So I have won NaNoWriMo, and am super excited about it, and so here we go with a nice, nearly 3,000 word chapter for y'all as celebration. Whoo!
Writing 50,000 words makes one realize that it would feel impossibly futile if it were not for those who actually read one's work, so I'd also just like to thank you, dear readers, so very much.
Comments and all are my favourite!
The next day, John called Mike Stamford.
He'd finally given up trying to come up with anything else to do on his own; Sherlock was absorbed in her horrible-smelling experiment and hadn't showered since she awoke, which meant she was starting to smell bad herself. So John called Mike.
After two rings, he realized this was going to be awkward, and after three, he was certain this was a bad idea, but then Mike picked up.
"Hello?"
"Ah. Hello. Um. It's John Watson? We went to Bart's together."
"John! Hi! It's been ages! How've you been?" Mike's voice hadn't changed much. John could picture him smiling on the other end of the phone.
"Good, I've been good. Well. I've been well. Um. Harry just suggested - since I'm back - I should, um. Well. Call." Smooth, Watson, you are definitely gifted with social grace.
"Yeah! Yeah, it's good to hear from you! We'll have to catch up, I didn't even know you were back. There's a group of us going to the pub tonight, you know. Pub quiz night. We've only got three on the team, and it goes up to six, if you want to join."
"What time is it?" John asked. "I probably won't be much help, I'm hardly up-to-date on pop culture these days." Unless you counted the James Bond films, in which case he knew pretty much every line. There hadn't been much to do in hospital, and Daniel Craig was a wonder.
"No problem, we're all like that, except Julia. She gets all the celebrities and I get all the anatomy questions. It's at half six, at Distiller's."
He was about to refuse, really he was, but then the picture of going to the pool with Harry came into his head - his sister in a swimsuit - and John clenched the phone a bit tighter. "Sure, I'll be there."
"Great! Sounds brilliant. Sorry to cut this short - I mean, I'd love to chat, but you caught me on my lunch break and it's about to end."
"It's fine, it's all fine," John replied easily. "See you tonight, then."
"Right. Bye, John. It was good to hear from you!"
Pubs were good. John liked pubs. A nice pint would be perfect to end his day. John made himself another cup of tea, making two automatically and bringing one into Sherlock's kitchen to set next to her. She looked up at him and narrowed her eyes, hands paused in the middle of adding liquid to a petri dish.
"You've made plans," she said without preamble.
"How do you - never mind," John sighed, then nodded. "Yeah, I'm going to the pub tonight. It's pub quiz night, an old friend invited me." He shifted awkwardly, going to lean on the counter but realizing it was covered in unknown substances, and thinking better of it.
Sherlock just kept looking at him as if he was lying, then tilted her head. "You're not excited about it."
John shifted his weight onto the other foot. "Not really," he admitted. "I'm not very good at the socializing bit. And I'll not be much good at the pub quiz bit either - Mike's a doctor too, it's not like I can just take care of any medical questions and sit out on the rest. Though," he realized, "you aren't to tell Mike that. Or anybody. Why am I telling you?" He shook his head.
Nodding to herself, Sherlock turned back to her experiment. "Can I come?"
Almost dropping his mug, John gaped at her. "You want to?"
"Of course, John," she said, rolling her eyes. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise."
"Yes, but - you at a pub quiz?" John couldn't imagine Sherlock anywhere that might be considered social. When Sherlock was surrounded by other human beings, she was in a morgue. And the other human beings were dead.
"Sure. Call Molly, she'll enjoy it too." Yet another person who enjoyed being surrounded by dead people. The social skills in this group were going to be amazing.
"Right, sure." John started to walk out of the kitchen, then turned back at the door. "Have you got her number?"
"It's in my mobile," Sherlock said, moving to another petri dish carefully.
"Where's that?"
"Jacket."
John looked at her. She was wearing her jacket.
"You're wearing it, Sherlock."
"Busy," Sherlock said, leaning over the counter and using the pipette to add another liquid to a different group of petri dishes that seemed to be growing some sort of - mold? Fungus? Bacteria? "Grab it yourself."
John raised an eyebrow, then walked forward and reached into her jacket pocket, deliberately keeping his hand from touching her as much as he could in that position. He retrieved the mobile and tapped it, bringing up the lock screen.
"Lock screen," he said shortly.
"The first four-digit number in a 1-based Fibonacci sequence," said Sherlock quickly. John was silent until she looked at his blank face and supplied, "1597."
"Right," John nodded, hitting the buttons and finding Sherlock's address book. About ten minutes later he'd managed to program Molly into his own address book, and wanted to throw both phones at the wall. Stupid electronics. Phones used to be good for calling people.
Finally he hit the 'call' button, after walking into Sherlock's sitting room, which still held the charred remains of a sofa. He paced next to it as he listened to the phone ring.
"Hello?"
"Ah, hello! This is John, John Watson."
"Oh! Hi!" Molly sounded nervous, but then she normally sounded nervous, so John wasn't sure if it was his fault or not. He swallowed.
"Sherlock and I are going to a pub quiz tonight, half seven at the Distiller's - wondered if you'd like to come."
"R-really? Because I'm certain you could find someone better for quizzes - I'm not very good with them..." Molly tried to hedge out of it, but John could hear the excitement in her voice, and suddenly realized he wanted her to come, because she was nice, and possibly had never been invited to a pub quiz before, due to, you know, hanging out with dead people.
"No, you'll be fine. You can't be worse than me at naming movie stars. You're free, then?" he asked, and heard her shuffle on the other side of the line.
"Yeah! Ah, yeah, I can make it. It sounds... fun."
"Brilliant. I'll, um, see you then."
"Okay, bye!" Molly hung up quickly, and John was left holding the phone, which was now blaring a dial tone at him.
He was going to the pub with Sherlock Holmes.
Bollocks.
John insisted on walking to the pub - it wasn't that far away, and it was just barely still light out, and he didn't have the money to pay for a cab. Sherlock said she'd pay, but John felt her money was a sort of black cat - where it went, bad dates followed.
Not that this was a date, but then what had happened with Simon didn't count as a proper date either, and look at the results.
So seven o'clock found him walking down the sidewalk with Sherlock, who was wearing her long coat with the collar pulled up to show off her cheekbones, and whose scarf somehow made her neck look long instead of short, and John was feeling underdressed, which was ridiculous, because he was going to the pub. You couldn't underdress at the pub. Right? Plaid and jeans were totally acceptable pub attire.
"What are you experimenting on?" he asked after a couple minutes of Sherlock grumbling under her breath about stubborn doctors who wouldn't take cabs.
"Yeast," she answered after a moment. "I'm trying to find the proper ratio of sugar, flour, water, and salt to produce the maximum amount of carbon dioxide."
John raised an eyebrow. "You're experimenting on how to make bread rise?"
"Efficiently," Sherlock huffed. "It takes far too long with current methods."
"What made you decide to try experimenting on it?" John asked, genuinely interested. He hadn't thought Sherlock's experiments could be of practical use aside from providing evidence to capture killers.
"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, looking over at him with an appreciative expression. "Her pastries are delicious, but time-extensive."
"And you wish she could make them faster," John grinned. "Brilliant."
Sherlock frowned. "You're making fun of me."
John shook his head. "Not really. I actually do think it's brilliant, and if I get pastries out of it, all the better. It's just - well, you're the only person I know who would tackle the problem of slow cooking scientifically."
"Slow baking," Sherlock corrected him with a sniff, but her expression had a hesitant sort of pride about it, and John chuckled, letting his hands relax as he walked next to her.
"...so, why did you burn your sofa?"
Sherlock sniffed again, pulled up her scarf, and didn't answer.
Distiller's was nice; a bit nicer than the hole-in-the-wall pubs John was used to, but still. Nice. Mike waved them over to a table with a smile.
"Ah, hi, Mike, yes," he said, shifting his weight as he realized he hadn't asked before bringing a guest. "Um, this is Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate. Asked to come along. And I invited a friend, if you don't mind - you might know her, actually. Molly Hooper, from Barts?"
Mike blinked as they shook hands. "From the morgue? The little one? Yeah, I know her." He smiled again. John remembered another reason why he and Mike were friends; Mike genuinely seemed to like everyone. "Know Sherlock, too, as a matter of fact. What was it, a riding crop last I saw you?" His eyes twinkled at the comment.
Sherlock shook hands quickly. "I think so." She turned to John, who realized he was wearing his confusion on his face. "I was testing how bruises could be produced after death."
John nodded, then rubbed his forehead with one hand. "And that's who I live with, everyone. Moving along."
Mike chuckled, then looked past John. "Oh, there's Hooper. Molly!" He waved, and John could have sworn Molly blushed as she hurried over with a hesitant smile.
"Hello, John. Thanks, for inviting me... I didn't know you would be here, Mike!" She smiled with a nervous air.
"Yeah, well I invited John. We went to Bart's together, as little lads. Well, I was littler, John was about the same."
"Ah," John shifted his weight and grinned. "Yes, I'm short, I get it. Hardly my fault some people are absurdly tall." He gave Sherlock a fake scowl, and she grinned brightly in return, which was... rather frightening, John decided.
"Right, then. They're going to start handing out the quizzes soon, you gonna get anything?" Mike asked, gesturing kindly to a seat for Molly. She slid into it, still looking nervous, but happy.
"Right, yeah. You want anything, Sherlock?" John asked. She shook her head. "Molly?" John turned to her.
"Um, gin and tonic?"
"Got it," John said, making his way to the bar. He cam back with the drinks and set Molly's in front of her.
"Oh, how much?" she asked, pulling up her purse, and John shook his head.
"Don't worry about it." Molly was the only person who would let Sherlock into the morgue, she deserved it.
"I paid your entrance fee for the quiz," Sherlock said quickly. John blinked at her and reached for his wallet, but she rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. It was a pound. Don't bother."
"Right, great," John sat down. "Cheers," he raised his beer, and Molly giggled. She looked more relaxed, sitting next to Mike; John wondered...
"Here's your quiz, you know the rules," a man said, coming by the table with two papers and a pencil. "First round. Good luck!" He winked at Molly, who flushed, and headed to the next table.
"Want me to read them off?" a man near the end of the table asked.
"Sure," John said, passing the question paper down the way. "John Watson, seeing as we haven't been introduced."
"Cris, nice to meet you," the man said with a grin, taking the paper and skimming it. "Alright, first question: What is the name of the American National Anthem?"
Mike groaned. "What does their anthem sound like?"
"Oh say can you see..." another lady at the end of the table sung, and Mike sighed.
"Is that the name, then?"
"The Star-Spangled Banner," Sherlock said simply.
John looked at her. "Really?"
She shrugged. "Serial killer in '06. Kept writing lyrics on the scene of the crime. Ended up being American; fanatic about the Revolutionary War. Was killing men with the same names as British soldiers."
John raised his eyebrows. "Huh." He turned his attention back to the table to see Mike's two friends staring at them. "Oh. Sorry. Sherlock's a detective."
"Oh," the woman breathed. "Right." She pulled over the answer paper and jotted down "The Star-Spangled Banner".
"Consulting detective," Sherlock breathed next to him.
"Next question?" Mike asked awkwardly, and Cris nodded quickly.
"Ah, capital city of Afghanistan."
"Kabul," John said quickly. Cris looked at him in surprise and he shifted in his seat. "Stationed near there for a couple months," he said in explanation.
John still didn't know the name of the woman sitting next to him, but she wrote down "Cabul." "With a 'K'," he said, smiling to take out any sting, and she nodded, putting a line next to the 'C' so it turned into a rather awkward-looking 'K'.
Sherlock snorted next to him. John elbowed her in the ribs.
The evening passed slowly. Molly turned out to be surprisingly handy with recognizing celebrities from their photos, and John found he was moderately useful when geography questions came up. Things weren't terrible. Still, John found himself wishing he were at home, not trying to make awkward conversation with two strangers - the woman's name turned out to be Julia.
They were on the last round - "general knowledge," and Cris read out clearly, "What is the technical term for the earth going round the sun?"
"Something centricism," Molly said musingly.
"It does?" Sherlock said, looking interested. The whole table turned to look at her.
"Does what?" John asked, confused. John had spent the evening being Sherlock's translator; she knew a lot of the answers, but the reasons ("...they thought it was some sort of low-dosage long-term poisoning, but really his wife had just insured he got scurvy by feeding him little to no ascorbic acid - vitamin C, John. It was fascinating." "Yes, Sherlock, very interesting. Just write down 'vitamin C', Julia.") often seemed to disturb the others.
"It goes round the sun?"
John looked at her blankly. "Yes, of course it does."
"Huh." Sherlock seemed to think about this for a moment, then looked at him. "Must have forgot it."
"You forgot primary school science?" Mike asked, his smile growing wider. John had discovered over the course of the evening that Mike found Sherlock to be a source of perpetual amusement, choosing to find humour where others took offense, or got confused.
"Well, I probably did it on purpose," Sherlock said, as if that made it perfectly normal.
"Right," John said, rolling his eyes. "I take it you don't know the answer, then?"
"You think the end is 'centrism'?" Sherlock asked Molly. Molly nodded. "Probably helio-centrism, then."
"How do you know that, but not that the earth goes round the sun?" Cris asked in confusion.
Sherlock shrugged. "It's Latin. Helios - sun - centrism - center. Simple enough."
"You know Latin but not your primary science," Julia marvelled.
"Yes, yes," Sherlock said, getting impatient and making a quick gesture with her arms. "Can we move on?"
"Right. Who won the football World Cup in 1998?"
Sherlock sat back, folding her arms and looking cross, and John exchanged glances with Molly, who looked concerned, and the night continued.
"Well, that was dull," Sherlock remarked as they walked home.
John sighed and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Well, I tried," he attempted to console himself.
Sherlock gave him a keen glance. "Tried what, exactly?"
Pursing his lips, John looked at her, then realized she'd figure it out soon enough anyway. "My sister's torturing me."
"Your sister?" Sherlock asked, then connected the dots. "She wants you to get out more."
John scuffed his trainer against the tarmac, feeling like a petulant teenager. "She says if I don't get either a boyfriend or a hobby by the time she sees me again, she's dragging me swimming with her girlfriends at their pool. Which would be..."
"Humiliating?" Sherlock offered, and John shuddered.
"Ah, yes. Well."
To his surprise, Sherlock looked nearly sympathetic. "Can't you tell her you solve crimes for a hobby? I suppose telling her you shoot killer Thames cabbies is out of the question."
"Entirely," John said, snorting a laugh, and Sherlock gave a deep chuckle. "I don't suppose you've got any experiments that could use a doctor?" he asked hopefully. Sherlock opened her mouth, and he held up a hand before she could speak. "Never mind, I just realized what sort of experiments those would be." He looked down at the pavement again, muffling a giggle before quieting. "I'll find something."
Sherlock looked at him keenly, but said nothing.
The Distiller's is a real place! (I do try to make some of this authentic. Key word, some.) If you want to put together a team and try the fun out for yourself, the info's on my profile.
(PS. Anyone who wants to take Photoshop and the pub's picture gallery and photoshop John, Mike, or Molly into some of it, feel free! Sherlock, obviously, is a bit harder, because I doubt any two readers have cast Sherlock the same. Personally I'm kinda picturing Rachel Weisz with rampant curls. But to each their own. For a while, it was Tilda Swinton's cheekbones and a vague amount of curls with no real face in my brain, so. You can't possibly have a worse idea of Sherlock than that.)
