Duty-bound
Very cracky and fluffy; supposed to be comedy. Sherlock discovers something unexpected about John. Don't want a spoiler here. Review, please? ;D
The focus of this turned out a bit different from what I expected. Hope it's satisfactory!
John looked up from the evening news to see Sherlock attempting to surreptitiously smuggle his laptop away with less than his usual grace. In fact, he almost looked as if he was limping.
This was exceedingly strange, for they hadn't had any dangerous cases lately and Sherlock's usual schedule between cases went something like: Moping around the flat conducting morbid experiments, refusing to eat, popping round St Bart's to mope around, refusing to sleep and scraping his violin at all hours – nothing that could cause serious injury. Except maybe the riding crop if he was careless.
"I changed my password," John announced by way of waylaying his hacker flatmate. Sherlock gave away no semblance of surprise.
"If it isn't 'notyourhousekeeper' or 'ihavemanyjumpers', then it must be 'sherlockhadahaircut'," Sherlock smoothly replied. John clamped down on the urge to blurt out that it was the last one. Privately, he wondered if Sherlock could even predict his next 5 passwords even before he wracked his brains thinking them up.
As for Sherlock, he was wondering if he should impart to John the Art of Crafting Passwords to Deter Potential Hackers. Complex alphanumeric sequences with at least one symbol in them were the safest bet, because each type of character and each additional character would add depth to the space in which hackers had to probe during trial-and-error.
He dismissed that thought with a shake of the head: what was so remarkable about John that anyone – other than Sherlock – would take an interest in his laptop? The laptop was quite safe in their flat, he concluded. And, besides, it wouldn't do to make his own access more difficult.
John's voice broke into his thoughts, "Sherlock, are you limping?" Unimportant, unimportant. He grunted absently, attention on the laptop screen. John stood and pushed down on the laptop lid, forcing Sherlock to glare at him. He repeated his question, eyes holding a concoction of concern and clinical curiosity.
Heaving a dramatic sigh, Sherlock snapped, "If you must know, I pulled my hamstring. Doesn't require medical attention, I'm sure."
John snorted, "For what, an experiment?"
"Not deliberately, of course!"
"Then what, Sherlock?"
He sure was persistent. Reluctantly, Sherlock admitted, "While stretching."
John was incredulous. "Stretching? Stretching. Like doing the splits?" He shook his head once or twice in disbelief, finally managing, "Why in the world would you do that?"
Sherlock kept his gaze on the laptop lid, tone snarky, "I would have thought you would find it a veritable improvement over violin-playing while you're sleeping. Well. In case you haven't noticed, John, my job involves, inevitably, a fair bit of running and chasing, sometimes over rooftops which have no obligation to be conjoined. Obviously I have to maintain a suitable stride to get across."
Then Sherlock's expression shifted almost imperceptibly, eyes glinting slightly, and he continued, "Come to think of it John, with your smaller stature, you probably need it more than I do. It wouldn't do to have my blogger sustain a few broken bones which I would immediately have to attend to and let a perpetrator get away."
John didn't miss the rational, cold distance in his explanation which was his way of avoiding attachment. Ah, John thought, raising his eyebrows, he thinks he's turning the tables. Trying to goad me into a challenge. As if the laptop-hacking hasn't provided enough blackmail material.
He nodded as if in acquiescence of Sherlock's logic and walked over to a relatively debris-free spot of the flat, resisting the urge to grin, as Sherlock joined him, laptop forgotten momentarily.
They stood there staring at each other for an awkward moment, then Sherlock commanded, "You first, John."
John obeyed, as usual. He went for a front split, stretching his right leg in front and left leg behind, lowering himself as much as his ligaments and joints could take it. It took more effort than he remembered, but even he astonished himself. Given the intervening years since he'd last done a split and the after-effects of the psychosomatic limp, he couldn't do it completely, but close enough that he was proud of himself.
Sherlock gave a dissatisfied little groan and clumsily made to imitate John. Taking pity on him, John laughed, got up, and said, "All right Sherlock, don't exacerbate your hamstring. I won't publicise this, promise. People would be pondering why we're even comparing doing the splits."
Sherlock settled back on the sofa to continue using John's laptop as John moved into the kitchen to get a drink of water, but Sherlock had a niggling question on his mind.
"John," he called out, "why are you so good at doing the splits?" John had to stop himself from choking on the water as he realised, somewhat pleased, that even Sherlock's abilities were not so telescopic as to immediately deduce why. Even he could not reach back through the years and draw out the reason.
Which was a reason John wouldn't freely admit except when cornered, or queried by the likes of Sherlock who wouldn't rest until he found out. John let the question hang in the air a moment, rinsing the glass and returning to the living room to sit next to Sherlock.
"My mother made me go for ballet lessons when I was young," John said slowly, mentally bracing himself for an onslaught of ridicule. But, as he'd learnt by now, Sherlock's reaction was never typical. No derisive laughter came.
Sherlock was reflecting on how this information fit in the grand scheme of his Mental Map of John. Childhood pastimes were an uncharted territory as yet, but ballet matched up with a few things surprisingly well. The ramrod-straight posture that Sherlock had always attributed to military training – ballet probably contributed to that to a small extent. Sensitivity to music, too, since ballet students were always being forced to dance rhythmically, trained to be in tune with the ebb and flow of the accompanying music.
It was also fascinating how the ballet hadn't spilled over into enough areas of John's personality and physiology to present itself immediately to Sherlock, but the flexibility of movement was retained enough to make a difference now. Twelve, he decided, that was the age John had finally worked up the nerve to protest – and the ballet lessons had stopped.
After a moment, Sherlock merely commented, "That seems rather out of the ordinary for young boys. Why would your mother subject you to that?"
"Because Harriet–", he caught himself, because then she had still been little Harriet, "Harry refused to attend ballet lessons unless I did too. My mother really liked the idea of a daughter who danced and looked pretty and prim in a tutu."
At this, Sherlock cracked a smile born of comprehension, of solving a puzzle, "Ah. So like a dutiful little brother, you did. Interesting. Always so dutiful. Queen and country and family."
"Oh shut up, you," John retorted, without real venom.
Sherlock rose before delivering his Parthian shot, "But John, all that stretching practice really benefits you, given your height. Helps you catch up."
With that, he disappeared into his bedroom, replete with John's laptop, and closed the door with an air of finality.
A.N.: Ooh, Parthian shot. It was in canon, A Study in Scarlet. :D
This piece kind of requires suspension of disbelief. Anything in the name of fluff, eh?
Maybe I should have a mental timeline for these pieces.
Thank you for reading! Please review? Constructive criticism appreciated. (: