PLEASE READ: Fair warning, I barely passed my Spanish class so to write this I had to rely heavily on Google translate. To anyone who knows Spanish, I'm so sorry. If you are willing and have a proper understand of the Spanish language, please PM me so I can get a better translation. For English speaks, this is optional, listen to A.B. Quintanilla III, Kumbia Kings- Pachuco to get in the mood.
I do not own BBC Sherlock nor the characters
¡Sherlock! ¡¿Por Qué?! – A Sherlock Fanfiction
John warned Sherlock about the dangers of crap telly and its mind rotting side effects; however, he said nothing about the consequences of watching a Spanish soap opera. For those of you who don't know, a telenovela, or Spanish soap opera, is an intense midday television drama that involves very beautiful people following an unbelievably ridiculous script. Most stories lines revolve around a gorgeous woman falling in love with a very sexy gentlemen who she ends cheating on with another incredibly sexy gentlemen, then dies abruptly from cancer or some other tragedy. Because of their intriguing yet obscure plot twists, Spanish soap operas are popular in many Spanish speaking countries and have a permanent residence on every international cable company's program listings. I guess that's how the consulting detective came about watching the strange show one boring afternoon.
Before Sherlock ultimately picked up the remote, the man paced about the flat like a wild tiger trapped in a cage. His mind whirled round and round, endlessly picking itself apart then putting the pieces back together. No cases to solve, no mysteries to unravel, no one around to entice his racing mind. John was working today leaving the detective to ponder what they will put on his headstone when he wastes away. Here lies Sherlock Holmes who died of ennui seems most appropriate. 'Pacing isn't helping the matter,' he thought, as he moved his woes to the couch. Unceremoniously, the man plopped down, brought the back of his hand forward so that it lightly against his forehead then began to whimper with such melodrama that could win him a Tony Award. The royal blue fabric of his favorite dressing gown pooled picturesquely around his thighs as his head hung off the side of the couch in attempts to increase blood flow to his skull. Sherlock needed something to do, anything!
What do most people do when they want time to pass? Ah yes, watch TV or go online. The internet was out of the question since earlier that day he had posted a nude morning selfie on his Tumblr that subsequently blew up the entire website. Then the only thing left is to watch television for a bit, I guess. Another bad thing about crap television is the fact that all the crap is on during the middle of the day. Daytime television has always been home to infomercials, Women's talk shows, and old soap operas your grandma seems to love. You'd be lucky to catch a show that's actually good and not a rerun from the 1990's. Same goes for midday documentaries on the Discovery and History channel; there's only so many times you can learn about Nazi's and sharks.
Sherlock clicked steadily through the stations, assessing the programs entertainment value in just a few seconds before moving on. So far, nothing held his interests; he could already deduce most of the premises of every show he passed. She's cheating on her boyfriend but pregnant with that guy's kid, that host has a secret heroin addiction, and he is definitely not the father. He could go on forever. Sherlock sighed, this was a terrible idea. Just as he was about turn off the TV, a woman's voice rang out that made him pause.
"Hector, I love you. But Maribel is my best friend, and Alejandro is yours. I don't want anyone to get hurt. I'm sorry."
The image of a gorgeous Hispanic woman with soft brown hair lite up the screen; her eyes focused and full of emotion on whom she was speaking with. The detective's eyes widened when the camera pans over to a stunning blond, chisel chested man who instantly captured Sherlock's attention; his golden voice enticing his ears to listen.
"Rubí, I love you. And as to no one getting hurt... it's already too late for us."
Despite having only recently stepped into the story, his intrigue was indeed piqued. There were complex love triangles, he could tell, and the woman to whom the handsome man was talking too seemed to be the mastermind behind it. Usually Sherlock didn't go in for these sort of things; television shows were always so predictable. But not only was the detective intrigued he was also desperate for more. His heartbeat quickened as his mind laser focused in on the thickening plot, his boredom all but forgotten. One more episode couldn't hurt, right?
~~~xXx~~~
Sherlock managed to finish ten more episodes by the time John returned at six o'clock.
"Hey Sherlock," John huffed tiredly as he motioned through his I'm-back-let's-get-comfy ritual.
"¡Juan, usted ha regresado a mí!" responded Sherlock. His eyes never leaving the screen.
John stared at his friend nestled quietly in front on the television. He thought it strange how Sherlock decided to greet him; then again, the detective had yelled at him in only French before so speaking fluent Spanish was not at all surprising.
"¿Cómo estuvo tu día?"
"Uh… yes," John guessed; he didn't exactly pass Spanish in high school.
The response seemed to rouse the man from his concentration; his disgruntled features indicating Sherlock's impending bitch fit, "Sé que estás cansado, pero al menos me dan una respuesta adecuada cuando hago una pregunta."
A funny thing about the consulting detective John learned after living with him for years is the difference between angry Sherlock and annoyed Sherlock. An angry Sherlock liked to puff himself up like a small furry animal to intimidate predators, but in actuality look more adorable doing so. An annoyed Sherlock, which the doctor was currently witnessing, would still make himself appear bigger but would whine like a desert rain frog. Have you heard them when they're scared? They're adorable!
"¿¡Pues!?" glared the puffy little detective.
"Sherlock, I don't speak Spanish. Could you please stop so I can have an actual conversation with you?" John sighed, his patience worn thin from the long day.
The brunet went wide eyed, confusion seeping across his alabaster face. John didn't understand him?
"¿Yo estaba hablando español?" he ask, his gaze transfixed to an invisible dot on the floor that seemed only visible to him.
"Sherlock," began John, pinching the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Please!"
"¡N-No puedo!" the exasperated detective shouted, gesturing wildly with his hands. "¡Juan! ¡No puedo dejar de hablar español!"
The sandy haired doctor looked taken aback. He wanted to help his visibly distressed friend but didn't know how to diagnose the problem if he couldn't understand what he was saying. After staring at his panicking friend for a few minutes—who continued speaking what he heard as gibberish—an idea popped into his head. Instantly, John began rummaging around the flat looking for paper and a pencil. If Sherlock was unable to convey in words what was going on, maybe he could write or illustrate it out. At least it was a way for them to communicate a little better. Why did this always happen to John? Why couldn't he have a normal Friday night where Sherlock's brain didn't short circuit or explode?
"¡Juan!" Sherlock looked like he was about to cry.
Finding what he needed, John held up the sheet of paper and pencil up with a grin. "I have an idea. Since I can't understand what you're saying, just write it down in English."
The weepy detective snatched the materials from his hands then began to scribble his thoughts. John watched the words being scratched out over his tall friend's shoulder, everything was in Spanish.
John gently rested his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. "Why don't you try drawing something? Like Pictionary!"
Sherlock blushed from the sandy haired doctor's close proximity. Picking up the pencil once more, Sherlock began to drawing a crude representation of his emotions as John's warm breath dripped down his neck. When he was done, the curly haired sleuth relinquished the drawing into his friend's custody.
John squinted at the portrait that was handed to him. He had seen kindergarteners sketch better than this. It looked like a lopsided dog with long, flowing hair and antenna growing out of its back. Was the thing on the left supposed to be him? But he did have to hand it to him, Sherlock is a master at drawing dicks.
"Little Timmy fell down a well?" John finally asked, looking up at his friend for support.
The master sleuth rolled his eyes and sighed, "Mi vida es como un álbum de Taylor Swift."
"What's this about Taylor Swift?"
"Nada," said Sherlock quickly. "¡Espera un minute! ¿Significa esto que puedo decir cosas sucias y no vas a entender?"
John shrugged, still not entirely sure what his compadre was stating but agreeing nonetheless to seem like he did.
"Quiero montar le en a la puesta del sol," Sherlock said, giving him a knowing wink. "Go seis pulgadas de profundidad en mí. Cogerme duro y rápido."
"I have no idea why you're winking," stated John, now completely lost in the conversation. "But that's not the point. The problem now is that I still do not have a clear way to communicate with you. Pictionary and spelling have seemed to fail, so now we need to try something different so that I may be able to pinpoint exactly how this all began and put a stop to it."
"Cállate perra. Yo se follar hasta que me amas."
John put on his imaginary thinking cap, "Any ideas?"
"Siempre podemos jugar charades," suggested the detective, seemingly going into heat.
"Hey I've got an idea," John cried, perking up. "Let's play charades!"
"¡Yo acaba de decir el que te joder!
"All right here's what we do, you point to something in the room or try to act it out so I can guess what happened."
"¿Está utilizando un traductor en línea? Sí, me pensaba por lo que. Es esto lo es que es como para romper el cuarto muro!"
"I know it sounds stupid but we're running out of options. Please Sherlock. For me?" begged his friend.
The master sleuth sighed loudly, the things he does for love. Just as John suggested, the amber haired sleuth began gesturing toward certain objects like the TV and the couch while trying to make reference to his previous activities. He put his hand to his forehead to signify his boredom, then pointed to the TV and pressed his thumb together to show how he shuffled through the channels, finally he placed a finger on his lips symbolizing his current speech. Sherlock felt like a clown, but hopefully John understood his plight a little better now.
"You were watching television and now…" he guessed, picking out the meaning from vague clues. "Little Timmy is still trapped in the well?"
Sherlock growled, "¡Juan! He utilizado un traductor para este. Lo siento a todos los hispanohablantes que tienen que ver esta basura."
"Sorry, sorry," giggled the ex-soldier, who rubbed the back of his head. "I couldn't resist."
"Cada noche en mis sueños te veo... Te siento. Sin embargo, al final de la noche, los pantalones son quitado y yo más que sentirte." Sherlock smiled, giggling with him.
"Ok, not knowing what you are saying is really concerning me."
"No se lo peguen en el culo. Chicas lo odia por el culo. Bueno, yo no importa, pero las chicas hacer," the man pointed out, a grin still plastered to his face.
"Yeah… so what you were saying before, you were watching something and then you started speaking Spanish?" Sherlock nodded, his curls swishing with the movement of his cranium. Alright, John could definitely work with this. "Were you watching anything in particular? Did it happen to be in only Spanish?"
This time, Sherlock's tightly ringed curls bobbed more furiously as the owner nodded once more. The puzzle pieces were starting to come together. According to his blushing buddy, he was watching television when he begun watching a program that made his dialogue switch. Perhaps from engrossing himself in the show, his memory rested causing Sherlock to get stuck on Spanish mode. It all made perfect sense now! Sherlock was a complete idiot! With that mystery solved, John quickly had a crazy revelation on how to fix it.
"I have another idea," John grinned. "But you may not like it."
"Me he estado preparando para su llegada. Mi cuerpo está listo," Sherlock remarked, he seemed ready and willing. "Estoy mojada y bueno para ir."
John grabbed a roll of duct tape, "I saw this in a movie so I hope it works."
~~~xXx~~~
If you've ever seen the film A Clockwork Orange by the legendary filmmaker Stanley Kubrick, you know what happens next. For those of you that haven't seen it, A Clockwork Orange is about a troubled teen who goes on horrific crime sprees but is eventually caught and sent to a facility where they perform a series of experiments to correct his ultra-violent behavior. A notable scene from the movie is when he is shown violent images on a screen while his eyes are wired open and occasionally given eye drops in order to reverse his habituation towards crime. That's exactly what John decided to do, except instead of destroying a certain behavior he was destroying any and all remanence of the Spanish language from Sherlock's brain. Borrowing from the movie, John had Sherlock tied to his comfy leather with his eyelids taped open so he wouldn't miss a moment of what was on screen. If Sherlock started this by watching crap Spanish telly, he was getting out of this with crap British telly! John put on the most mind numbing shows he could find to substitute one great evil for another. He made him watch documentary that would make anyone lose their mind from overexposure. No matter what it took, he was drilling the English language back into his brain. By the time the sun started to peek its head over the horizon Sherlock had watch 14 historical documentaries, 9 wildlife documentaries, 5 reruns of hit 90's shows, 2 poorly written soap operas, 3 late night talk shows, and numerous infomercials. When John finally removed the tape, the first thing the traumatized detective did was cursed at him in English. It was the most beautiful thing John had ever heard Sherlock say.
"Oh my god, it worked! I can't believe that worked!"
"I can't feel my face," cried Sherlock, rubbing his cheeks to bring back the flow of blood. "Never do that again!"
"Never watch a telenovela again you git!" John argued back. "But it's good to have you back to normal."
"It's good to sound like my normal self," said Sherlock, flipping through the channels to find something good. "Trust me I'm never watching a Spanish soap opera again."
John smiled tiredly; despite missing an entire night's sleep he was glad he was able to help Sherlock without clamoring for Mrs. Hudson's help. This was not how he wanted his Friday to start, then again no Friday can ever be normal when your flatmate is Sherlock Holmes. I guess that's one of the many reason why he loves being friends with Holmes, nothing was ever boring. Even if his night ends in pulling a move from A Clockwork Orange, he still has an amazing story to tell to his buddies at the pub the next week. Being friend with The Great Sherlock Holmes isn't easy but John loves every second of it. It was actually pretty ingenious how he used that movie scene to help his friend in need. Who know, maybe some of Sherlock's intellect was starting to rub off on him. Or maybe it was just his imagination…
"Hey…," a deep voice asked, rousing John from his inner monologue.
"What are Japanese Game Shows?"
"NOOOOOOOOOO!"
I started this in August...oopsie. My pre new years resolution was to finish this fic. Well look at me now! I'm not proud...