Author's note: As a viewer of the BBC Series Sherlock (and a fanfiction reader/writer) what I enjoy most is the enduring friendship and the good humor between the characters. These qualities are present in ACD's Canon, but thanks to creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, stronger currents of humor, irony, and wit run through the BBC series.
Despite the darker elements and somewhat shocking direction the series seems to be taking, I am continually pleased that the eternal friendship between the original Canon characters is preserved. So, while one cannot have drama without conflict nor feel angst without hardship bordering on desperation, sometimes we deserve to dwell on the joy as well. This is what I attempt to do here. I hope you will enjoy it. This one-shot pays homage to the "lightness of being" true friends.
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"This is a story about a detective and his friend, not a detective story." Steve Moffat
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THE SCENE: When they spotted the taxi pulling away from the kerb at the corner of 22 Northumberland Street, the boys sprang from Angelo's little Italian restaurant. In his haste, Sherlock ran into oncoming traffic, causing a car to brake abruptly to avoid hitting him. He vaulted over the bonnet and raced in pursuit. John apologized to the distressed driver and followed Sherlock—thus commenced their first adventure as partners.
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"Come on, John!" Sherlock urged him as they spiraled up the metal fire staircase to the roof.
And John rallied despite his shorter legs.
Forgotten in the excitement of their very first murder-investigation chase was that they were still strangers, only tendering the possibility of becoming flatmates.
All John could hear was the clarion call to action within the telltale sincerity of Sherlock Holmes' voice. Detecting comradery and a desire to share an adventure—a contradiction of sorts for a genius who usually preferred going it alone—John felt compelled to respond as he had always done, because, despite his invalided status and psychosomatic limp, he was at heart a man of action.
But there was no time to think of these details. Energized and in hot pursuit, they had become spirited boys racing under the Soho lights of the London nightscape, up and down staircases, leaping across rooftops like buccaneers—loyal to the end—boarding a Spanish galleon, carefree yet driven. Until one particular span gave John pause. For a brief moment, he retreated from being the playful boy lost in his vivid imagination and returned to the man in real life where there existed no arch enemies, a man in his right mind who might not be able to jump the distance safely; John faltered, fearing to follow.
"Come on, John! We're losing him!" Sherlock pressed as if without John he might fail.
Reinvigorated by Sherlock's need, John took the doubtful leap with wild abandon and continued the thrilling hunt, adrenaline generating a high that drove him blissfully forward.
They chased through back alley ways, ricocheting off brick walls like pinballs in a machine.
"This way." Sherlock emerged on D'Arblay in a dead run as the taxi drove past.
John, slightly behind, sprinted after the taxi.
"No, this way!" The great adventurer called reassuringly to his stalwart comrade. Sherlock had gone in the opposite direction.
"Sorry!" John obeyed the commanding voice and reversed course toward Berwick, trusting the detective knew another short cut. With a surge of energy, he gained ground on Sherlock and followed him across Noel Street.
Bursting through an alley onto Wardour Street, Sherlock at last intercepted the black cab and brought it to a screeching halt with a slap to the bonnet. In a show of authority he raised an official police ID and commandeered with his last breath, "Police! Open her up!"
As he caught up, John observed it all: Sherlock, panting and exhilarated, had pulled wide the passenger door, and stared into the bewildered face of the occupant. In that instant, Sherlock's own face fell.
"No!" Disbelief filled Sherlock's words. "Teeth, tan, what? Californian?" A quick glance at the tags on the luggage at the passenger's feet confirmed the lightning quick assessment. "L.A.; Santa Monica." Between clenched teeth, Sherlock exhaled. "Just arrived."
"How can you possibly know that?" Exasperated, John was reluctant to surrender so quickly to defeat. Inexplicably, he felt he owed the amazing detective the unswerving loyalty of his belief.
"The luggage." Like a child painfully disillusioned, Sherlock whinged and turned away.
To the American passenger who gawked through the opened taxi door, his eyes darting back and forth, the rapid but soft verbal exchange between the two men must have seemed an indecipherable code to his laid-back Californian ear. He looked perplexed as the dark-haired man was suddenly addressing him.
"Erm. It's probably your first trip to London, right?"
The Californian gave an uncertain half nod.
The fast-speaking Englishman continued, "Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"
"Sorry?" the seated passenger braved the language barrier. "Are you guys the police?"
"Yeah." The strange-looking policeman said and flashed his I.D. once more as an afterthought. His nondescript partner merely stood behind frowning and fretting. "Everything all right?" The hyperactive one inquired without sounding genuinely interested.
Awestruck by his first encounter with official British aloofness of which he had been warned, the Californian responded with a dangerously earnest smile. "Yeah." In the awkward pause that followed, the tourist looked ready to introduce himself.
Sherlock deftly thwarted any possible display of brash Americanism with a fake grin and a snappy, "Welcome to London," and dashed off.
Uncertain how he should proceed, John leaned in toward the American, kept a blank expression as he offered a polite smile, and added modestly, "Er, any problems, just let us know," before he closed the taxi door and joined his partner up the street where they each needed to catch their breath.
"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," John verified between gulps of air.
"Basically," Sherlock inhaled distractedly as if embarrassed.
"Not the murderer," John puffed, still seeking clarification.
"Not the murderer, no," Sherlock exhaled his mild vexation.
"Wrong country, good alibi," John, coughing softly, stated succinctly.
"As they go," Sherlock agreed, still winded, but amused by John's concise summation.
"Hey, where, where did you get this?" John looked down during another deep inhale and grasped the I.D. cupped in Sherlock's hand. "Here."
The sleight-of-hand master, who could have quickly concealed the object he held, did not resist John's prying fingers. Sherlock let him dislodge it from his grip.
"Right," John exhaled as he examined the official-looking identification. Even though he had barely known the man for 24 hours, John hardly felt surprised by his discovery. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"
"Yeah," Sherlock confessed without remorse, still taking deep breaths. "I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one. I've got plenty at the flat."
John made no judgmental comment, unlike most people Sherlock knew, which seemed to surprise the detective. In fact, John made no comment at all; rather he dropped his head as though to study the purloined I.D.
Then, the unexpected happened. Sherlock saw John grin, raise his head on a slight tilt, and turn away as soft chuckles expanded his chest like a bellows.
"What?" Sherlock bristled defensively, like a boy about to be scolded.
"Nothing, just ..." John heaved a breathy sigh, regained control, and met Sherlock's narrowed gaze with his own eyes brightened by levity, "'Welcome to London.'"
Guarded, Sherlock reciprocated with a cautious grin before he glanced back down the street at the taxi. John followed Sherlock's gaze. They could see the tourist talking to a police officer in a reflective vest and pointing toward them—the bizarre welcoming committee. It seemed like a good time to move on before they were detained for questions.
"Got your breath back?" Sherlock's voice was soft and considerate as he waited for an affirmative from a man who seemed no stranger.
"Ready when you are." Eyes still trained on the taxi, John replied without hesitation, as though he was signing on for a new mission. A great gladness filled his heart. He felt ready to run again.
They raced away in companionable silence, like boys on a midsummer's eve. During that swift run back to Baker Street, they neither shared gestures of comradeship nor found words to describe what they both experienced in the catharsis of their mad chase. But experience it they did—that unique and instant, almost childlike, connection when two young spirits discover each other and identify the other as a forever friend even before words name it so. They just happened to be grown men not given to talk of sentiment and never would be—which was fine, by the way.
"Okay," John concurred to no one in particular, or rather perhaps to himself, as they entered 221B and removed their coats. Light headed and giddy, they rested side-by-side against the hallway wall, still breathless and panting.
"That was ridiculous." John raised his eyes momentarily ceiling ward and rolled his head down to stare at his feet. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."
"And you invaded Afghanistan."
Contagious giggles erupted from John as absolute silliness overtook all restraint. Sherlock joined lightly at first, but soon relaxed with more sonorous chuckles that scaled the heights of John's amusement.
"That wasn't just me." Still winded from the chase and their laughter, John smiled at the absurdity of even offering a feeble protest, before refocusing on their mission. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"
"Oh, they can keep an eye out." Waving away the futility of it all between shallow breaths, Sherlock resigned himself to the missed opportunity. "It was a long shot anyway."
The moment had passed, their first adventure was over, and they were required to accept the disappointment like the adults they were. Clearly, the genius had fallible moments, John realized, mildly surprised that Sherlock seemed to take the failure in stride. Does this genius not mind his audience appreciating his frailty? "So what were we doing there?"
As he inhaled another deep breath with a clearing throaty sound, Sherlock shook his head and shrugged in resignation, "Oh, just passing the time," he said flippantly before giving his companion a sidelong look. "And proving a point."
John, having entirely missed Sherlock's glance, looked up, sensing he was missing an inference. "What point?" he puzzled.
"You!' Sherlock's swift response was immediately followed by his volumous baritone bellowing towards Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs."
John had little energy reserve left to make a greater protest than a winded, "says who?"
"Says the man at the door," Sherlock replied with a confident nod toward the front door.
Curious, John turned toward the door, heard three short raps precisely on cue, and shot Sherlock one last quizzical look. The delighted smile brightening Sherlock's face encouraged John to answer the door.
Sherlock seemed to anticipate John's reaction to the unexpected caller, and stayed back, relaxing against the wall whilst blowing out one giant exhale.
When John swung open the black lacquered door, Angelo was standing on the stoop.
"Sherlock texted me," Angelo smiled and held up an aluminum cane, John's cane. "He said you forgot this."
Complete and utter shock at the sight of his forgotten cane momentarily took John's breath away. The physical sign of his invalidation depriving him of a life of action, adventure and excitement—the cane—had been rendered unnecessary. As he touched the offered stick, the profound realization was immediate. John felt wonder surge through his limbs, thrills heighten his senses, and purpose beat in his heart. Not only had he recovered his former life, he had discovered in that instant something rare. A kindred spirit! The kind one would have been lucky to have found in the best of the best childhood friendships from long ago. "Ah!" John sighed in astonishment as he turned toward Sherlock, the miracle man who had cured him.
Standing behind him in the hall, Sherlock gave John a brilliant grin that seemed to say, "Welcome to London!"
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Please don't forget to leave a comment or a review. Your feedback is greatly appreciated.
PS. Although I diligently review (over and over and over) each Sherlock episode to transcribe dialog (over which I claim no rights) from the BBC show, my labors have been immensely shortened by referencing the wonderful and brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan. Also, very special thanks go to englishtutor for her constant support!