AN: I should not be allowed to write anything past ten at night. Really I shouldn't. This was a challenge presented to me by glados-kallipygos, who is a real life friend (I HAVE THOSE *cough* yeah)… We were browsing the Thirteen Days of Prompts, and this one just hit me like a ton of bricks. It was so beautiful, and so, so cracky.
So anyway, here is the prompt:
"A husband and wife are meeting in a restaurant to finalize the terms of their impending divorce. Write the scene from the viewpoint of a busboy snorting cocaine in the bathroom."
Well, you can just imagine who my sleep-deprived brain provided as the characters for this ridiculous prompt.
That being said, Sherlock and Inspector Lestrade are in the public domain, since it's been 110 years since Doyle owned them.
Benedict Cumberbatch and Rupert Graves, however, belong to no one. One could only dream….
Oh yeah, and BBC Sherlock belongs to the illustrious Trolls From On High, Steven Moffat and the Godtiss.
Warnings: Drug use, verbal sparring, THAR BE AN OOC
LET THE CRACKFIC COMMENSE!
A tall, gangly young man sat in a dingy, cramped stall, hunched over a mirror. With a practiced hand, he crushed up the pellet into fine white powder and lined it up, ready to take in the sweet, mind-numbing bliss of –
"YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR BLEEDING MIND IF YOU THINK I'LL LET YOU ANYWHERE NEAR THE KIDS, YOU SHRIVELLED UP MISERABLE OLD HAG!" A man's voice tore through the carefully constructed calm he'd managed to obtain on his thirty minute break.
The hysterical shriek of a woman's nasally alto pierced through the rustling, clanging, and murmuring of the background kitchen noise. "And what makes you think you have a say, you poncing git? Who'd take care of them, the nanny?
The gangly teen rolled his eyes. Honestly, couldn't he just get coked off his tits in peace? One bloody second was all he was asking, but no. This pair of howler monkeys had to go and turn a peaceful thirty minute break into an episode of Triangle.
He peeked out from behind the door to get a glimpse of what Neanderthals decided to go and ruin a perfect hit of coke. A man of about 180 cm stood at full height, hands balled into tight fists as a spitfire of a woman – standing at about his chest-level – hurled all manners of abuse at the tall man. His greying hair suggested he'd had more than his fair share of this, compounded with the fact that the man probably pulled ungodly hours at work. (Police officer, from the looks of it, maybe Detective Inspector?) Considering his recreational habits, it may not have been a good idea to go and kick up a fuss about how their screaming match was interrupting his break, but… sod it, he really needed his fix, and these idiots were ruining it.
Throwing all manners of his non-existent caution to the wind, he decided that this hit was more vital to him than the Jeremy Kyle show currently sitting in the booth closest to his haven. The insipid droning of the arguing – well, he couldn't really say couple, could he? – fell into the background as he inhaled. After about ten seconds, he felt that he knew his best course of action, which is to say he had no idea what the hell he was doing. All he knew was that deductions were going to be shared, and they might be scathing, but if the two people would kindly shut up, so much the better.
Storming out of the lav, he confronted the couple, who were in the middle of their very heated argument, and began rattling off deductions near the speed of light. "Oh, do take your squabbles elsewhere. You, ma'am" he pointed to the harpy with the dishwater blonde hair "need to stop being so defensive as a manner of hiding your guilt at sleeping with a PE teacher while you should have been reconciling with your husband." He marked the look of surprise on her face, and noted the clenched jaw of the man. So he didn't know? How interesting. "Oh, don't look so shocked. The fact that you absolutely reek of sports deodorant that does not match that of your husband's and you do not have the build of an athlete, plus the fact that your wedding ring is looking a bit uncared for gave you away from the off. The earrings you are wearing, also, are not real diamond, but something less expensive, rather convincing replica by the way. Sentimental token, given how well taken care of they are, but the Detective Inspector here would value you much more than that. He'd work to get you the real thing, meaning that the gift had to come from someone with a lower budget, but someone you still care for. Clearly a lover, then."
Turning his steely analytical gaze to the Inspector, he gave him a brief once-over and smirked. "At least your husband has the good sense to wait until he knows this is a failed endeavor to go gallivanting with interested romantic prospects." The man was growing livid. He knew the restaurant was a bad place to go, but he'd no idea that far more of his personal life was being revealed to him by a stranger. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Inspector. Yes, I know that the long hours you put in at work are not just spent on work. You have a consort." The Detective Inspector stood gobsmacked at the revelation. Well, at least he'd waited until after they were separated for the last time before he got involved with someone. "Not just any consort, though. No, someone of higher status." The teen with the shaggy black locks leaned in uncomfortably close to the detective, evidenced by the fact that the silver-haired man leaned back slightly to keep some sort of distance between them. "That cologne is a little out of your range is it not, Inspector? Also a gift, though not something too expensive, or you'd object to wearing it. Then there are your cufflinks. Also a rather expensive gift, but clearly one that you don't mind wearing around, and rather new judging from the crispness in the detail of the designs. The engagement was entered fairly recently, then, I'd say within three months. Whoever made these purchases for you clearly cherishes you, rather surprising sentiment this early on, is it not? Unless this person is entirely unfamiliar with relationships, and simultaneously values your presence but is unable how to proceed with displays of affection. Also a person with an impeccable sense of high-end fashion, pomp, and import – clearly an integral part of their rare public image, since they'd want their significant other to portray an image of being well taken care of. High up enough on the pay scale to give gifts in such a price range without consequence, though with no real need to do so, possibly a minor –" No. No Sherlock. You finish that deduction and your brain will melt. He didn't dare finish that train of thought. He wouldn't… But there goes his restraint and the last vestiges of his questionable sanity, because deductions are falling out of his mouth like the gushing waters of the Reichenbach Falls, stability dashed against the jagged edges of the boulders of reality at the bottom. "– position in the government." Holy sweet jesus fuck, Sherlock. Why? "Right, well, I'll just be fetching your coffee, and you can go back to ending your hopelessly failed marriage like civilized beings."
The man, Detective Inspector Lestrade, he managed to piece together, stood staring at Sherlock like someone had told him the Queen had posted drunk pictures to Facebook, while the dishwater blonde banshee remained staring at the floor, face flushed with contrition and guilt at being discovered in her adultery. Sherlock, to his credit, decided that deducing things about his own family's personal lives was a bit Not Good for his high, and went about the day confused and unsure, making him very tetchy and irritable toward both customers and staff alike. That is to say, everything went back to normal.
I think it's normal that I tell you to not even ask. It's obviously not brit-picked. It's also crack (again, obviously). And just yeah. What even.