The Baker Street Book Club
A/N: Let us all pretend for instance that in this world, our beloved characters will stop and take the time to join a book club despite their busy lives. It's all for fun! :) Haha. Reviews appreciated.
Chapter 1: Pride and Prejudice and Overdoing It
"Why do I have to be part of this?"
"Because. You kept saying whinging about how bored you were. So. Here you go."
"Sitting around talking about some ridiculously trite and fictitious romantic fluff written by some boring spinster lady is supposed to solve that?"
John got fed up and slapped one of the paperbacks he got from the store on Sherlock's face. "Look, first of all, have you even read this book yet for you to make that kind of judgement? Second of all, what have you got against spinster writers? Don't judge the book by the author, Sherlock."
Sherlock picked the book up from where it fell on the floor and gingerly rubbed this nose. "Hmm. Quite sure that's not how that saying goes. Anyway, I don't need to read this to know it, John. It's pretty much everywhere you look, even though I've put so much effort throughout the years to repeatedly delete it. I'm sure I was forced to read it at some point—couldn't delete t fast enough—and the theme just keeps recurring everywhere, does it not? Some kind of Byronic hero who is misunderstood and gets the lady in the end, isn't that how it goes? Doesn't help that the stupid fantasy gets perpetuated in pretty much every medium—I cannot stand it. And now, after all the effort I have placed in striving to clear my mind of this drivel, you would actually make me read it, and, and—share my 'thoughts and feelings' about it? How can you be so cruel, John?"
John gaped from his seat, not sure which portion of the speech he was reacting in shock to: one, the fact that Sherlock had actually read the book amidst all the scientific treatise and textbooks he'd likely have gorged in as a child, or two, his highly impassioned speech against… what? The 'sentimental fantasy perpetuated' by the book? Or the fact that he was being made to read it again?
He was saved from answering by a flopping on the sofa and a loud, dramatic sigh.
"I need a case, John. Something to engage my mind. Not contaminate it with puffery about the misadventures of," he flipped through the book, "Mr. Bingley. What kind of name is Bingley?"
The detective's face was scrunched in frustration, and John's mind flashed back to what seemed like ages ago, Sherlock pacing in front the fireplace and punching the poor deerstalker. Why has it got two fronts?
He smiled as he got up from his seat. The first chapter would call for a nice cuppa, he thought. "Well, you don't really have a choice in the matter. It was Molly's turn to choose, and this is what she chose. It will be your turn to choose the book soon enough, and we will all surely suffer through whatever treatise of tobacco ash or some such you subject us to. But for now, read the damn book. You have nothing else to do anyway. The first meeting is on Friday, if you don't like it, you can delete it by Saturday morning, yeah?"
Only an angry huff answered him from the couch.
"Who knows, you might have fun deducing and judging a lot of characters in the book."
Unfortunately for Sherlock, John was right. He really did not have anything else on, and none of his experiments could distract him enough. Maybe he would treat this as the 'crap telly' of reading. Besides, there would be much to observe about other people's reactions to the book—especially John's. While he was, indeed a romantic, this was not the usual sort of genre he would entertain himself with, whether through books or TV. Hmm. There was some potential for experiment here. Perhaps he could influence the others in the succeeding choice of books.
Well, then. No other choice. He risked a peek to check if John had already gone upstairs. Coast clear.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be…
Friday night came soon enough, though John had to admit he would miss the sudden dramatic and affronted exclamations throughout the day as he and his flatmate read through the book.
"This Bingley person has got to be one of the most boring and stupid men in literature," Sherlock groaned, slapping his forehead on the open page. Then, "Oh! I think the this is meant to represent the general populace, don't you think?" He perked up, sat up from the sofa and proceeded to write notes down furiously, forgetting to check if John might have even deigned to reply.
"This odious De Bourgh woman. Doesn't she remind you of someone?" Again, John was not really expected to answer.
"Gambling problems, obvious," the sofa muttered at some point.
On and on it went.
On the day itself, Sherlock was ready. He was probably the most prepared of the entire group. Certainly more than John, who had deigned to read the book once and deemed himself ready to tackle anything of significance with confidence. Well, Sherlock was sure he would outshine everyone in this discussion.
As they all filed in Molly's flat, people settling around on the couch and random chairs, Sherlock primly arranged his notes—a coversheet outlining his main findings and conclusions, a few more pages detailing some in-depth observations and arguments, and some spreadsheets he had printed out for distribution. He was sure he could steer this conversation in the right direction.
John, who was seated quietly beside him, said not a word through all his meticulous preparation, although Sherlock was sure the doctor was stifling a smile as he looked on.
"All right," Molly squeaked, nervous even in her own home, "if everyone is settled, I guess we can start?"
Murmurs of agreement went around the group.
"Okay, well, I had some index cards with questions ready in case we—"
"If you will allow me, Molly," Sherlock cut through her bumbling openings. "I have taken the liberty of crafting a detailed discussion guide for us to go through tonight." He then proceeded to hand out sheets of paper.
"Well, Sherlock," Lestrade said, "thanks for taking the initiative."
"It was no trouble," Sherlock preened, "I had a feeling that the group would need some guidance in tackling the subject with any adequate thoroughness."
Someone must have groaned, but Sherlock chose to ignore them.
The group went quiet as most of them went through the sheet. And quieter still. And still quiet after a few minutes.
"Uh, Sherlock," John ventured.
"Yes?"
"Um, not sure how exactly you want us to go with this."
"Christ, mate," Lestrade said, "what are we supposed to do with a complete list of all the 'cultural and historical inaccuracies vis a vis the Regency period'?"
"There's a list of documented crimes and criminals during that era. What exactly are we supposed to do with this?" Anderson piped in.
The detective sighed. "Isn't it obvious? I had anticipated that I would have to bear the weight of carrying this discussion, but I didn't quite expect there would be little to no input coming from the rest of you. We're supposed to determine the correlation and influence criminal history had on societal and cultural norms leading to, more specifically, the way events turned out in the story."
"Didn't we all agree we would do this to unwind and relax?" Sally complained. "I am achieving none of this right now."
Sherlock stood up in indignation. "What is the point of this discussion then? Why are we even bothering to get together? I could just as easily have emailed my notes and avoided this pointless evening."
John rushed to placate his friend. "Sherlock, sit down, I think we were all just surprised by the level of detail and effort you put into this. None of us were expecting to go as 'in-depth' as you did." He got his friend seated again and signalled Molly discreetly. "Now, why don't we let the others start the discussion first, and then when we get to the subject of societal norms and their corresponding influences, we can refer to your notes. Yeah?"
He considered the grudging nods he got as a win, no matter how small. It was not unlike placating a child who didn't get his way in the playground.
"Um, alright, I guess I'll continue?" Molly raised her index cards timidly. Sherlock waved his hand in an irritated signal to proceed.
The discussion flowed for a while with a sulky, brooding Sherlock still and quiet in his chair. John worried, because a stroppy and dramatic Sherlock was easier to predict; when Sherlock was quiet he was just not sure what was going on in the detective's head. Better to just let him ease in the discussion slowly but surely.
"When I first read in, back when I was a little girl, I felt a bit torn, actually," Mrs. Hudson said, blushing. "Part of me always wanted Lizzie to choose Mr. Wickham, even knowing what a cad he was."
"Well, that's very telling, isn't it?"
"Sherlock!" several voices chided.
"What? Obviously Mrs. Hudson relates closes to the frivolous and flirty Lydia Bennet, sees the fantasy in a whirlwind romance with a confirmed swindler, likes the thrill of a life on a run, likely to—"
"Sherlock. Please," John shook his head slightly.
"Not good?"
"A bit."
"Fine."
"Oh, okay." Molly jumped in to change the subject. "Why don't we talk about Darcy again? I always found him kind of dreamy. He seems cold and aloof and dismissive of Lizzie at first, pretending he didn't even notice her, but it turned he was just confused and ashamed of his feelings." She flushed slightly. "Err, well, thoughts? Can anyone perhaps… relate?"
The good doctor cringed for the girl. Her insinuation was patently obvious.
No one spoke for a while, determining how to navigate the discussion into a less potentially embarrassing outcome.
"I can, actually, a bit," came the surprising answer from John's left.
"Oh, Sherlock, really?" Molly almost squealed in delight. "Um, would you, er, like to tell the group about it?"
"Well," he sighed, "I suppose if this is the only way my participation would be solicited in this discussion, why not?"
"Go on."
"I do believe I understand how a man like Darcy would seek to conceal and strive to deny his feelings until he no longer could. There is something to be said about the struggle the mind has with sentiment, which, while overall it can be influenced, when strong enough, it is surprisingly difficult to sway."
John looked to Sherlock in surprise. The man's voice was clear, firm, almost as if this was something he had given quite some thought. He glanced back at Molly's dreamy expression. It couldn't be… could it?
"Given what we know of his history, having been forced to share his father's affection with someone else, an outsider, having been tricked by this very same person, being forced by the constant demands of his stature in society to conform to certain behaviour and to fulfil obligations he had no wish to, he would first, strive to resist as much as possible the trap of conforming to normal society conventions—which is this case is the quite heteronormative expectation to be married, which is glaringly alluded to in the opening line alone and second, be considerably wary of bestowing his affections so easily on any specimen deemed even slightly worthy enough.
"That said, we do know he struggled to avoid Lizzie at all costs, and yet he was drawn by her, fascinated. How could this seemingly ordinary girl, someone of 'common' status, as the spoke of in those days, how could she hold his attention for so long and so strongly? How could he, a man who has seen what the world has to offer, find interest in such a person, who is so unlearned in so many way, yet so rich in others? It just doesn't make sense.
"But there is a fire in her, he sees, a thirst to prove herself, a pride that is beyond any stature society can place on anyone. And more importantly, as he later learns, there is a warmth, an overwhelming protectiveness, even of the sister that has so thoroughly embarrassed him—her, sorry—and even when De Bourgh stormed Longbourne to persuade her otherwise she stood her ground, even though she no longer knew where she stood with him. There's a bravery there, too. Wool in steel. How can a man, how can any man, resist?"
John unhinged his jaw from where it lay on the floor, and swallowed. And swallowed some more.
The room was struck quiet once again. No one quite knew what to say.
Molly looked like she was about to do something daft.
"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands in delight. "That is lovely."
Sherlock started, and knit his brow in confusion. "Ahem. Well. So. Those are my thoughts. On this. Book."
The rest did not quite know how to recover.
"I think we're done for tonight," Lestrade said. "Or at least I am. I have to leave now to get my well-deserved sleep. I think Sherlock gave us all something to think about, eh?" He winked at John. What?
"Yes, I think we'll leave now, too." Sally also shot John a glance, but this was more questioning, What just happened there? John shrugged helplessly.
"Alright chaps, think we should go," Anderson shot up. "What's the next book then?"
Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands again in delight, "Ooooh, it's my turn. This is quite exciting. I've been waiting all week to tell you." She looked around the room with the air of the cat who got the cream.
Eager to go home, John took the bait. "So what is it, Mrs. Hudson?"
"Fifty Shades of Grey."