Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. A.N. I promised about half a year ago this fic to my dear friend Chrytwyn, for whom this particular AU is very real (I like to imagine that she's living the sequel to this story). Sorry for being so late, my dear!
The one in which Sherlock belongs to the most noble order of the Garter
So this wasn't Mike's dream job. It was still a job, though, and an entertaining one, too. The Ark (affiliated with the notorious Garden of Hesperides chain) was more than a pet shop. It was a store that boasted that through them you could get any pet, no matter how rare or peculiar. To their credit, the claim had still to be falsified, to Mike's knowledge, even if sometimes their clients would have to wait for a while. They did import some creatures especially, on commission. (A hefty one, obviously.)
Mike was in charge of caring for the pets they did have, and the fact that he could see the beauty and get fond of various reptiles and invertebrates, instead of being spooked by them, made him the man for the job. Maybe too fond, really. He secretly named all the critters he took care of, and if the Ark's prices weren't so outrageous, he'd have become a client as well as an employee long ago.
If you asked Mike what superpower he wished for, he wouldn't answer flight or invisibility or anything copied from comic superheroes. He'd reply, instead, that he wanted to understand the language of animals. And it would be a very, very wise choice, because so many amazing adventures happened right under his nose.
Well, not for a long time, they didn't; because like chemical reactions, even quests need a catalyst sometimes. So for a long time the pets-to-be contented themselves with their boring, sheltered, monotonous life.
Until one day when they received a new shipment of pets, among which, oddly, a single garter snake. A longish but awfully thin thing, that rather than the species' customary stripes sported a yellowish colour with dark brown, almost black spots. Mike wondered idly if it was a mistaken labelling or simply a unique exemplar. Anyway, he was gorgeous.
His new friend hissed nervously when the caretaker picked him up to place him in his new terrarium, alone – waiting to resolve his doubts, better not mix him with the others.
"It's okay, Sherlock," the man cooed, christening him on the spot. "You'll be fine. But we'll have to get you to grow a bit. People will think you're to be sold as bait otherwise, you know."
Despite that, the snake refused to eat anything. True, Mike knew that snakes in general liked to take their sweet time digesting, so if he had a big meal before being sent away his lack of appetite might not be worrying. When the wilful starving went on, though, he grew concerned.
He wasn't the only one. With his favourite superpower, he would have been able to hear the biggest and most shiny of their pythons inquire about his new neighbour. "Why aren't you eating still? Are you ill?"
"What makes you think I'm not digesting?" Sherlock replied, curiosity piqued.
The python huffed. "Obvious. Given the crate you were shipped in, you came from so far that they can't have fed you enough for you to still be digesting after a week you're here. That much food would have ripped your stomach open. After all, you are tiny."
"Just because I'm not too fat to be able to uncoil myself, it doesn't mean there's something wrong with me," Sherlock hissed angrily.
"I'm not too fat to uncoil!" the python protested loudly, though he made no move to demonstrate it.
"I've never seen you do it in my week of forced permanence here," the garter snake pointed out snidely.
"Unneeded spending of energy is against my ethic. Against snake ethic, I would say, but purposeful starving of oneself would be a sin as well, so I am wondering what your values are… if you are indeed healthy," the mammoth reptilian lectured pompously.
"I appreciate being able to think, and a full stomach slows my brain down horribly," Sherlock explained, this side of pouting.
"Well, that means you do not have enough brainpower. Given that you're little more than a runt, it makes sense. Don't worry – you have room for growth yet," the python smugly quipped.
"Oh, shut up, Fatty!" Sherlock grumbled, coiling on himself as if to declare the conversation concluded.
"My name is Mycroft, and I would be thankful if you used it," the python chided. "What do you need to think so deeply about anyway? Maybe I can help."
"Isn't it obvious? I still haven't figured out how to leave this thrice-damned tank!" Sherlock raged, hitting the transparent walls trapping him.
Mycroft blinked once, slowly, then queried, frankly puzzled, "Why would you want to? It's not mating season yet, and that and going looking for food are the only acceptable reasons to go strolling around. And in case you haven't noticed, you don't need to hunt your own food down anymore. It gets delivered to you at regular intervals. If your anxiousness is born from fear that it will stop and you will be left unable to provide for yourself, don't be. Our caretaker is a punctual man, and just looking at him is enough to observe that he doesn't believe in fasting, either for himself or others."
"Thank you for the reassurance. But some of us have other aims besides filling one's stomach, and before you insinuate that, no, I'm not talking about mating either. Honestly, the necessity to spread the species has always escaped me. Do we really need more idiots in the world?" Sherlock spit.
"More of you, certainly not. Abstaining from transmitting your moodiness might actually be commendable," Mycroft sneered. "But now I really have to question why you would need to leave your new home."
"To leave, obviously! Nothing ever happens here. Only ever the same sand, the same fucking unfrozen mice, the same sight from the same glass panels! I'm going mad with boredom here!" Sherlock raged.
"Boredom?" the python echoed, and if he'd been human, he would have raised a sarcastic eyebrow.
"Of course! I'm bored! Bored, bored, bored, bored!" the (possibly) garter snake yelled. "I can feel my brain oozing out of my gums."
"Well, if you started eating in the first place," Mycroft lectured pompously, "you might get to leave here for a while."
"Leave the tank?" the diminutive – in comparison – snake queried eagerly.
The python chuckled. "Of course not. But our caretaker would carry your tank out of the warehouse during the day and show you off in the shop. People come in, they look, and someday one will carry you away. I have no idea what happens afterwards, though. But until then, you come back here for the night," he explained.
This time, Sherlock fully pouted. "It's not fair that just because they're so big these creatures get to boss us around! I have to eat for the privilege to be stared at and be able to stare back?! No, thank you. I'll take my chances with starving to figure out a way to be truly free. There must be a trick to this, I just need to determine it…"
"Free? Nobody's ever truly free. If you're smart, though, you can manipulate the system to run in your favour. And here the efforts required are minimal, really. We're blessed with a kind soul taking care of us," Mycroft remarked, cutting the smaller serpent in. "Besides, you're not muscled enough to strangle a victim and I don't see any fangs to effectively poison your prey. It's a wonder you can feed yourself in your own habitat…and you want to overpower the bipeds? Be rational."
"I can feed myself perfectly well, when I choose to, thank you very much. If you are so expert at manipulating the system, why are you stuck here too?" the garter snake questioned sarcastically.
"Because I chose to. Here I have all my needs wholly met, and am truly content. Why should I take my chances, only to end who knows where? I caused the exact amount of trouble to be kept in the shadows and not be sent back as defective," Mycroft declared proudly.
"Trouble? You? Did that involve moving?" Sherlock mocked.
"Ghastly, I know," the python agreed.
If snakes snickered, Sherlock would have. He still managed to convey his deep amusement, though. Maybe the bigger serpent wasn't as enormous an asshole as he'd thought. "And this trouble wouldn't involve leaving your tank without permission, would it? If you claim to be so clever, despite being constantly busy assimilating your food, the least you can do is prove it," the smaller snake challenged.
"Trying to have your work done for you? Such silly psychological tricks do not work with me, little one. The least you can do is properly ask for help – saying please, for a start," Mycroft quipped, way too smug.
Correction: the python was an even bigger asshole than he'd pegged him as at first. "I do not need your help," Sherlock hissed angrily. "And you should use my proper name too, unless you want to be renamed Fatcroft. I am sure everyone here will agree that it is an entirely more adequate name for you."
"I will give you one free pointer in exchange for you refraining from mangling my given name, Ssssher-lock. Try to comply with the bipeds' demands, and you might get to leave the tank. If you are very, very lush, and make visitors want to see you up close and personal. You should get used to being touched, though. You didn't seem very comfortable with it when you first arrived here," Mycroft lectured, his last sentence decidedly mocking.
"Being touched? By strangers?" Sherlock echoed, divided between shock and outrage.
"They do not hurt you. Not in the shop, at least. They're watched, after all. There is nothing to fear. But as I said, you have to make them want you," the python reassured the younger serpent.
"This still wouldn't make me free to roam. Explore. Analyse. It would only make me even more helpless. If that is your suggestion for a pastime, I have to seriously question your idea of entertainment. No, no. I need to get out of here on my own. That way I can make sure that my brain does not rot entirely. But to achieve that, I need not to be weighed down. So no, I am not going to eat. I can go on at least another two weeks before I absolutely need to feed myself, or risk falling ill. But I am certain that I will have figured out how to leave long before that," the garter snake declared haughtily.
"Suit yourself. I cannot force your silly self to be sensible. But believe me, you do not want to test the bipeds too much," Mycroft hissed back.
"I thought you said that our caretaker was a kind creature," Sherlock retorted, hiding his disquiet. The other had more knowledge about the situation they were trapped in, after all.
"He is. He cares for us – very much so. If you continue refusing to comply, he will assume your health is declining, though, and send you to someone else. I have heard rumours. The things they do there are…not pretty. True, in case we are actually sick, these practices end up helping, but you do not want to be subjected to them out of sheer stubbornness," the python warned softly.
"Scare tactics now? Do you really think these will work?" Sherlock quipped, coiling again and turning his back to the other snake.
"No," Mycroft admitted, sighing. "I wish it would be so easy. When will you be persuaded that we want the best for you, Sherlock?"
"Oh, but I already am. I just don't believe that you know what's best for me, and I would thank you to stop assuming so," the smaller snake concluded tersely. He was so tired of others' arrogance.