Part Six - Lies and Bacon

Wednesday, November 23rd, 2011

Rules and Regulations for the first annual Greatest International Scavenger Hunt the World Has Ever Seen (GISHWHES)
Give us Bureaucracy or Give us Death!
All of the following rules must be observed at all times during the Hunt.

READ THEM CLOSELY! If you fail to follow any of the rules, or if you wilfully violate any of the rules, your team will be docked points and may be disqualified. Some of these rules are designed to ensure fairness and safety, others are designed to confuse and frustrate you, still others serve no purpose whatsoever, but it is essential that you follow them all to the letter.

4. Google Forgery – Authentication: We will make sure every submission is authentic. Our team uses Google search-by image to make sure you have not copied images from the Internet. If we discover forged item submissions from a team, we will disqualify the entire team. In other words, do not cheat.

5. Complaining: Any whining, whimpering, yelling, screaming, crying, tantrum-throwing, challenging or contesting the judges or contest results will result in immediate disqualification and revocation of your GISHWHES citizenship. Seduction, however, is allowed under certain circumstances.

11. Breaking the law: As appealing as it might be, don't get arrested. Every item in the list could conceivably be photographed or filmed legally (in most countries).

12. Injury of others: Don't hurt anyone physically, emotionally, or metaphysically.

14. Leashes: No photo or video of a submitted item can show a leashed dog. Leashed cats and leashed Iguanas, however, are fine.

15. Cheating: Hacking into opposing teams' mainframes, slashing tires, laying booby traps, or stealing scavenged items, will not be tolerated.

John yawned and rolled over. The space next to him was cool, the pillow uncreased. He sighed and pulled the sheet over his head. He'd done it to himself, getting Sherlock into the Scavenger Hunt. That damned violin torture had driven him to it. And now... now the detective had really caught the spirit, not to mention an edge of competitiveness against his team-mate Anderson. When John had gone to bed last night, Sherlock had still been working on two of the web challenges.

The night before

"Ridiculously easy! Create a website that proves Creationists wrong for fourteen points? Child's play."

John shuffled over in his sleepwear, leaning over his lover's thin shoulder. "What about this one? Create a website that proves Creationists right?It's worth much more - eighty nine points." Sherlock just raised a brow, and John chuckled. "Right. Creationism is illogical and unscientific. Forgot who I was speaking to."

Sherlock leaned his head against John's shoulder. "Mm. What I am actually excited about is number two fifteen. Create a website that maps the location and intensity of lies. It's a bit of a farce, but an interesting social piece as well."

John rested his head against the dark one. "Good point. Where would most liars be located? Prisons?"

"In the U.K.? Whitehall," said Sherlock darkly. "Who lies the most, after government officials?"

"Teenagers? Salespeople? People trying to pick up a member of the opposite sex?"

"Oh, good, John!" Sherlock pulled away and rattled at the keyboard. "I can make it a layered map. One that references dates and time as well - fewer lies are told during sleeping hours, more in the afternoons and evenings. What are the worst lies?"

John thought. "Well for intensity, I would say the weakest lies are the ones told by little kids, so schools wouldn't be as dense. As for the worst lies - well. Tends to be circumstantial. Infidelity seems to have to engender the biggest reaction, if crimes scenes are any indication." He ran a hand down the slim back, feeling the warmth through the fine cotton. "You coming to bed?"

"Not now, John. Later."

John gave it up as a lost cause. "Don't forget. Tomorrow I'm at the surgery, so we have to pull up your next challenge before I go to work. All right?"

There was no response and John turned away. A hand caught his wrist and reeled him in for a thorough good night kiss, before he was unceremoniously pushed away again. Regretfully John went upstairs, shaking his head.

Maybe he'd been wrong, pushing Sherlock into this, mused John from beneath his sheet cocoon. It was getting to be as bad as when they were on a case - little food, little sleep, nicotine patches. No sex. And this was only the fourth day, they had six more to go. Hopefully Sherlock would avoid collapse, adhere to the Rules, avoid being arrested in pursuit of his Items and live to shag John for England once again.

Out there was an obsessed boyfriend. Under the sheet was warmth and sanity. Unfortunately, also out there was tea, breakfast, then work. John threw back the covers and joined the cold cruel world.

Downstairs a cooling cup of tea awaited him. Sherlock was lying on the couch, eyes on the ceiling. John took the mug.

"Thanks. Did you finish them? The websites?"

An affirmative grunt was his reply. John grimaced. Yes, just like a case. He thumped the mug down. "Well, on to the next. You ready for your next challenge? Two more to go." Sherlock held out his hand, and John stepped over and irritatedly slapped his Blackberry into it. Sherlock tapped, then read out loud.

"Number ninety six, a video challenge - an extreme close up of a pimple being popped while whistling Beethoven's fifth -"

"No."

Sherlock twisted to look at him. "No? But I could easily find someone who-"

"No.There is such a thing as taste. That is beyond the pale. We are English, and we are going to stand upon our dignity for this one. I'm exercising my right to veto."

"You're sure, then." Sherlock nodded. "It wasn't worth that many points. Fine."

"Good morning!" There was a perfunctory tap at the door, and Mrs. Hudson entered with a plate of scones. John blessed her and took one. "What wasn't worth many points?"

"Oh, this challenge for the Hunt we were discussing," said John. "Sherlock was just about to pick another."

Sherlock sat up, waving away the proffered scones. "All right. Our next number." He punched the keypad with a flourish and turned it to face John, who leaned in and read.

"Sixty two, a photo of a woman wearing a dress, and only the dress, made entirely from bacon." He whistled softly. "Forty three points, not bad. But where will you get that much bacon?"

"Tesco's, of course, John. But that's not important! I need to know how much I need? How many square centimetres of bacon are contained in a package? I suppose I can use something behind as a support - plastic wrap and fishing line to stitch. Unless it just adheres to skin?" He wrinkled his nose. "It's going to be an unholy mess to make. Mrs. Hudson!" He turned to the older woman who started. "How much fabric is needed to made a sleeveless dress? With no wastage?"

The older woman pondered. "Oh, let's see. For a close-fitting mini-dress? Normally I'd say a metre and a half, but you'll be piecing it, as it were. Let's see, twenty four inches by about thirty six, double it for the back..."

"Good. Now, the size of a rasher. John?"

John snorted. "Of course, I would know. When have you ever made me breakfast?"

Sherlock looked wounded. "There was that one time, after the case of the otter pelt sporran..."

"I prefer not to think about either the case or that plate of non-comestibles you placed in front of me. Never mind that it was in bed, which was rather romantic for you. Call that breakfast? It shattered when I put the fork into it. Anyway. A rasher is about six inches by about one or two. The biggest packs have twenty four in them."

Sherlock murmured as he tapped. "Surface area of about sixty centimetres average for a rasher... means we need one hundred sixty of them. Seven packs? Wait, overlap. Let's call it twelve to be certain, in case of spoilage or materials break-down during the construction." He leapt to his feet preparatory to sweeping out the door.

Astonishing, thought John. He's willingly going to Tesco's twice this week? A thought intruded. "Sherlock. Who in the world are you going to convince to wear a meat dress? Besides Lady Gaga, that is."

The tall man halted. It was a serious problem. "Lady Who?"

Oh. So much for pop culture again. John persisted. "I mean, really. Do you know any rational female you can drag in to be clothed in a dress that will leave her smelling like smoked bacon?"

"Oh, I'd do it," said Mrs. Hudson. "Worn stranger things when I was young. I was a bit wild when I was in my twenties." She sighed happily. "The Sixties were wonderful. Not that I remember them." She winked at John, who was grinning broadly.

Sherlock appeared to have turned into a pillar of salt. He swallowed with difficulty and took some time before he spoke in a mild tone. "Mrs. Hudson. I appreciate your sacrifice, but I couldn't ask you to pose in something so..." He cast about frantically for an appropriate word, gave it up. "Unsanitary. And revealing."

Mrs. Hudson waved that consideration away. "Don't be silly, Sherlock. It's not like you're interested in women, being the way you are and so devoted to your doctor. It's all in fun, and I think I still have a pair of go-go boots at the back of my wardrobe. Besides, I've worn a lot less, in fact. Was a bit of a swinger."

John laughed outright at the look on Sherlock's face. "Is that so, Mrs. Hudson?" Really, he thought. I can't believe Sherlock is shocked. He needs to get out more, poor protected lad. Being old doesn't make you sexless. How the great detective not deduced this before about their landlady?

"Oh, yes. Plastic wrap will be nothing new." Sherlock twitched but their landlady didn't notice. "I still read the personal ads in The Guardian," she confided, and John patted her arm.

"You are marvellous, Mrs. Hudson. I think I love you," John said. An odd noise escaped Sherlock and they both looked at him. Sherlock's face was a smooth mask. He smiled as he capitulated but his eyes were begging John.

Please? Veto this. Say I don't have to. John, please. Please?

John heaved a breath and looked his dismayed lover in the eye with a sad look. John grasped Sherlock on both bony shoulders and planted a farewell kiss on his cheek. "I hate to leave and miss all this," he said with unfeigned disapointment. "But - I'm off to work, dear." He just managed to restrain a yelp when Sherlock hugged him and bit his ear. Hard.

"You'll pay for this tonight, John Watson," came the fervent growl. John's shoulders shook as he imagined the morning ahead of Sherlock. I hope I do, Sherlock, I really hope so.

Later that day

"I'm a bit peckish. Want a sandwich?" John opened the fridge and blinked. "Bacon buttie, perhaps?"

It was amazing the range and trajectory the Union Jack pillow could achieve when it was flung hard enough by a furious consulting detective.