A/N: I was feeling in a Sherlock mood today and thought I'd give my first Sherlock fanfic a go! It's just a little fluffy one shot which is More Sherlock/John 'bromance' rather than romance, but I hope you like it anyway! Hannah xxx
NB: I unfortunately own nothing... the Wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the beautiful characters on Sherlock and John, and I must give credit to the BBC for the modern setting and to George Orwell for his fabulous essay on tea making!
Sherlock was sat rather less elegantly poised than usual, leaning against the Union Jack cushion right back into the curve of his favourite arm chair in the sitting room of 221b, rather than perching on the very edge of the seat, his hands clasped together and his spine erect as if ready to jump straight into action at a fraction of a second's notice as was his usual style. However, so far today there had been little 'action' of any shape or form; Lestrade and himself had encountered a… disagreement… over some of Sherlock's recent 'pharmaceutical' purchases and until this issue was rectified the Detective Inspector was refusing to indulge Sherlock in any further cases, and to top it all off Sherlock (with a little more of John's help than he would care to admit) had solved the last of his personal requests about four hours earlier. Combined together these luckless circumstances had, unfortunately for John, brought about a severe case of boredom in the detective.
He'd lasted approximately an hour and a half before becoming absolutely insufferable. Initially he had amused himself by updating 'the Science of Deduction' with the details of the suicide case he had cracked that morning, and then by going back through their piled up collection of forgotten newspapers from the last five days or so and completing all of the puzzles within them – however, as expected, this hadn't taken long at all and Sherlock quickly succumbed to boredom. John himself had been more than happy to have three quarters of the day off for once, just to spend some time pottering about the flat doing nothing much or perhaps popping to town, Sherlock however had done nothing but whine solidly since the supply of 'unchallenging' and 'repetitive' puzzles had been exhausted. Watson had tried everything to amuse him, to engage him in some form of non-work-based activity, to get him just to relax and sit still even… but of course it had all been futile with the most firmly rejected suggestion of his being that they turned on a little day time TV…
"Honestly John, please explain to me the possible value that there is in viewing Z-list celebrities chopping vegetables, or receiving a tutorial in fashion and beauty or worse still complete nobodies desperately seeking fame through reality television?"
John had paused to take a deep breath, preparing to justify his point, knowing that this was yet another argument that he would lose.
"When you put it like that it sounds ridiculous, and the might not be the most high-brow of programmes, but seriously they can be quite funny! Especially the one where they're all on a coach and…"
To that the detective had just raised one of his perfectly groomed eyebrows to impossible heights and sighed, cutting his roommate off.
"Really John, I expected more from you."
It was around this moment that John stormed off out of the flat under the pretence of purchasing a few of their essential supplies (tea, milk, bread, jam, The Telegraph etc.) but in reality out of the need to just get away from Sherlock for a little while. The afternoon had reached its boiling point and the doctor was no longer able to simply sigh off Sherlock's exasperating behaviour and ignore his tantrum like fits of boredom in the friendly, albeit slightly irritated, manner in which he had been and if he had remained in their apartment then Sherlock was in danger of receiving a book in the face – or confiscation of his skull at the very least, if Mrs Hudson hadn't beaten him to it that is. Quickly, John grabbed his jacket and left without another word.
When making his way down the stairs and out to the door of their building, at a hurried, storming pace, poor Mrs Hudson was almost bowled over by his urgency.
"Ooh, sorry Mrs H!" He apologised for his clumsy behaviour, stopping just short of running in to the old dear who was carrying a full tea tray balanced on one hand that was in jeopardy of being spilt.
She sighed a little, but smiled regardless – she was far too fond of both of the boys to ever become truly irritated with either of them "Not to worry dear" She patted his fore arm lightly with her spare hand "you off out?"
John rolled his eyes "Yes, and glad to be!"
The older lady before him frowned for just a second before kindly asking: "You two haven't had another one of your domestics have you? I don't want him up there with that gun again; these walls just can't take it!"
John chuckled lightly "I guess you could say that…" he agreed, refusing to accept or deny her claims of 'a domestic' this time. "He's bored and driving me up the wall and I feared for my sanity and his safety if I stayed up there any longer!"
"Oh what's he like! He's always trouble when he's bored."
"Tell me about it!" John rolled his eyes, "that's why I'm off out – that and to get a few essentials of course"
"Probably wise, though I do hope you boys shake hands or kiss and make-up or whatever it is you do soon, I was hoping for a decent night's sleep" She replied.
"I'll do my best Mrs H" He smiled, brushing over her reference to 'kissing' entirely as he had trained himself to do over these past few months, as he went to open the door.
"I'm don't doubt that you will, oh and it's rather warm out so I don't think you'll be wanting that Jacket dear" She called after him and John responded with a quick thank you and turned back to hang up his jacket on the banister before dashing out of the door to greet the outside world; freedom.
John ambled slowly on his walk to the second most local shop, basking in the warmth of the dappled late afternoon sunlight dulled only slightly by a cool breeze, as he pondered over exactly how long he could make this 'essential' shopping trip last without Sherlock becoming suspicious of it being anything else, or worried, or allowed to reach the stage of firearm usage within the flat… In theory, it should only have taken him five minutes to walk to the shop, five minutes for the transaction, and a little over five minutes (due to the weight of the extra bags) to return home once more; and perhaps if there had been a large queue then he might have plausibly been able to stretch the trip out by five or so minutes and, had their most local shop not had the necessary items, he may have even got away with an extra ten. If the trip lasted more than half an hour then even the average man might become a little suspicious of any 'funny business' going on. But, luckily, for as precise as Sherlock was with his own activities and cases, and for as much attention as he paid to the behaviour of others, he had no real concept of how the world around him worked – how long a quick trip to the shops would take for example - and thus John reckoned that he was safe to escape to Regent's Park for a little while after he had bought everything on his 'list'. He'd bought today's Telegraph and intended to read it properly for once, before it landed in the hands of his roommate who would soon pick it to pieces for useful information, tear out the puzzles, and toss it away in the recycling bin, and so settled down on an empty bench to begin his read.
Meanwhile, back at 221b, it had been a good fifteen minutes since John's sudden departure and Sherlock had as yet failed to notice that he was alone inside the flat. As soon as he had dismissed John's 'utterly absurd and preposterous' suggestion of sitting down together to watch that mindless trash which is day time television, the consulting detective had begun ransacking the living room in search of his gun and so hadn't witnessed John's exit. Luckily for the sanity of Both Mrs Hudson and John, he had no joys in discovering the article despite the fact that he had clearly remembered placing in the hidden space between his various encyclopaedias on the main bookshelf… John must have moved it he mused.
As he was unable to seek solace from his boredom through the act of target practice and a little anger management style therapy, Sherlock slumped his body down ungracefully onto the sofa and called out for John's attention, hoping that his companion would be able to offer him a little light relief; but there was no reply.
"John." He called a little louder; still no reply.
He sighed to himself and hauled his wiry frame up and off the sofa, walking first into the kitchen, then John's bedroom (where John had initially forbade him from entering, but now had pretty much given up as the other man seemed to do as he wished anyway, and just accepting this fact involved a lot less effort than trying to rail against it entailed) and finally even his own bedroom, searching for his friend. But John was nowhere to be seen.
Think Sherlock, bloody think!
He thought to himself silently… had he left?
No, surely not, wouldn't I have noticed? Though… perhaps if I was buried in books at the time…
Sherlock frantically tried to search his mind for anything that might help him remember, or logically guess if he found that he genuinely didn't know, where John had gone and began tracing his potential path of exit down the stairs, looking for clues.
John's jacket. John's jacket hung up on the end of the banister. John's jacket hung up on the end of the banister that was previously up in the living room across the back of John's arm chair. Aha! So, he must have brought it downstairs intending to leave the building with it on and then changed his mind after learning of the pleasant weather outside from…
"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock rasped quickly on her own apartment's door.
"Yes Sherlock" She opened it smiling.
"Mrs Hudson I need your help"
The older woman rolled her eyes and sighed "Sherlock, I've told you before, I'm your land lady not your housekeeper!"
"No, no I… I mean… Mrs Hudson, do you know where John has got to? He left the flat, I think, a little while ago and I need him."
Mrs Hudson gave him a knowing look in response and simply said: "I don't know dear, I think he's nipped to the shops but I'm sure he'll be back in a bit"
Sherlock groaned and retreated back up to the lonely, dreary, vacant, John-less flat – but not before thanking Mrs Hudson of course. Without the company of his dear friend, the detective resided himself to taking counsel with an even older friend of his, one who had been with him through thick and thin across the years, one who's speaking or thinking or breathing would never interrupt his creative, flow and one who was always ready and at his beck and call: his skull. But alas he remembered, upon re-entering the apartment and gazing over to the empty space on the mantel piece, that Mrs Hudson had confiscated said skull after she had caught him indulging in a surreptitious cigarette in the courtyard. She'd forced him into throwing away all of his tobacco related supplies, much to John's approval, as well meaning that he was even unable to find consolation to his boredom through that particular past time either.
And so it was that with reluctance Sherlock extracted a large book of Orwell's essays from the shelf and settled down to read. Reading was not one of his most favoured hobbies; unless the document was case relevant, contained details of important new scientific discoveries or appealed to one of his rather specific personal interests, Sherlock saw little point in reading – especially fiction – but he thought that he might be able to stomach reading through a few essays until John returned.
After skipping past the works on various authors (Kipling, Yeats, Dickens etc.) he stumbled upon one entitled 'A Hanging' which he deemed 'not too dull' and another entitle 'Books Vs. Cigarettes' which wasn't as enthralling as he'd hoped, and continued leafing through various pages in the hefty volume before one caught his eye in particular: 'A Nice Cup of Tea'.
The detective began to read the essay, avidly now, and found himself agreeing with many of the points that Orwell had made about his favourite beverage.
The tea should be strong. Agreed.
One should take the teapot to the kettle and not the other way about, the water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact. Definitely agreed.
One should drink out of a good breakfast cup-that is, the cylindrical type of cup, not the flat, shallow type. Mycroft was always the one who preferred a proper cup and saucer, both he and John were more than content with whichever clean mug was floating around.
Lastly, tea-unless one is drinking it in the Russian style-should be
drunk WITHOUT SUGAR. An absolute must – what's the point in drinking tea if you cannot taste its slight bitterness?
Sherlock surprised himself through the level to which he had genuinely enjoyed reading Orwell's thoughts on tea making, and even indulged in reading the essay a second time – realising now though that he had missed one very major and important factor from his extensive and precise list. If one followed Orwell's guidelines then yes, sure enough, the beverage produced would be 'a nice cup of tea' but Sherlock believed he knew exactly the formula for the production of 'the perfect cup of tea' and it was his boredom combined with hid new reading material which had brought him to this theory which he intended to test out shortly.
As if on cue, John arrived back from his shopping/escaping trip and entered the apartment with arms laden with his purchases, to find Sherlock smiling at him from his arm chair - now sat once more in his elegantly poised, upright, thoughtful pose – who appeared to be in somewhat of a better mood than when he had left.
"Hello" John smiled back at him.
"Ah yes, hello John, I was beginning to wonder if you had been ravished by Alsatians on your way back from the shops" Sherlock replied with just an air of sarcasm.
"Hmm… I was caught up, there was a queue" John mumbled and Sherlock could tell that he was lying – or at least not giving the full truth – but he glossed over it, eager to test out his theory as quickly as possible.
"What did you purchase?"
"Oh nothing much, just the usual – tea, bread, milk, you know the like" John smiled, knowing full well that Sherlock did not indeed 'know the like' as to his awareness the man had never actually completed a food shop for himself.
"Excellent, excellent" Sherlock replied, with particular reference to the tea bags.
"You managed to find something to keep yourself occupied then?"
"Yes! Strangely enough I've been having a read through some of Orwell's essays and a couple a really rather fascinating!"
"Orwell eh? Good choice." John said impressed at such a 'normal' activity being the one to cure his roommate's incessant boredom, and that – the man who thought it unimportant to learn the fact that the Earth rotated around the sun for goodness sake – was eager to widen his literary knowledge.
"Indeed it was" Sherlock smiled. "I don't suppose you'd like to make us both a cup of tea would you John?" Sherlock asked commandingly.
John rolled his eyes but smiled; he was always the one to make the tea. "Go on then" He replied and set to work in the kitchen after packing away his few little bits of shopping.
Sherlock sat from the prime position on the edge of his seat in his arm chair, cushion now haphazardly tossed to one side, observing his friend organising the tea bags and mugs, pouring out the steaming boiling water and allowing the brimming mugs to stew a little before adding just a dash of milk. John had prepared the tea in the same manner that he always did, exactly as Sherlock like it and, coincidentally, similarly to how Orwell like it too. He immediately took a sip as soon as John handed the blue and white striped mug to him, eager to double check his thesis, and smiled through a contented sigh of pleasure as the hot, bitter, familiar liquid ran down his throat.
Yes, he had definitely been right.
The absolutely fail safe method of making the perfect cup of tea, is to have someone else make it for you.