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The Road Less Travelled By

A Sherlock fanfiction

Sherlock is the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and The BBC.

This story is purely for entertainment – please do not get offended

Enjoy…

Part I

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John Watson was a patient man. It was a talent that he had managed to perfect over the years. It was also a talent that was extremely useful when dealing with the antics of one Sherlock Holmes. Others could not comprehend how he, a well accomplished and respectful doctor, could happily follow the man around from crime scene to crime scene. They also didn't understand how one man could take every small and unnoticed detail and make a thorough and alarmingly accurate deduction from it. John understood though. He knew why they were filled with conflicting emotions whenever Sherlock waltzed in and declared that everything they originally believed about this crime was false. They acted defensive and brash because they simply did not understand Sherlock and how his magnificent mind worked. They felt that it was seemingly impossible for one man to know so much from something as simple as a pocket watch or tarnished wedding ring. They were afraid, threatened even, by the concept that was Sherlock Holmes. It was a foreign concept to them. He was a foreign concept. John, however, looked at the world with an open mind. He had witnessed things in the war that he, once upon a time ago, would never have believed. The incredible acts of heroism that only seemed possible in those overly expensive movies were, in fact, an everyday realism. He had witnessed men easily sacrificing themselves for the safety of their troop. He, himself, had performed acts that saved hundreds of lives. It was second nature to him now. It was why he sneered whenever he heard comments about how no one in their right mind would put themselves between a grenade and a comrade and how it was nothing but stupid heroism. It caused his blood to boil when he heard his fellow comrades dismissed, as if their selfless acts of courage were nothing but a publicity stunt. Did they truly not realise what these brave soldiers were doing for their country? Some people were so closed minded and could not see past their own noses. That concept, just like Sherlock, was unfathomable to them. They dismissed these heroic acts as nothing but fiction, the same way they scorned Sherlock's intellectual deductions.

John clearly remembered the day he had met Sherlock for the first time. He had been wary when the other had immediately asked him where he was situated at before returning to London and how he had made this huge analysis from just merely observing him. However, that wary easily melted into admiration and sheer amazement. He held a huge respect for Sherlock, which he had no problem with admitting. He also knew that he would never understand how Sherlock's mind worked, however, that was the beauty of everything. Sherlock was his friend and still remained somewhat of an enigma to him. He enjoyed finding out snippets of information about Sherlock, usually coming from his older brother, which he did not know before (really, Sherlock - a pirate?).

Nevertheless, this did not stop him from wanting to throttle the man at times.

"You want me to do what?" he asked, Asda carrier bags still in his hand.

"John, are you really that simple-minded that you cannot comprehend a mere instruction when it is directed at you?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly, not looking up from the laptop.

John groaned as he put the shopping bags on the table, pushing a few jars of God-knows-what to one side, before putting the groceries away. "Understanding instructions, I can do," he stated, opening the fridge and rolling his eyes at a large toe that was pickling away inside a jar of vinegar. He proceeded to place the chilled products inside, deliberately leaving the bottom of the fridge empty for whatever body part would be housed there soon. "What I cannot do, however, is follow something that you're telling an empty room." John closed the fridge, turning his attention back to the bags. "You do realise that I haven't been here for the past hour, don't you? I've been shopping because, believe it or not, Sherlock, we need sustenance to fully function, or we're [me at least] are liable to perish away. We can't all live on crimes and fresh air."

"Don't be droll, John, it doesn't suit you."

Shaking his head, John finished in the kitchen and walked into the living room, subconsciously picking up newspapers and cut outs. "So what did you want then?"

Sherlock stopped typing and rummaged through a pile of papers next to him. "I need you to go down to Bart's and perform an analysis in my place. It's a simple procedure that not even you could fail at. Furthermore, Molly would be more than willing to assist you."

John stared. "Why can't you go?"

"I'm far too busy for such simplicities, John," he said, thrusting a piece of paper into John's chest.

John looked at the paper and knew instantly what it was that Sherlock required him to do. Usually he did not mind doing favours for Sherlock, but being expected to just drop everything he planned was just rude and inconsiderate.

"Too busy typing about a new type of tobacco ash that might be of interest to the tobacco nuts of the world?" John groaned, pocketing the paper. "And besides, has it ever occurred to you that I might actually have plans for tonight?"

Sherlock resumed his typing. "Please do stop pouting, John, because both you and I are fully aware that all you planned on doing tonight was sitting in front of the television, watching X-Factor and eating crisps, followed by a Doctor Who special and the consumption of three bottles of Stella Artois. Clearly obvious..."

John looked around and shook his head, swallowing a grimace as he thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He and Sherlock had always had this love-hate relationship. Sherlock loved being smug and right and John hated him for it. This sometimes caused John to have odd fantasies about punching Sherlock right in the face. He could fondly recall when Sherlock had asked that very thing of him … it was a God send and John enjoyed every moment of it. It was one of his happier memories that he brought up when moments like these happened.

"Fine," he said, turning to leave for Bart's Hospital.

"Buy Molly a coffee beforehand – she works much more effectively that way," Sherlock shouted back, not caring if John was still inside the room or not.

"Yeh, yeh," John groaned, walking down the stairs and leaving the premises. Now, all he hoped way that he had Sherlock's luck for taxis and that one would be waiting right around the corner, eager to pick him up the moment he called out.

Doubtful though…


To be continued...


First attempt at a Sherlock story. This idea was niggling at my brain, thus I decided to type it up and be rid of it. Hopefully my attempts at writing Sherlock aren't too bad - he's such a complex and difficult character to write.