Fic: Geometry (Complete)
Title: Geometry
Links: AO3, LJ
Rating: T
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Category: Gen, maybe pre-slash
Word count: 1524
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: A mysterious stranger by the name of Interrosand leaves a cryptic note on John’s blog. Hilarity and/or mini golf ensues.
***
The note on the website is cryptic, but then such notes always are.
Interrosand posted at 17:00:
Have some fun at 19th in one.
Sherlock takes one glance over John’s shoulder. “Mini golf.” His voice drips with scorn. “The perfect pasttime for the culture that invented Real Housewives and Cheez-whiz.”
“How did you -- hold on. Are you telling me you deleted the solar system, but crap American telly and crimes against the culinary arts made the cut?”
Sherlock merely scowls. “Research, John.”
John has long since begun to suspect that research, John uttered in that tone of long-suffering genius covers all manner of sins he’s better off not knowing.
John sighs, and moves the mouse cursor toward the fussy little trashcan icon. He always seemed to click “quote” instead. Why they couldn’t just use bigger words--
“Don’t delete it!”
“Why not? Our blog’s got enough spam as it is.”
“It’s a clue, obviously.”
“Clue to what?”
Sherlock hums in a way that’s meant to sound mysterious but almost certainly means he hasn’t got the faintest idea.
John yawns. He could go for a nice kip on the sofa. It is Sunday, after all, a time when such things are not only allowed, but encouraged. They’d been up late the night before, what with Sherlock pacing the sitting room while his hacker friend (a spotty youth who made John feel positively geriatric) attempted to break into the National Archives.
Something about a forger, a banker, a candlestick maker. Who could keep track?
In other words, a typical Saturday night on Baker Street.
John’s reverie is interrupted when his coat lands on his head, obscuring his vision. He shoves it aside just in time to see Sherlock spinning toward the front door. “Come along, John, or we’ll be late!”
“What? Where are we going?”
“Devonshire Square, for some horrid mini golf, of course!”
***
An hour later they’re armed with flimsy putters and brightly colored golf balls. The sight of the miniature golf club in Sherlock’s large hands and his wet-cat expression of dismay nearly makes up for John’s lost Sunday lie-in.
“Haven’t you ever played mini golf before?”
“John. Of course I haven’t played mini golf before.”
“Well, why are we here now, then?”
Sherlock sighs his why am I surrounded by imbeciles sigh, and gestures with his putter. “The clue on the website, obviously. The 19th refers to the bonus round at the end of a course. This is the only 18-hole course in London, which means the only 19th-hole we could have reached at the appointed time of 5pm this evening.”
“Why 5pm?”
“In the message! The message on your ridiculous blog! The timestamp was clearly forged: it was out of sequence with the posts before and after. Ergo, a clue.”
“You saw all of that in the two seconds you looked at that post?”
“John. Lovely to meet you, I’m Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, and on occasion I notice things.”
“Consulting smartarse, more like.”
Sherlock merely sniffs, and tucks his club under his arm. “Come along, to the 19th hole.”
“Oi, wait up! We’re meant to play some mini golf, here, aren’t we?”
“Since when are you so enamored of the rules? I have yet to spot an armed guard enforcing our adherence to the course.”
“We’re here, we’ve paid, and we’ve still got nearly an hour before five. I say we play a game.”
As Sherlock grows more affronted with every word, and John starts to wonder if he’ll need to locate smelling salts.
John grins. “C’mon, it’s just geometry, right? Shouldn’t this be right up your alley? Don’t you want to find yet another opportunity to trounce me at something?”
Sherlock considers this. “I am rather good at geometry.”
***
As it turns out, theoretical geometry is no match for applied mini golf, and John’s rather good, himself.
Sherlock is about as pleased as one might expect. “This game is ridiculous. This pond is ridiculous. This child-sized club is ridiculous.”
“You’re just put out because you’re losing.”
“Considering the circumstances, I’ll consider that a sign of strength of character.”
John adjusts his stance, wiggles his fingers on his club’s grip, and taps the fuchsia ball with the delicacy of the surgeon he once was. The ball rolls over the green, bounces off two barriers, and lands neatly in the hole.
A weighty silence. “You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock says.
John grins, savoring the roughly eight seconds he estimates remain before Sherlock’s patience runs completely dry. John glances at his watch. “Look, almost five. Shall we away to the 19th hole?”
Sherlock releases his breath through his teeth, regarding his putter through narrow eyes. He nods, once, and John won’t be surprised if he wakes up tomorrow to find 221b repurposed into a mini golf training ground for overly competitive consulting detectives.
They make their way toward the 19th hole in silence: Sherlock trudges, and John endeavors to keep the bounce in his step to a minimum.
The approach the final hole, and Sherlock grumbles. “The clue says we’re to get a hole in one. I suppose you’d best give it a try.”
John grins. “Are you acknowledging that I, John Watson, am the better mini golf player?”
Sherlock scowls.
“I may need to take a picture. For posterity, you know.”
“Will you get on with it?”
“Fine, fine.”
John eyes the obstacle in front of him, a windmill with lazily-turning arms. He’ll only have one shot at it, and then the ball will be gone. If he hits the center target, he’ll get some sort of prize: that must be where the clue can be found.
He narrows his eyes and licks his lips, lining up his putter with care. Sherlock’s stare is very nearly burning a hole in the back of his neck, and he can’t resist a few extra test swings, just to sense the man’s blood pressure rise.
He grins, and gives the ball a solid knock. It shoots over the green, up the slope, and rolls right into the center channel. A perfect shot.
He turns, and winks at Sherlock, who looks as if he’s swallowed something sour, but gives a grudging nod.
John strolls up to the windmill, club swinging at his side, to collect his prize: a small plush rabbit, and a slip of paper that simply says “Cinnamon.”
Sherlock appears, hovering over John’s shoulder. When John looks up, confused, Sherlock simply points across the courtyard to an adjoining restaurant and bar. John reads the awning. “Cinnamon Kitchen.”
***
They enter the darkened restaurant, and very nearly collide with Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson.
John starts to apologize, then remark on the coincidence, when Molly interrupts him with a jovial “Happy birthday!” and a bit of confetti in his hair.
John blinks. “What?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Mrs. Hudson gathers him up for a rib-compressing hug, and Lestrade claps him on the shoulder.
John glances toward Sherlock in confusion.
“The anniversary of the day of your birth? I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I understand people often gather and eat and make unfortunate small talk.”
“Yes, but I didn’t…. I don’t really celebrate it. Kind of old for that, you know.” It’s true: at this point in his life circumstances, he girds himself for the possibility of a drunken phone call from Harry, and that’s about it.
Sherlock shrugs. “You were moping. It was tedious.”
He hadn’t been moping, he’d just. Well. Been dumped, again. And maybe a bit sofa-bound, when not following Sherlock’s coattails into cases.
He blinks. “So there was no mysterious case? What about the comment on the blog?”
Sherlock sniffs. “That was Molly’s idea. Apparently she has an internet… alter ego.” His eyes light up, the steam of an impending deduction gathering almost visibly between his ears, and Molly’s eyes widen in alarm.
John applies an elbow to his ribs, and Sherlock’s teeth click shut. His mouth twists. “Entirely mundane, as befits the phrase alter ego, obviously.”
“Wait a minute. Did you take me out for mini golf on my birthday?”
Sherlock hunches his shoulders. “You paid for it, if you recall.”
“But I was the one who insisted we play.”
Sherlock merely raises his eyebrows, and John sighs. “Right. You manipulative bastard.”
Mrs. Hudson beams, and Lestrade slips an arm around Molly’s waist, and all at once John feels absurdly pleased with life. “Well. Then let me buy you all a drink?”
***
A few hours, several pints (for John), two double scotches (for Sherlock), and 3 hot toddies (for Mrs. Hudson) later, they share a cab back to Baker Street. John is sandwiched in the middle, Mrs. Hudson dozing on one shoulder, Sherlock pressed against the other.
It’s quiet and warm, the silence between them a comfortable, familiar weight.
John lets his leg relax into Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock nudges back, companionable. John tilts his head until he catches sight of dark curls and a striking profile and the set of a mouth that doesn’t look quite so forbidding, now.
The corner of Sherlock’s quirks, under his scrutiny.
And not for the first time, he thinks: “what if?”
Links: AO3, LJ
Rating: T
Status: Complete
Author: 30percent
Category: Gen, maybe pre-slash
Word count: 1524
Disclaimer: Not mine, alas.
Summary: A mysterious stranger by the name of Interrosand leaves a cryptic note on John’s blog. Hilarity and/or mini golf ensues.
***
The note on the website is cryptic, but then such notes always are.
Interrosand posted at 17:00:
Have some fun at 19th in one.
Sherlock takes one glance over John’s shoulder. “Mini golf.” His voice drips with scorn. “The perfect pasttime for the culture that invented Real Housewives and Cheez-whiz.”
“How did you -- hold on. Are you telling me you deleted the solar system, but crap American telly and crimes against the culinary arts made the cut?”
Sherlock merely scowls. “Research, John.”
John has long since begun to suspect that research, John uttered in that tone of long-suffering genius covers all manner of sins he’s better off not knowing.
John sighs, and moves the mouse cursor toward the fussy little trashcan icon. He always seemed to click “quote” instead. Why they couldn’t just use bigger words--
“Don’t delete it!”
“Why not? Our blog’s got enough spam as it is.”
“It’s a clue, obviously.”
“Clue to what?”
Sherlock hums in a way that’s meant to sound mysterious but almost certainly means he hasn’t got the faintest idea.
John yawns. He could go for a nice kip on the sofa. It is Sunday, after all, a time when such things are not only allowed, but encouraged. They’d been up late the night before, what with Sherlock pacing the sitting room while his hacker friend (a spotty youth who made John feel positively geriatric) attempted to break into the National Archives.
Something about a forger, a banker, a candlestick maker. Who could keep track?
In other words, a typical Saturday night on Baker Street.
John’s reverie is interrupted when his coat lands on his head, obscuring his vision. He shoves it aside just in time to see Sherlock spinning toward the front door. “Come along, John, or we’ll be late!”
“What? Where are we going?”
“Devonshire Square, for some horrid mini golf, of course!”
***
An hour later they’re armed with flimsy putters and brightly colored golf balls. The sight of the miniature golf club in Sherlock’s large hands and his wet-cat expression of dismay nearly makes up for John’s lost Sunday lie-in.
“Haven’t you ever played mini golf before?”
“John. Of course I haven’t played mini golf before.”
“Well, why are we here now, then?”
Sherlock sighs his why am I surrounded by imbeciles sigh, and gestures with his putter. “The clue on the website, obviously. The 19th refers to the bonus round at the end of a course. This is the only 18-hole course in London, which means the only 19th-hole we could have reached at the appointed time of 5pm this evening.”
“Why 5pm?”
“In the message! The message on your ridiculous blog! The timestamp was clearly forged: it was out of sequence with the posts before and after. Ergo, a clue.”
“You saw all of that in the two seconds you looked at that post?”
“John. Lovely to meet you, I’m Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, and on occasion I notice things.”
“Consulting smartarse, more like.”
Sherlock merely sniffs, and tucks his club under his arm. “Come along, to the 19th hole.”
“Oi, wait up! We’re meant to play some mini golf, here, aren’t we?”
“Since when are you so enamored of the rules? I have yet to spot an armed guard enforcing our adherence to the course.”
“We’re here, we’ve paid, and we’ve still got nearly an hour before five. I say we play a game.”
As Sherlock grows more affronted with every word, and John starts to wonder if he’ll need to locate smelling salts.
John grins. “C’mon, it’s just geometry, right? Shouldn’t this be right up your alley? Don’t you want to find yet another opportunity to trounce me at something?”
Sherlock considers this. “I am rather good at geometry.”
***
As it turns out, theoretical geometry is no match for applied mini golf, and John’s rather good, himself.
Sherlock is about as pleased as one might expect. “This game is ridiculous. This pond is ridiculous. This child-sized club is ridiculous.”
“You’re just put out because you’re losing.”
“Considering the circumstances, I’ll consider that a sign of strength of character.”
John adjusts his stance, wiggles his fingers on his club’s grip, and taps the fuchsia ball with the delicacy of the surgeon he once was. The ball rolls over the green, bounces off two barriers, and lands neatly in the hole.
A weighty silence. “You’re ridiculous,” Sherlock says.
John grins, savoring the roughly eight seconds he estimates remain before Sherlock’s patience runs completely dry. John glances at his watch. “Look, almost five. Shall we away to the 19th hole?”
Sherlock releases his breath through his teeth, regarding his putter through narrow eyes. He nods, once, and John won’t be surprised if he wakes up tomorrow to find 221b repurposed into a mini golf training ground for overly competitive consulting detectives.
They make their way toward the 19th hole in silence: Sherlock trudges, and John endeavors to keep the bounce in his step to a minimum.
The approach the final hole, and Sherlock grumbles. “The clue says we’re to get a hole in one. I suppose you’d best give it a try.”
John grins. “Are you acknowledging that I, John Watson, am the better mini golf player?”
Sherlock scowls.
“I may need to take a picture. For posterity, you know.”
“Will you get on with it?”
“Fine, fine.”
John eyes the obstacle in front of him, a windmill with lazily-turning arms. He’ll only have one shot at it, and then the ball will be gone. If he hits the center target, he’ll get some sort of prize: that must be where the clue can be found.
He narrows his eyes and licks his lips, lining up his putter with care. Sherlock’s stare is very nearly burning a hole in the back of his neck, and he can’t resist a few extra test swings, just to sense the man’s blood pressure rise.
He grins, and gives the ball a solid knock. It shoots over the green, up the slope, and rolls right into the center channel. A perfect shot.
He turns, and winks at Sherlock, who looks as if he’s swallowed something sour, but gives a grudging nod.
John strolls up to the windmill, club swinging at his side, to collect his prize: a small plush rabbit, and a slip of paper that simply says “Cinnamon.”
Sherlock appears, hovering over John’s shoulder. When John looks up, confused, Sherlock simply points across the courtyard to an adjoining restaurant and bar. John reads the awning. “Cinnamon Kitchen.”
***
They enter the darkened restaurant, and very nearly collide with Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson.
John starts to apologize, then remark on the coincidence, when Molly interrupts him with a jovial “Happy birthday!” and a bit of confetti in his hair.
John blinks. “What?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!” Mrs. Hudson gathers him up for a rib-compressing hug, and Lestrade claps him on the shoulder.
John glances toward Sherlock in confusion.
“The anniversary of the day of your birth? I’m sure you’ve heard of it. I understand people often gather and eat and make unfortunate small talk.”
“Yes, but I didn’t…. I don’t really celebrate it. Kind of old for that, you know.” It’s true: at this point in his life circumstances, he girds himself for the possibility of a drunken phone call from Harry, and that’s about it.
Sherlock shrugs. “You were moping. It was tedious.”
He hadn’t been moping, he’d just. Well. Been dumped, again. And maybe a bit sofa-bound, when not following Sherlock’s coattails into cases.
He blinks. “So there was no mysterious case? What about the comment on the blog?”
Sherlock sniffs. “That was Molly’s idea. Apparently she has an internet… alter ego.” His eyes light up, the steam of an impending deduction gathering almost visibly between his ears, and Molly’s eyes widen in alarm.
John applies an elbow to his ribs, and Sherlock’s teeth click shut. His mouth twists. “Entirely mundane, as befits the phrase alter ego, obviously.”
“Wait a minute. Did you take me out for mini golf on my birthday?”
Sherlock hunches his shoulders. “You paid for it, if you recall.”
“But I was the one who insisted we play.”
Sherlock merely raises his eyebrows, and John sighs. “Right. You manipulative bastard.”
Mrs. Hudson beams, and Lestrade slips an arm around Molly’s waist, and all at once John feels absurdly pleased with life. “Well. Then let me buy you all a drink?”
***
A few hours, several pints (for John), two double scotches (for Sherlock), and 3 hot toddies (for Mrs. Hudson) later, they share a cab back to Baker Street. John is sandwiched in the middle, Mrs. Hudson dozing on one shoulder, Sherlock pressed against the other.
It’s quiet and warm, the silence between them a comfortable, familiar weight.
John lets his leg relax into Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock nudges back, companionable. John tilts his head until he catches sight of dark curls and a striking profile and the set of a mouth that doesn’t look quite so forbidding, now.
The corner of Sherlock’s quirks, under his scrutiny.
And not for the first time, he thinks: “what if?”