A/N
Summary: Takes place anytime pre-Reichenbach. Firefly quotes taken from Episodes 1, 5, and 11.
Rating: T
Warnings: Belated whining about the cancellation of Firefly. Also, I'm still not British.
Disclaimer: The idea of me conceiving something as brilliant as Sherlock (or Firefly) is laughable.
In Which John is a Browncoat
Sherlock Holmes was aware that John Watson was, as the colloquial phrase went, a pop-culture sponge. Hardly a case went by without the doctor making some reference to James Bond, Doctor Who, or Monty Python, usually earning smilies or chuckles from Lestrade and the other Yarders while Sherlock looked on with a blank face. However, John, along with the entirety of Scotland Yard, would be shocked to discover that Sherlock actually recognized many of these references. Maybe not right away, but if he cared to, a bit of mind-palace "sweeping" was usually enough to retrieve the necessary connection. Anything really prominent in wider culture was usually in there somewhere. One never knew what would prove useful. Sherlock had once cleared a man's name by knowing he was a rabid Whovian who would have never missed something so momentous as the return of Sarah Jane Smith.
However, there were some references for which no amount of "sweeping" could provide an explanation. Even more curious was the fact that no one else seemed to get these particular references either. Sherlock was used to everyone else being out of his one-person loop, so it did feel odd to be just as lost as everyone else.
For example, a few weeks ago, Sherlock had been standing toe to toe with Anderson, fuming and slinging a fraction of his repertoire of insults in the man's smug face. (Just a fraction; they'd still be there otherwise.) Anderson had been refusing to allow Sherlock to reexamine a piece of evidence which Sherlock insisted he had (or should have...really what was the difference?) unlimited access to.
Anderson had ended the tirade simply by turning around and leaving the morgue with a rather unnecessary slam of the door.
"Well," John had said mildly. "Curse your sudden and inevitable betrayal!"
If Sherlock had been as confused as Molly looked, he would certainly not have lowered himself to showing it.
Then there was that case last month. Sherlock had rightly deduced the correct warehouse where the suspect would be disposing of his evidence before leaving the city. So he, Sherlock, had of course accompanied the Yarders and confronted the criminal, and if the grateful warehouse owner had decided to thank him, well, that wasn't his fault, was it? Actually, he had found it rather tedious. He would have much preferred to be further questioning the suspect so there would be no doubt in anyone's mind (meaning Anderson and Donovan) that the thief had had no accomplices. While all this was going on, Sherlock happened to be standing close to Lestrade and John, who as usual had been left with very little to do by this point.
"So," Lestrade was saying in the tone of voice John had once told him was an indicator of sarcasm. "We found the initial evidence that cast suspicion on this guy, even if we didn't realize it right away. I made the arrest order, my team actually takes him down; that's got to make us something!"
"Big damn heroes, Sir." John replied, completely deadpan. From what Sherlock could overhear, John could then no longer hold back his giggle, but Lestrade did not find the situation nearly so amusing.
The last straw came two weeks ago, in an office building. They were matched against two would-be corporate spies who had had a bit too much experience enforcing a dictatorship in South America than Sherlock would have liked. John and one of the thugs both had guns drawn on each other. While Sherlock had every confidence in John's ability to keep his head in these kinds of situations, it would not do to have things get too messy before Lestrade's team arrived to make the arrest.
"If you would tell us where you hid the plans, this whole confrontation would be easily avoided." Sherlock said. "And should this escalate any further, I am afraid you will find yourselves outmatched. John here was in the army. Best not to upset him."
"Right," said John, neither his gun nor his gaze wavering a fraction. "Also," he continued, indicating Sherlock with a slight tilt of his head. "He can kill you with his brain."
Sherlock had once pointed out, a little petulantly, that oftentimes nobody responded to John's attempts at humor, but the doctor had shrugged and simply said, "I know you like being the only one in the room who understands something; maybe I do too. Only I can see you don't find it so great when the tables are turned. Which is weird," he continued. "Not getting the trivial stuff never seemed to bother you before."
No, Sherlock thought. It didn't. At least he told himself it didn't. The truth was, after meeting John Watson, there were quite a few things Sherlock was paying more attention to about himself. And one of them was the idea that being on the outside of things was not always the most fulfilling place to be. Maybe. In certain circumstances. If he really let himself think about it.
One night, soon after the office building stand-off incident, Sherlock found himself bored. John was in bed, Lestrade had not had a case for them in over a week now, and sleep would be taking the easy way out. So Sherlock decided the hell with it, googled "he can kill you with his brain", and started skimming through the links. Quickly, he began to notice a certain...theme.
Bovines and spacecraft, what absurdity is this?
River. Who names a child after a geological feature?
What does John see in this?
Sherlock's eyes drifted over to the bookcase, and settled on John's sparse collection of DVD's. One box was slightly thicker than the others, with the title written in curvy gold lettering along the side.
Sherlock told himself he was not that curious.
John was woken abruptly by Sherlock barging into his room. He glanced first at his clock, three in the bloody morning, really? then turned to his flatmate, who was standing in the doorway, arm outstretched, holding something rectangular. John fumbled around and flipped on his lamp.
"John."
"Yes?"
Sherlock shook the box in his hand. "This."
John was still so disoriented he could hardly make out what "this" was. "What about it?" he sighed.
"Where's the rest of it." Amazing how Sherlock could make a question sound totally not like a question.
John squinted, finally making out what the box actually was. "Is this why you haven't been sleeping?" he asked, a little incredulously.
"Never mind that!" snapped Sherlock. "You obviously like this program, otherwise you wouldn't have spent the money on it. Yet the subsequent series are not to be found on the customary shelf. Where are they?"
John had a hard enough time keeping up with Sherlock's deductions even after eight hours of sleep. "Um, there isn't any more. Some American channel canceled it because it wasn't getting enough viewers or something."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. This was clearly unacceptable.
"There's a movie," John added hastily. "I'll pick it up next time I'm out. Can I sleep now?"
Sherlock blinked, and for a moment John was afraid he wasn't going to let it go. Then, he said, "Yes. Fine. Goodnight." He turned abruptly and shut the door far too loudly for three am, and John could still hear him muttering something about "illogical".
"Good morning!" John muttered at the door in correction, then turned over to go back to sleep. He couldn't help but grin to himself. However inadvertantly, he'd gotten Sherlock Holmes into sci fi.
Shiny.
A/N Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The next installment will be about either Mycroft or Molly.
