Sherlock Oneshot
Elementary? What Kind of Word Is That?
The sight of that familiar opaque black door engraved with "221 B" just beyond his reach down the pavement seemed to John Watson like discovering an oasis in the Sahara. But in this case, the desert had taken on the form of a gloomy rain-sodden autumn evening in center London. The excessive amount of shopping he now bore was making his arms sore beyond belief. And the fallout of the storm was not helping at all, and neither were his bomber's jacket and its collar which he had vainly flipped up in an attempt to stay dry. More the fool, he.
Stupid milk! Why couldn't the great sodding Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and scientist on the side, not put that genius mind of his to actual use with those endless petri dishes and tubes and phials to formulate some concoction of milk that regenerates right from the carton, like cloning or something. Or at least to contrive something else to sprinkle into tea and coffee that did not require a torment-filled voyage to the shop or the nearest Tesco's. Following orders to "get the milk" was quickly becoming unbearable, if not downright in the realm of cruel and unusual.
Dripping wet, violently shivering, and arms burning with exertion, John finally reached the door and somehow managed to open the door though, in his state, he couldn't quite put together how he had done it, to be honest. Then after much struggling and cursing, John stumbled up the stairs and, on the threshold of their shared flat, stood for a long moment, silently fuming at the spectacle there that rudely greeted him. Sherlock was on his usual chair with John's laptop on his knees and arms across his chest, staring fixedly at the screen and biting his lip.
"Really?" John spat, his usually friendly voice now deadly with acid. "You're just sitting there doing nothing when I've been practically killing myself trying to get the shopping up those bloody stairs! The shopping I bought for you!"
Sherlock's eyes did not stray from the laptop. "Not just for me, you know. And what would you have liked me to have done? Applauded you?" he asked distractedly.
"I would have liked you to help me!" John snarled.
"Busy. You're getting the floor wet."
How could the arrogant git have known that considering the detective still wouldn't acknowledge him? Of course he would. The little deduction expert noticed everything without fail. Well, hopefully he noticed how unbelievably angry he was at present!
The ex-soldier laughed without humor then gave a huffing sigh. So be it. He stomped to the kitchen, throwing the shopping unceremoniously onto the kitchen table that was now cluttered with science equipment and Sherlock's latest experiment—the decomposition rate of a rat in various conditions. Ugh, how disgusting! The smell was getting beyond any human's standard of tolerance. How could he eat anything now?
"No, no, no!" Sherlock cried out and John started in surprise, nearly jumping out of his skin with fear. "How so utterly stupid! I would never do that! Why would I ever do something so idiotic?" the detective continued to rail, his arms flinging out in aggravation with a frown forming on his face's trapdoor in between his complaints.
Briefly distracted from his rage by blooming curiosity and concern, John disregarded the sopping and souring packaged foodstuffs and sidled toward Sherlock's dark green leather chair. He watched the screen that portrayed a man stopping beside a New York bistro, grabbing a random woman's drink glasses and proceeded to mix them together without her permission in the middle of a science metaphor.
"What's this now?"
After a long pause, Sherlock answered a little uncomfortably. "That new American telly show, the one about you and me. Let me tell you, his fashion is atrocious—it's like a horrid amalgam of homeless man and punk or something. And his scarf looks like it came from a lumberjack!" Sherlock snapped.
John's head whipped down to the detective's bright blue eyes that were now erupting with self-righteous indignation and the scowl forming just below. The doctor's brow furrowed. "I thought I told you not to watch Elementary."
"Hmm, oh? Why is that?"
"Because I knew you would react like this, and then I would have to deal with you. You have no idea how impossible you can be sometimes, particularly when it comes to your own image and intelligence, it's unhealthy. There's nothing you can do about it so best to not to get involved. American theory: Whatever's popular on the Internet is better on screen. It's just their interpretation of the blog, how bad could it possibly be?"
Sherlock scoffed. "How little you know, John—oh, come on! Even a child knows that a coma can be induced! How could I not? It's so obvious! I guessed who did it, her motive, and her methods within the first two minutes! Oh, this is dreadful, just dreadful. Now everyone will believe I have an I.Q. as low as Anderson's! Speaking of which, there's one good thing about it: Anderson isn't amongst the cast. Curse those wretched Americans to hell."
"Okay, calm down, Sherlock. What's done is done. There's no reason for getting worked up over something so trivial. Choose your battles, save your energy for the cases, eh? You can't change the world no matter how god-like you think you are. And you certainly can't damn an entire country for a telly program. It's just…not nice and not practical, even for you."
"Oh, shut up, John, you don't know anything," Sherlock growled then promptly thrust his fist against the arm of his chair. "Oh no, no!" Unfamiliar horror coursed through his words, making John feel worse than he expected, he'd rather the detective were just angry. He knew what to do with angry. But what now? Shortly, he understood the justification of his outburst.
"I would never set fire to my violin, never!" Here, Sherlock proceeded to clutch the said wooden instrument. How strange for him. "It helps me solve cases, it was the only comfort and source of sanity I've had for decades." This made John perk up. Sherlock had never revealed his deep feelings for his violin before. Or even that he had possessed any in the first place. John could not resist encountering an inordinate degree of sympathy and, paradoxically, delight at Sherlock's uncharacteristic response. The younger man really was upset. "And I especially wouldn't do it because I felt guilty about taking drugs or lying to someone, and I've never actually been an addict. Why would I ever feel guilty about that? Ridiculous nonsense!"
John rolled his eyes and retreated back to the kitchen, suddenly more willing to unload his burden than ever before, the affectionate connection now so easily broken.
When Sherlock persisted in his moanings and allegations, John surrendered a long-suffering sigh and tried to stonewall his ears' capability to hear so he could attempt to remain sane; that was until he heard his own name mentioned as though he were someone else…
"I don't want to hear, Sherlock, I mean it. I'd rather not know what my telly self is like," John warned whilst removing a jar of honey and slamming it in the nearest cupboard that did not hold decaying human remains or microscopes.
Sherlock neglected his wish and, unfortunately, his flatmate and friend had just ruined John's connection to his self-established world of ignorant bliss and also his path to reclaim it. So much for that. No more evading the annoying gripes and inevitable worthless foolishness of one piece of Hollywood fiction. How silly. Why would he care at all about such a thing? He's not that vain! And yet, it was a little flattering being important enough for America to display his life on a night drama.
"This clinches it." Sherlock's whining broke through his thoughts, as usual. "Their version of you isn't right, to say the least. Not like you whatsoever, and useless as well. She has no purpose! She just tails my character without interest, like a babysitter or something, refusing to even glance at dead bodies and her lack of feeling and any sense of humanity is rubbing me the wrong way, you would never be so…detached. That's my job. How boring!"
John spun around then froze, his cheeks blushing profusely and his stomach churning. "Hang on, did you just say 'she'?"
Sherlock nodded curtly. "'Course, didn't you know?"
"They made me into a woman?" he said slowly, each word punctuated by his growing contempt.
At last, the true living and breathing inspiration for that compilation of abominations peered up at him, his fine eyebrow lifted in sardonic mockery. He knew what was coming after his evident display of hypocrisy but John was all too riled up to care. "What's the matter, John? What happened to your grand wisdom about it being done and trivial, about choosing your battles? Forgotten it already? Or just gaining interest in our new adorers' recent and very public creation?" he hissed.
"Sod it. Who cares about morals or being the bigger man and all that bullocks! What about your brother, the queen and prime minister and government and parliament all rolled into one? He's got lawyers and nuclear weapons in hand and at his disposal, hasn't he? Couldn't he…punish those Americans for this?"
A conniving, frightening grin carved itself into Sherlock's sharp features, his eyes glowing with fascinated interest and sadistic anticipation. "Oh, I think something can be done about it soon enough."
What had John unleashed upon the world? That shouldn't have escaped his mouth. He really needed to find a way to cool his temper before it gets the better of him when it most counts. Like suggesting the collective murder of an entire nation…
"Look, delete what I just said from your Mind Palace. We can't do that. Just—." He changed tactics. "It's technically not even available to Britain so not many we know will be privy to its awful existence. We need to forget of the whole thing, all right? Starting with…"
John strode purposefully toward his colleague, budged the latter's arms away, and removed his computer from the detective's lap. Then he succinctly shut the lid down with a harsh click. "Stop using my computer, Sherlock, you do have your own."
"At the very least, I could convince Mycroft to cancel the show…" Sherlock murmured as though to himself before languidly turning up to his best friend ice blue eyes that threatened to unveil his inner smugness.
John yielded a relieved mile creep over his lips, his hazel orbs glowing maliciously. "Well, there's always that…"
Forgive me for the last bit. I am an American and so I would not like it being bombed but it was just for sake of humor.
Again, I apologize to Elementary fans but...seriously? I just can't bear that show. It makes me cringe for Sherlock's sake.