Experiments
Disclaimer: Sadly, Sherlock is not mine but is the brainchild of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (at least, originally), who was then adopted by my new gods Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Does that statement even make sense? Anyway, characters etc. etc. etc. are not mine, I'm just borrowing them for a while.
"Sherlock, what the hell is this?"
The now familiar cry rang through 221B Baker Street, home of the world's only consulting detective, his blogger, and their houseke – sorry, their landlady. The source of the cry was our infamous blogger, John Watson who had just opened the fridge in the intent of finding cheese for a sandwich, but instead found himself face to face with another one of Sherlock's infernal experiments. This time it was tongues. And an odd smell of pineapples. John stood and stared for a few seconds before yelling again "Why in God's name are there six tongues that look half eaten in the fridge?"
Sherlock, being Sherlock, had ignored the first question and carried on playing his violin in the hope of there being a second so he could show off a little. He answered now "John, did you know that pineapples contain an enzyme called bromelain that breaks down protein?"
The reply was pretty much what he had expected: a bit more yelling, a couple more swearwords, then forced calm. Standard John. "Sherlock, that still doesn't answer the question of why the hell there are partly digested tongues in the fridge."
"Simple! It's an experiment."
"And what exactly are you experimenting?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No, I bloody well cannot guess and you know that!"
"Do I?"
"You're the best detective in the world; surely you can deduce that no one in the world can guess what goes on in your head?"
"Go on, take a guess. I'll give you a clue: digestion begins in the mouth."
"Sherlock, that is disgusting."
"It's an experiment! Worked it out yet?"
"There's a case that has something to do with a dead man with a partly digested tongue?"
"Close but no cigar. Meaning you're almost completely wrong."
"Right... Would you like to tell me what on earth you're doing, then?"
"There was a dead man, yes, but I solved that one within a couple of hours. No, this is much simpler: curiosity. Think of it like a race; I want to see whether pineapple juice digests tongues faster than trypsin, which is made in the pancreas. It's sort of like... oh, how would I explain this to a lesser mind... external digestion verses internal digestion."
John ignored the insult. "Are you trying to tell me that I have just spent the best part of five minutes arguing about tongues in the fridge when I could have been making a sandwich because of your morbid curiosity?"
John wasn't really expecting an answer that would appease him but he lived in hope.
"Yes."
"Oh for... Right, lovely, carry on. I'll be over here, making a sandwich and wondering why I put up with you..."
Sherlock grinned; it was nice to have a flatmate who didn't make a fuss over his little experiments.
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