I trust are the gods of Sherlock, the people I credited at the beginning of this fic, and what I have heard them say is that Sherlock is not gay. I haven't heard them say anything else, so I guess it's open for interpretation, but I'm going to stick with asexual, suppressed heterosexual (he is originally a Victorian literary hero, and they thought that was cool), or undecided. Personally, I love a good solid bromance, and I sometimes feel people get to caught up on sexual attraction, as if that's the only thing that can make relationships intense. What's wrong with having a kickass friendship?
Ah, well, to each his own. I'll shut up now and let you review. I mean, if you want to.