Author's Note: Hello to everyone! My inspiration for this silly little fic came from a video I found on Youtube of Benedict Cumberbatch reading a fairytale. (link below) His expressions and tone reminded me of a highly sarcastic Sherlock and I couldn't help myself… the result is below. :P
.com/watch?v=hmNt31Gwf4c&feature=related
Oh, and for those still waiting for my other fic "Scriptless" to continue, I'm working on that too. I'd like to have a little more than one chapter to put up though. My apologies for the time it's taking. ;)
A Lesson Learned
John trudged wearily up the steps and into the flat, lugging the heavy grocery bags with him. It had been one argument after another that day. First with Sherlock about how some people actually need sleep to survive, then with a patient who swore her cold was a bio-engineered superbug made by the Nazis for the sole purpose of causing her harm, and lastly another row with the chip and pin machine which refused to accept John's card no matter how many times he tried it.
Using what he thought to be an uncanny amount of skill and dexterity, John managed to get the door unlocked and open with only two fingers and what felt like a hundred pound weight dragging on his arm. He pushed the door open with one foot and stumbled inside. Sherlock was seated at the table, hunched over some experiment or another.
"Could I get a little help with these?" John asked as he attempted to navigate the treacherous floors which were littered with papers, books and all number of odds and ends from cases both past and present. Sherlock didn't even glance up at his question. Heaving a sigh, John made his way slowly and painstakingly to the fridge and unloaded the groceries. Having finished his task, John turned to frown disapprovingly at Sherlock, who merely sat back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.
"Male, thirty-six years old and with a bad smoking habit."
"That's all?" John asked sarcastically. Usually there was a list a mile long of what Sherlock could deduce from a man's overcoat, which was the source of the fabric currently squashed under his microscope.
"No, but his cat's breed, new litter of kittens and the fact that he prefers his trousers to have double pleats are hardly relevant to the case at hand." Sherlock rose and moved to the cabinets, taking down a mug and finding the teabags John had hidden from him in mere seconds. Sherlock tended to use them for experiments more than for drinking and it was growing to be an expensive habit… especially since John tended to throw out the ones left over just in case he'd missed one of the ones his flatmate had "soaked in poison" to discover whether the victim was male or female or something equally as incongruous.
Giving up on glaring at Sherlock, John went to hang his coat on the rack before wandering over to his laptop (already logged on… it seemed Sherlock even knew John's mother's middle name… he'd have to get trickier. That or buy one of those new laptops with the fingerprint scanner but that seemed a bit extreme.).
"Getting some tea?" he asked absently, trying to come up with something totally random for his new password. Hearing Sherlock's short answer of "Mhmm," John didn't look up as he asked:
"Would you mind making two? I could use a little pick me up." he added, rubbing the sleep from his face but pausing at Sherlock's response.
"No."
John paused, confused at the smug tone in Sherlock's voice.
"No you don't mind or no you won't?"
"No, I won't."
Momentarily stunned, John looked over to where Sherlock was smiling at him like a proud feline who'd just done something naughty. The detective took a sip of his tea and met John's eyes innocently, ignoring the doctor's disbelieving expression.
"Wh- but you're getting yourself some!"
Sherlock pretended to consider his flatmate's statement, putting one hand up to his mouth thoughtfully before answering.
"Yes." He smiled proudly and sat himself down in front of the microscope, essentially putting an end to the conversation.
If this had been an isolated incident, John might've let it go… even if it wasn't an isolated incident he probably would've ignored it as best he could, blaming it on Sherlock's sociopathic side but the man seemed bent on refusing even the simplest of helpful tasks. Anything from "Hold the door!" to Lestrade's "Any thoughts?" was met with a short, "No." from Sherlock. Naturally if obliging involved humiliating someone (usually Anderson who'd missed some vital clue at the scene) Sherlock would be only too happy to help but most often, John, Lestrade or other members of the Yard were left to struggle along after the consulting detective as best they could.
After two weeks, John had had enough and one day at St. Barts, he stumbled upon a possible solution. A mother in the waiting room was entertaining her young son (a lad of four who'd managed to catch the flu that seemed to be going around London) with a book: "The Little Red Hen." Pausing to listen for a moment, John was struck by how familiar the exchange sounded….
"Will you help me plant the wheat?" asked little Red Hen.
"No," said the rat and the cat and the dog.
That evening, John returned to the flat with a book tucked under his arm. Coming in to find Sherlock lounging on the couch, tapping away on his phone, John marched over and sat in the armchair nearby. Once Sherlock had sent his text (no doubt ordering Lestrade to execute Anderson… again… his first request had been refused rather vehemently by Donovan but Sherlock was confident that persistence would win out) John cleared his throat to get his friend's attention. Sherlock opened one eye lazily, glanced at him and sighed heavily before speaking in an indulging tone.
"What?"
"I've got something for you."
Dark eyes opened again, this time curiously.
"A case?"
"Nope."
Sherlock huffed and went back to his steeple-handed pondering.
"But I think you'll be able to learn something from it anyway," John continued.
"If you're referring to the man's shady business dealings with the Black Lotus then I've already found that out ages ago." Sherlock waved a hand vaguely at the coffee table which was strewn with papers. Growing irritated with the man's constant superiority complex, John reigned in his frustration and got to the point.
"It's a book, Sherlock, one I think you can learn a thing or two from."
Sherlock jumped slightly as John tossed the paperback book onto his chest before heading into the kitchen. He read the name on the brightly colored cover, got up, and stood at the entrance to the kitchen, staring at his flatmate like he'd grown an extra head.
"'TheLittle Red Hen', John?" Sherlock's voice dripped with distaste. John rolled his eyes.
"Just read it, and learn something will you?"
Sherlock looked from the book, to John, and back again before tossing the thing onto the floor with disgust and a haughty, "No!" John just shook his head. It'd been a long shot anyway….
By the next morning, the book had disappeared and Sherlock refused to reveal its location (probably buried in the ashes in the fireplace…). In fact, John didn't hear another word about it until nearly a week later when he received a text from Sherlock while on his way back from St. Barts:
The library, 5pm
SH
Supposing it's safer to just go and keep the innocent bystanders safe from Sherlock's eccentricities, John tucked the phone back into his pocket and caught a cab to the library. When he got there, he expected to see police tape, flashing lights and officers of the Yard milling about but the library was eerily calm. He's probably working on some new research project, he thought to himself, heading in and scanning the aisles for Sherlock.
It took him a good ten minutes to find the man in the most unexpected of places… the children's section. And worse… there were children nearby. No… not just nearby, listening to him. The kids were actually seated on the floor, listening to Sherlock read from a small brightly colored- oh no….
As John approached, Sherlock's deep voice reached his ears
"I hope that you learn to read this story, and others, because reading is one of the joys of life and once you begin, you can't stop and you've got so many stories to look forward to."
John could only hope that he was the only one detecting the thinly veiled sarcasm in the man's voice. The parents, seated behind the assembled youngsters in some plastic chairs, seemed not to notice and Sherlock continued.
"So I hope you enjoy this one." Sherlock flipped open the book and John nearly groaned out loud as he began with the familiar words.
"'Will you help me plant the wheat?' asked Little Red Hen. 'No,' said the rat, the cat, and the dog. 'Then I will plant it all by myself,' said Little Red Hen."
John stared. Sherlock had actually glanced up at him and put a bit of a huffy tone to the Hen's voice that gave him the distinct feeling of being mocked. Sherlock just shrugged innocently at the children.
"And she did."
A page turned but John didn't even notice. He was far too busy scrutinizing Sherlock's every expression and tone.
"'Will you help me cut the wheat?' asked Little Red Hen. 'No,' said the rat, the cat, and the dog."
That "No" confirmed John's suspicions. The tone had been exactly the same as the one Sherlock had used almost daily for the past few weeks.
"Then I will cut it all by myself!' said Little Red Hen, and she did." Sherlock continued, innocently enough. His expressive frowning along with the story's protagonist and looking to all the world like a kind and safe volunteer reading to schoolchildren… John didn't want to know how this was going to end but he felt a strange duty to sit it out… at least to inform the parents of some good therapists for their children.
"'Will you help me make the flour?' asked Little Red Hen. 'Mmm… No,' said the rat and the cat and the dog."
John could've sworn those "no's" were getting haughtier by the minute….
"Then I will make it all by myself,' said Little Red Hen, and she did."
John rubbed at a headache forming at his temple as Sherlock imitated the doctor's exasperated huff perfectly.
"'Will you help me make the bread?' asked Little Red Hen." Sherlock's tone suggested they were reaching the climax of the story and John briefly considered pulling the fire alarm nearby… better a momentary fright followed by freedom than psychological trauma.
"No,' said the rat, the cat, and the dog. 'Then I will make it all by myself,' said Little Red Hen, and she did... 'Will you help me eat the bread?' asked Little Red Hen."
Here it comes, thought John.
"'Yes!' said the rat, the cat and the dog. 'Nooo,' said Little Red Hen. 'I will eat it all by myself." And she did."
There was a moment of chatter as the children clamored for another book and the parents applauded, smiling to each other and no doubt commenting on how wonderful it was to have such a proper gentleman reading to the children. Then it came. Sherlock closed the book and set it aside, leaning in conspiratorially to say in a stage whisper….
"But you know, children… the cat and the rat and the dog won out in the end. You see, any fool can tell you that cats and dogs at least are carnivores and rats will eat any old thing lying around," he said with a wave of his hand that sent the children into fits of giggles thinking about the various things rats would consume. The quieted as the detective continued.
"The cat, rat and dog didn't want the bread. But! There they had a nice juicy chicken all fattened up and they didn't even have to lift a paw because she was too busy fattening herself." The children were silent, some glancing concernedly at their parents who were staring in muted horror at Sherlock.
"So, I suppose," Sherlock said, tilting his head to one side thoughtfully, "The dog killed the chicken, the cat got the white meat, the dog the dark and… the rat took whatever was left," he finished proudly. There was a brief moment of silence which Sherlock broke.
"Go on! Read, learn, think, drool, whatever children your age do!" He waved his hands at them in a shooing motion as the parents frantically gathered up their youngsters. The mothers hurried to the exit, casting disapproving, horrified glances back toward a proudly smiling Sherlock who waved back cheerily at the children as they left. He then rose, swept up his coat and scarf, shrugging them on easily before gliding past John toward the receptions desk.
"Come along, John. Lestrade has a rather peculiar case on his hands according to his last text." John jogged to keep up, managing somehow to speak through his shock.
"Sherlock, that… that was-" He was cut off as Sherlock addressed the young woman behind the counter.
"It was wonderful, thank you. Perhaps I'll come again."
The woman seemed torn between keeping up her personable smile and glancing at the still fleeing families. John saved her the trouble, pulling Sherlock along with him out the automatic doors. Once out in the brisk London air, Sherlock shrugged off John's hand, tying his scarf around his neck and ignoring John's fuming.
"That was not what I meant by learn something!"
"Well… you never said what to learn." Despite his frustration, John could feel a slight smile tugging at his lips. He gave in. It was no good to fight it with Sherlock smirking at the world in that proud feline way.
"They did look rather horrified, didn't they?" he cast a glance at the taller man whose smile only widened in satisfaction. The cabby was no doubt very confused by the snickers and giggles coming from the back seat the whole way to 221B Baker Street.
End