Title: BlackBerry
Author: Proclaim Thy Warrior Soul
Rating: K
Author's Note: This is just a random one-shot that I wrote ages ago and I literally just remembered that I hadn't posted it. I'm not quite sure if it's going anywhere, in regards to a plot, so I guess I'll decide when I see the reaction it receives.
Sherlock likes to text.
This particular statement is quite liable to go down in history as one of the most understated understatements of the Consulting Detective's entire life history, because, honestly, saying "Sherlock likes to text" is synonymous with saying the Pope is Catholic; that fish like water, or that Dr. John Watson has, erm... a very 'individual' taste in jumpers...
The younger Holmes has started, continued and ended many a conversation via SMS on his BlackBerry; the phone, in fact, the one and only gift Sherlock has ever received graciously. It was given to him by Mycroft the previous year, and the only reason Sherlock had accepted such an obvious bribe (in return for "infinitely more acceptable" behaviour, Sherlock," no less) from his brother was because it meant that now he could insult, consult, hassle and admonish multiple persons at once, simply through tapping a few tiny buttons.
Said conversations have ranged from explaining in great detail why, no, Mycroft, unfortunately he will NOT be able to attend Mummy's exclusive dinner party this coming weekend as, a) he's busy studying the rate of decomposition on a severed dog's head at a semi-consistent temperature of 12-14 degrees celsius (and, for the record, the only reason there's a variation of a few degrees in the set temperature is because his pretentious, bad-tempered, surprisingly sweary flatmate won't keep the bloody windows open at all hours of the day, even though he knows how important and interesting and useful said experiment and resulting data is!); b) he would rather chew off all eight fingers and two thumbs simultaneously before swiftly moving along to all ten of his toes, and c) he simply doesn't want to; to impolitely informing an entire roomful of journalists, reporters and nosy passers-by that every iota of misinformation they'd managed to glean from the imbecilic fools known only as Scotland Yard was incredibly, obviously and overwhelmingly "wrong!"
So, because of this, Mycroft quickly understands, as his own, less coveted phone sits screaming persistently on the desk before him, that when Sherlock takes the time to expend a little of that pent-up, frustrated energy and rings him instead of a sending a string of mildly abusive/outright insulting texts, something is Very. Seriously. Wrong.
A/N: Well, there you go. Thoughts?