Disclaimer: I don't own, tadaaa!
Hello everybody and thank you for clicking on this little piece of fanfiction. :) I wrote this very late in the day, so that may be an explanation for its general weirdness. I hope you will have a wonderful time reading it and wil restrain from throwing tomatos at me from the very beginning. Or cyber-tomatos. Since I am tired and not really responsible for my actions anymore, I should probably stop writing this.
Please enjoy or enjoy or enjoy, there are three different options you can choose from. Gasp! But seriously, enjoy! :P
Sherlock Holmes was everywhere, literally everywhere. Be it on the poster of 13 year-old girls; on mugs; television; the Sherlockian feels helpline; toilet paper; or only thrown into the dust bin, his perfect face scrunched up on the daily newspaper, it didn't matter. No household could escape him and even John, if he was to be true to himself, caught himself staring at Sherlock's pictures once too often.
Nonetheless John hated celebrities, or rather what they did to the fellow population. Everybody talked about them and no second passed without their mention. "Celebrity-this" and "celebrity-that", it was exhausting. However, the worst thing about them was that everyone else seemed to fall for them, even ignoring the fact that most of them were outstandingly ignorant, arrogant and atrociously selfish as well as antisocial. All of this and more made up the very creature of Sherlock Holmes.
The one with the magic gift, his alien-like beauty and the grace and elegance which shined through in Sherlock Holmes's every move. At times, it wasn't easy to resist the man. But John did, with all his heart. He didn't want to be foolish like everyone else, especially not like his sister who went mad for the ebony-haired actor, singer and violinist even though her sexuality stood in her way. But in some aspects it wasn't a difficult task to restrain from loving the asexual douche.
He didn't ever greet his fans and sometimes he thought that he might as well ignore them. Sherlock never gave interviews, but when the rare occurrence came every few years, he just sat there, completely still, caught up in his mind and possibly drugs. Not saying a word.
Nevertheless, his fans loved him. Furthermore: their love and devotion was only strengthened by his odd behaviour. He could do whatever he wanted; his fans adored him for it. Sherlock was rare, unique, something else.
Apart from a fine pair of blue, striking eyes, which looked like ice piercing into the depths of your soul even you don't know; his perfectly angled cheekbones; his HAIR; the way it glittered in the sun and his chilling, soft and stunning voice, there was nothing to love, was there?
Most people even went as far as thinking that poor Sherlock was lonely, in need of love, because he didn't have a real childhood. That he had been forced to practise all day long. Hahaha, yeah. How can one be lonely when one has so many screaming fans and was born into an already highly-valued and rich family?
The doctor shook his head, this was the longest time he had ever thought about something as insignificant as Sherlock Holmes. He shouldn't waste his time further on this topic and rather spend his time drinking tea in the one place he was sure of being free of Sherlock Holmes and all the stupidity he brought with him. The little café right across the street, an oasis of peace and quiet.
And it should stay that way, that is if you didn't want to be murdered by a grumpy doctor, who had had a very long and tiring day. Besides John knew a lot of methods to do so, he wasn't a medical man for nothing.
He would literally murder anyone if that person came in between him and his well deserved bacon sandwich. Bacon. BACON. No one separated John from his bacon! Even if it were... for Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes?
John spilled out his tea on his pants.
Sherlock sighed, looking at the bearded doctor with antipathy. Why did there always have to be fanatic fans, no matter where Sherlock went? Sherlock couldn't go anywhere without meeting one, not even the toilet. A memory he had tried very hard to delete.
"Yes, yes. I know, it is me. Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to meet you... Now, could I please just pass through and-" Sherlock said, his eye-roll hidden but evident behind his eyes.
"But-you-you're- oh, my, go-" John mumbled, rather than replied.
"Yes, I know, wow, that's Sherlock Holmes! Not a surprise anymore when you see that face every day in the mirror. And just to make sure that we're stating all obvious facts, you have just spilled a considerably large amount of tea all over yourself. Mind if you clean that up? Makes you look rather pale." Sherlock said, imitating his designer in the last part of the phrase.
"But you, you-!" John laughed, his face wrinkling in a nice way. What, had Sherlock Holmes just caught himself of thinking of the word 'nice'? He shivered.
"What is it?" Sherlock said and then huffed at the void of nothingness that was John's reply. Fans were only ever good for nothing.
Name badge: Doctor John Watson, St. Barts.
"Your-" John tried to stammer out, but failed miserably. Too preoccupied with laughing.
"Oh, my fake moustache? Very mature, Doctor Watson, I have to say." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Even I have to take precautions and wouldn't want to be recognised all day long. You see, your hand gets kind of lazy after signing 300 autographs. An hour."
John looked at Sherlock in a puzzled fashion. What did the man want from him? Why was he even here? "Erm... Interesting ... I guess...?"
"Aren't you going to ask me for an autograph?"
"Actually? No."
"What?"
"I'm not a big fan of yours, thank you very much." John said, getting increasingly interesting to Sherlock.
"Then what are you doing here, talking to me for no apparent reason?"
"Oh, just this and that. If I am honest, I don't know either." John smirked.
"Aha." Sherlock replied. Well. Interesting enough. "I'm off then."
"Whoa, Mister, you can do that when we're finished."
"Finished with what?" Sherlock said, fearing the worst.
"You could help me with my pants..." John said his eyebrows suddenly knitting together "... not meant in the gay way, though."
Sherlock restrained from a short: "I wouldn't mind." Which he didn't know where it came from either. This was the longest he had thought about somebody else in a nice way since... ever. It must feel really good to like somebody else. Like genuinely. Maybe he should give it a try? "Okay. What is there to do?"
"Firstly: find me a new pair of pants, since the tea stains are basically your fault. And secondly: Find somewhere I can put them on." John grinned. "That's it."
"If I have to." Sherlock sighed. "Shouldn't be too difficult, I have my money right here in my wallet –" Sherlock exclaimed, fishing for money in his way too large pockets. "-Not. Shit."
"Do you really think taking the tube to the mall was such a good idea?" John hissed under his breath.
"Everything's better than taking a cabbie, I swear to god. They always want to chat you up and when they notice who you are, they sometimes stop their cabs, continue chatting and then you try to calculate their way of survival, because if one of you is going to survive this, it is going to be you."
"A bit not good then?" John asked.
"A bit, yeah." Sherlock answered, trying to concentrate fully on John and simultaneously cover up bits of his face, so that he wouldn't be spotted.
Thank heavens; he had given up the moustache this time. It may be a good cleaverage, but that was as far as it went. Moustaches just didn't fit the man, who could usually wear a onesie and still look good in it.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"They're coming." He said, a heartbreaking look on his face. "The fangirls."
Giggling. Pointing out nerdy accessories. Laughing. And then screaming. They had finally found Sherlock Holmes. And they were going to use their chance.
