So... this is my first Sherlock fanfic! I devoured all six episodes in a week, heh, and then I had to write something because it was JUST. TOO. CUTE. (It'll probably be my only fanfic, too, since I have a horrible track record of writing things and not finishing them.)
Lots of references to 'normal people' here (that first episode was just great). I'm sorry if they sound out of character or anything! But I did try to imagine them speaking the lines... Oh, and also for disguising the fact that there isn't much of a plot, haha.
Well, if I haven't dissuaded everyone from reading it already, give it a go and review if you're nice. :)
P.S. I don't own Sherlock!
The front door of 221B Baker Street slammed. Heavy footsteps began ascending the staircase, only to pause on the seventh step, and then resume their rhythm lighter and slower than before.
Sherlock Holmes steepled his long fingers in front of his face to hide a small, knowing smile just as the new arrival reached the landing.
"Evening, John. Pleasant night out?"
"Very pleasant, thank you," replied the doctor shortly. He harrumphed, crossed over to the sofa and all but flung himself down upon it.
"Was it really that bad?" The grin was spreading like an infectious disease; however, as he'd nearly got strangled the last time he'd antagonised John Watson (it was just a little punch in the face), he did his best to stifle his amusement.
"I said, it went fine."
Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Come now, John. Opening the door so forcefully it nearly flew off its hinges, stomping in, taking a moment on the stairs to compose yourself before facing your flatmate, not to mention the fact that you've arrived home before nine and your facial muscles are taut… Hm. Your date ended early, and it was, I gather, indirectly my fault."
John considered rolling his eyes, but decided the action would be lost on Sherlock anyway. He exhaled sharply and dropped his head in his hands. "You're right, as usual. It was – it was a complete, effing fiasco, now that you mention it."
"And I thought you liked her."
"Oh, I liked her, alright. She was smart, and beautiful, and funny – and gay, Sherlock, one hundred percent gay! Told me she'd already thought out the whole how-we-met story for when our parents ask, and said she could introduce some nice men if I was ever interested!"
"So you mutilated the sea bass."
"What?"
"Stains down your front. I presume those white bits are fish meat."
"I – she started checking out the waitresses, Sherlock!"
He responded with a non-committal noise. It might have been a snigger. John threw his arms up in despair.
"I suppose you're happy, systematically destroying my social life. If I ever have a first date that isn't also my last –"
"But why must you even date, John?" demanded Sherlock suddenly. "Surely you realise that these ordinary women will not be able to sustain your interest for long. Subconsciously you are the one ending the relationship prematurely; you've never had a long-term goal in mind. What is it you seek then, hm? The thrill of the chase? The flattering attention? The feeling of being admired properly like a war hero ought to be?"
He'd touched a nerve. Watson sprang up again, brown eyes flashing with atypical anger. "Maybe I go out with them because they're ordinary, and goodness knows that's what my life needs, when the person I spend most of my time with is nothing but contemptuous of normal people and their normal, boring ways. Why must I date? Why can't you be normal? Or is that the one thing the brilliant Sherlock Holmes can't do?"
There followed a brief but charged silence as John reined in his temper with all the discipline of a military man, and Sherlock thoughtfully considered the outburst (but did not, to the former's displeasure, issue an apology).
"You appeal to my ego to take up your challenge," he remarked quietly at last, "but I have a better proposition for you." He eyed the doctor keenly. "If I can act 'normal' for a week, will you abstain from this dating nonsense for a year and focus on assisting me, and me alone?"
Watson blinked. Was that a bet? Was Sherlock betting? Sherlock Holmes, betting? He was surprised, and not a little intrigued.
"And if you lose?" he asked, forgetting to sound mad.
"Then you may carry on soliciting with your female friends, and I will brew my own tea for a month."
"Two months."
"You play high stakes, my friend."
"Is it a deal?"
"Very well. I don't intend to lose anyway."
"… Right. When do we begin?"
"Midnight. Three hours hence."
"Fine."
"Fine."
They shook hands.
Day 1
Mrs Hudson was delighted to discover that the skull had vanished from its home on the shelf – she'd never felt comfortable about the way it stared at her. And that awful grin! Further investigation revealed that Sherlock's makeshift laboratory was gone, too, the only telltale sign it had ever existed the chemical burns disfiguring the table top. But most astonishing was the refrigerator, which smelled strongly of disinfectant but was inexplicably devoid of body parts human and animal alike.
"Oh, I do hope that lad is alright," she fretted as she bustled off. "This all seems highly unnatural for him."
"Not bad," admitted Watson to a sleep-deprived Sherlock who was rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Not spectacular, though. You can do better, can't you?"
The glower he received in response practically made his day.
Day 2
Plastic bags. Everywhere. Watson stepped gingerly into the living room and leapt back again as a bag of crisps exploded beneath his feet, showering him with bits of sour cream and onion-flavoured potato.
"What on earth is this?!" he bellowed. Sherlock glided into view, idly tossing an apple.
"Groceries," he answered simply. "I went grocery shopping."
"You – what – what?!"
"Normal," reminded the detective with a smirk.
"We don't eat potato crisps!"
Holmes shrugged. "They were on sale."
"And what's this?" He turned a can over in his hands. "Baked beans? You hate baked beans!"
"A standard breakfast item. Normal enough for you, I daresay."
"I – you – I –" John pinched the bridge of his nose, striving for calm. The place was littered with food.
"I put away the milk and sugar already," added Sherlock, evidently trying to be helpful, "so feel free to make me a cup of tea any time you're ready."
"Tea. Right. Of course."
Day 3
For a moment, DI Lestrade thought he'd knocked on the wrong door. Certainly the man who answered it was tall and lean, with a mop of curly raven hair and light, piercing eyes, but he was wearing a royal blue Star Trek t-shirt with the "To Boldly Go" quote emblazoned across it in white letters which could be read across the street. Also, skinny jeans.
Alarm bells went off in Lestrade's head.
"Good morning, Inspector."
"Hello," he replied feebly. And then, "What are you wearing?!"
"Normal clothes." The words seemed to come through gritted teeth. "They were a… gift."
Lestrade stared at him dubiously, before redirecting his gaze to Dr Watson, who had appeared behind this peculiarly clothed Sherlock with a grin that would have shamed the Cheshire Cat.
"Is – is your friend well, doctor?"
"Healthy as a horse. Do you like the outfit?"
"Eh – very strapping, yes." Lestrade shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well, Mr Holmes, I just wanted to inform you that the case has been closed, the killer has pleaded guilty and the widow's migrating to Australia next month. I'd say more, but I've just remembered something important I need to do at the station. Good day to you, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson!"
He practically fled the pavement, rubbing his eyes as though he'd just seen an apparition.
Sherlock waited until the police car had turned the bend before turning stiffly to his partner, who was doubled over with indecent laughter.
"You enjoyed that, didn't you?"
"Very much," chuckled Watson, wiping a tear from his eye.
"So did I," Sherlock admitted.
They started giggling again.
Day 4
"Do you want to watch TV?"
"Certainly."
"Do you want to watch TV without hurling abuse at the screen?"
A fraction of a second's hesitation. "No."
"That's what normal people do, Sherlock. Or are you going to throw in the towel now?"
"Fine," he grumbled.
"Good," declared Watson, and, perhaps because he felt emboldened by this small victory, leaned over and ruffled Sherlock's dark curls affectionately, just to annoy him (or was it?). "Don't mind if I choose the programme."
The detective, who had temporarily frozen in shock, now made a frantic grab for the remote control but found his fingers closing around John's wrist instead.
"Not so fast," smiled the doctor, who had the infernal piece of plastic with rubbery buttons in his grasp.
Sherlock scowled. John coughed pointedly. Sherlock hurried relinquished his grip.
"Get on with it, then."
A faint hum filled the room as the TV buzzed to life.
"Ah, a murder mystery! Perfect."
"But –"
"But what, Sherlock?"
"… Nothing."
The real-life sleuth had to chew on his tongue for ninety minutes, but it was easier than expected to keep his mouth shut – his mind kept drifting to the unfamiliar sensation of someone else's fingers running through his hair. Not someone else's. John Watson's. The way that had made him feel was a good deal more mysterious than the vengeful lover who had framed the secretary but left glaringly obvious clues behind.
He was somewhat confused when it ended. But mostly he was relieved.
Day 5
Sherlock was running out of ways to demonstrate how normal he could be and settled for playing a classical violin piece for Watson that evening. He wasn't sure where the idea had some from, but he knew his random and occasionally repetitive compositions could grate on the nerves, and this melody was one of John's favourites. It was worth it, too – he'd never seen John so relaxed, his eyes closed and shoulders unsquared, the tension gone from his face, a peaceful smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
Why do I care? he wondered abruptly. Perhaps this ridiculous charade of normalcy is really affecting me. The thought perturbed him and he stumbled over a note. Sherlock Holmes, messing up his music. Unheard of, literally.
"That was a nice touch, Sherlock," laughed John afterwards. "Subtle, but I noticed. The average person makes mistakes when playing the violin. Very good, very good indeed."
He thinks I did it on purpose, realised Sherlock, not a little mollified, because he'd been preparing himself for a barrage of insults at least.
What a wonderful human being.
Day 6
This was the day Sherlock Holmes learned what a compliment was, and how he ought to pay it to deserving others. More accurately, John scribbled a few lines down on a neon yellow post-it and insisted that Sherlock memorise them.
"Dear Mrs Hudson," read Sherlock doubtfully. "Thank you for being such a good landlady. There aren't many good landladies who are also good housekeepers." He snorted derisively. "These are ridiculous."
"No, they're polite," corrected Watson smugly. "Next!"
"Dear Inspector – Is 'dear' really appropriate for Greg Lestrade?! – thank you for giving me the opportunity to intrude on your crime scenes. Your faith in me is quite astounding. John," said Sherlock suspiciously, "are compliments always supposed to sound so… tongue-in-cheek?"
"Carry on," said John loudly, waving away the accusation with his walking stick, which he didn't use for much else anymore. Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh and glanced down at the fluorescent paper in his hands again.
"Dear John," he intoned slowly, "you are the best. I am lucky to have a friend like you. I think the tea you brew is heavenly."
John choked on a mouthful of said tea. He'd been smiling as he wrote it, but it sounded even more hilarious when Sherlock read it out in a disapproving monotone.
"You're too kind, Sherlock."
"You also look very fetching in a sweater and your eyes are like pools of chocolate."
Most of the tea slopped down his front this time. "Did I – I didn't write that down – did I?"
Sherlock had a broad smirk plastered on his face as he crumpled up the post-it and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
"You're welcome, John. Why is your face pink?"
Day 7, 11.52 pm
"John?"
"Hm?"
"What do normal people do with their emotions?"
John looked up from the computer screen, eyebrows raised so high they might have leapt off his face. Sherlock was lying on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling with a preoccupied expression, absent-mindedly twiddling his pen.
"Is that a one-patch problem?" Watson joked. "Or two?"
Sherlock frowned at the lamp. "Nicotine won't help me resolve this. The drug helps me think but feeling has nothing to do with thinking – in fact, feeling often prevents rational thought, making normal people do foolish, impulsive things they will later regret."
"Well," said Watson slowly, standing and closing the lid of his laptop with a quiet click as he tried to fathom his friend's mind, "it seems to me you know the theory of it, at any rate. If you need more answers, why don't you try experimenting?"
"Experimenting…" repeated Sherlock to himself. "Experimenting… but how…?"
Then, without warning, he clapped his hands together and jumped up in excitement. "Brilliant suggestion, John," he enthused, striding over to grip the shorter man by the shoulders. Up close, his grey-green-blue eyes were alight with exhilaration. "Now, what can I do that is so incredibly idiotic it could only be governed by those emotions that hold most of human civilisation in a vice-like grip? What completely nonsensical thing have I wanted to do before being persuaded otherwise by logic, reasoning and a massive intellect? That is not an easy question to answer, Dr Watson, not easy at a–"
He broke off, staring at John as though he'd never seen him before. There was a curious look on his face, and – dear God, are his pupils dilated?!
John's throat suddenly went dry.
"You don't mind, do you?" Sherlock breathed.
"Mind?" asked John uncertainly, the heat creeping rapidly up his neck. "Mind what?"
"Being a volunteer."
"Well, not as such, no –"
"Good," declared Sherlock, and without further ado proceeded to kiss him full on the mouth before he could so much as half-heartedly pretend that he wanted to suggest Molly Hooper as a suitable substitute.
So this was what Sherlock's lips felt like. John had wondered (wondered, not fantasized, honest), but he hadn't expected them to be so soft and warm, so unlike the detective's cold manner; on the contrary, they were hesitant, even – but then Sherlock probably hadn't kissed anyonein his entire life. One of his hands was still resting on John's shoulder, the other having moved to thread itself in his friend's close-cropped blond hair, pulling him closer in so that their bodies just touched, shirt against sweater. The part of John's brain that hadn't shut down slyly reminded him that his arms were still hanging limply at his side, and he awkwardly put them around Sherlock's waist, where they felt… right.
The clock beeped for twelve midnight.
"Bet's over," mumbled John distractedly.
"Mm." John could tell he was smiling. "Did I win?"
"Absolutely." He pulled back slightly, feeling dazed, and oddly buoyant. "You – can stop pretending to be normal now, if you want."
"I know."
"I know you know."
Neither of them moved.
"Listen, Sherlock, if you're up for another go…"
"Definitely."
They leaned in again.
"Why couldn't you have done this sooner?"
"Because I'm stupid. Shut up, John."
(So the good doctor had lost, technically, but for some strange reason it felt a whole lot like winning as well.)