Sherlock has a lot of very loud, very pointed opinions about John's library. For some reason, though, the science fiction shelf seems to draw the most ire.
"It's rubbish, John. You're a man of science, why do you read this far-fetched speculative nonsense?"
"Because it's fun and interesting and gives me hope for the future."
Sherlock plucks a book off the shelf at random and studies the back cover for a moment before sighing and putting it back in the wrong spot. John cringes.
"I don't see why it even matters to you, Sherlock. It's not as if I'm reading it out loud, or forcing you to read it yourself. It entertains me, it makes me think."
At the use of the word think Sherlock lets out a grunt.
"Actually, how about that? How about I read one or two short stories to you while you pace the living room like a madman. You can't give me a decent judgement on this sort of stuff if you've not read any yourself."
"Only if you let me read you an article on the rate of decay in brain tissue as impacted by acidity in the water table."
"Deal." Contented, John picks his well-worn copy of The Illustrated Man off the shelf, ready to be transported by the thought-provoking prose of Ray Bradbury.
As you may have heard, they announced Ray Bradbury's passing this morning. I'm legitimately crushed by this. I actually had another drabble written and ready to go, but I wanted to honour Bradbury in my own way today. And if anyone's curious, Sherlock totally ended up loving the stories John read. How could he not?