St Andrew's Day - Ah, bitter chill it was!
Happy Birthday to 
legionseagle! Who has brought her own contribution to the party already.
I thought you might like a puffin this year, for a change, but I was a bit slow organising it so I haven't got the thing to hand over yet.
In the meantime, some fic. I hope it makes sense to you, because I doubt it will to anyone else. A curious thing I have noticed about birthday fic around Sherlock is that it always seems to be John's birthday, which should at least ensure him a long life. This could have done with some sort of plot, but none volunteered itself, so I'm afraid the characters just witter on for no particular reason. Spoilers for Twin Peaks.
Blink and you'll miss the bus
"Hi John. Happy Birthday!"
"Sally! I wasn't sure you'd come."
Sergeant Donovan pulled a face. "Boss said I needed a night out. I said 'Night out, fine, John's birthday, fine, John's flatmate... you've got to be kidding.'"
John shrugged apologetically, glancing at Sherlock, who had hijacked Lestrade to talk shop as soon as he got into the pub. "What are you having?"
"Corona and lime. And the boss'll have the IPA. ...He's got this crackpot theory that going down the pub with Freak might lighten things up at crime scenes. Yeah, me neither. Who else is coming?"
"Mike Stamford said he might drop in later - we were at Barts together. And, er, my sister..."
She took the bottle. "Thanks. Didn't know you had a sister."
"All my life. She wanted to meet Sherlock."
"You did warn her?"
"I tried. She just got more curious."
A hand, attached by a long arm to the consulting detective, tapped John's shoulder.
"Your sister's arrived. She hasn't brought you a present."
"Stop showing off, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Like John, with better hair and dress sense... that wasn't difficult. Oh, is that my pint? Thanks very much."
"You're welcome. OK, everyone, this is my sister Harry. Harry - DI Greg Lestrade, Sergeant Sally Donovan... and Sherlock."
"Hi birthday boy! Sorry, I didn't have time to buy anything, let me pick up the tab."
"It's fine," said John, ignoring the twitch of satisfaction at the side of Sherlock's mouth. "I've already made arrangements. What can I get you?"
"Is the house red drinkable, or do we need a bottle?" Harry ascended a tall bar stool, which just about allowed her to look down on Sherlock. "So, you do forensics for the police?"
"He helps out sometimes," cut in Lestrade. "We have our own forensics experts."
Sherlock snorted. "You can hardly call a semi-evolved moron like Anderson an expert..." He looked puzzled as John kicked his ankle. "What's the matter? She broke up with him three weeks ago, why would she care?"
It was possible that Lestrade was reconsidering his policy on socialising with Sherlock. John guessed that the look on his face signified "It's your birthday, so you've got first option on punching him" but, before he decided whether to exercise his privilege, Harry burst into the silence.
"Oh my god!" she said cheerfully. "You're living with Albert."
"Albert?" asked John.
"You remember - forensics genius with no social niceties?"
Evidently Lestrade remembered, as he began to giggle. "Sherlock's path is a strange and difficult one!"
"He's a nay-sayer and hatchet man in the fight against violence!" exclaimed Harry.
In unison, they chanted "I LOVE YOU, SHERIFF TRUMAN!"
John wondered whether the matching baffled expressions worn by Sherlock and Donovan constituted his missing present from Harry. Especially now that the last line had given him a clue.
"You mean that weird American show you used to watch, where the murdered girl was wrapped in plastic?"
"What sort of plastic?" enquired Sherlock, looking more interested.
"Sheeting," said John. "But you wouldn't have liked it. The detective eventually found out it was an evil spirit who done it."
"Oh, I was with Albert on that," said Harry. "It was a metaphor for the dark secret in the family that Agent Cooper refused to confront."
"Ah," said Sherlock. "You mean the police missed the point again."
"Albert admired Agent Cooper," said Lestrade doggedly. "And he came to respect Sheriff Truman. Quite apart from loving him, of course."
"I identified with Truman," said Harry dreamily. "His lover was the most beautiful woman in town..."
"And you have the same name. He was Harry S. Truman, like the president," Lestrade explained to Donovan.
"What president?" asked Sherlock.
Harry opened her mouth, but John shook his head. Not worth it.
"Why do Americans do that?" asked Sally. "Use a middle initial, I mean?"
"It's not just Americans," said John. "I use mine."
"Oh yes, on your blog? John... H.?"
"Drawing unnecessary attention to something that's unnecessary in the first place," muttered Sherlock.
"Don't you have a middle name, then?" enquired Sally.
There was an emphatic silence.
"He does actually," said Lestrade. "We've got it on file."
"Well, go on, enlighten us," urged Harry.
Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "It's... Wisdean."
"What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're displaying your ignorance of Gaelic. Uisdean."
"Ooshtan?"
"Near enough."
"Why?"
"It's what happens when your parents allow your older sibling to choose the baby's middle name. Your extremely well-read and malevolent older sibling." Sherlock stared at Harry. "Calling your baby brother after yourself was comparatively restrained."
"Well, you wouldn't have wanted to be Sherlock Mycroft, would you?" asked Lestrade.
"As I said before, a middle name is unnecessary. Unless you have a common name such as John Watson and there's the possibility of confusion with numerous other John Watsons, and even then some of those will be Hs too. But there is no other Sherlock Holmes.”
"Thank god for that," said Lestrade.
A ringtone interrupted them, and Harry dived into her bag. "Clara? Where? Marble Arch? Oh... it's complicated, I'll come and get you." She jumped off her stool.
"If you go down to Oxford Street, you can catch the 159 and get there a few minutes quicker," said John.
"Oh, bugger buses, running's more dramatic!" she shot back at him as she headed for the door. John stared after her as Sherlock started pestering Lestrade again about a new case.
"OK?" asked Sally.
"I was just thinking... if drama was all it took, they'd never have broken up."
She shrugged. "Like sister, like brother?"
John looked at her. "You think?"
"You're hooked on drama. Why else would you stick it out? Like flatmate." She smiled ruefully. "Maybe like police, too. Oh, I forgot - we brought you a present. Didn't get round to wrapping it." She pulled something out of her shoulder bag.
John unfolded a Tshirt bearing the slogan HELPING POLICE WITH THEIR ENQUIRIES. "Thank you... I think."
"You're welcome. You do, you know. Happy Birthday."
Note: Albert's speech.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.
legionseagle! Who has brought her own contribution to the party already.
I thought you might like a puffin this year, for a change, but I was a bit slow organising it so I haven't got the thing to hand over yet.
In the meantime, some fic. I hope it makes sense to you, because I doubt it will to anyone else. A curious thing I have noticed about birthday fic around Sherlock is that it always seems to be John's birthday, which should at least ensure him a long life. This could have done with some sort of plot, but none volunteered itself, so I'm afraid the characters just witter on for no particular reason. Spoilers for Twin Peaks.
Blink and you'll miss the bus
"Hi John. Happy Birthday!"
"Sally! I wasn't sure you'd come."
Sergeant Donovan pulled a face. "Boss said I needed a night out. I said 'Night out, fine, John's birthday, fine, John's flatmate... you've got to be kidding.'"
John shrugged apologetically, glancing at Sherlock, who had hijacked Lestrade to talk shop as soon as he got into the pub. "What are you having?"
"Corona and lime. And the boss'll have the IPA. ...He's got this crackpot theory that going down the pub with Freak might lighten things up at crime scenes. Yeah, me neither. Who else is coming?"
"Mike Stamford said he might drop in later - we were at Barts together. And, er, my sister..."
She took the bottle. "Thanks. Didn't know you had a sister."
"All my life. She wanted to meet Sherlock."
"You did warn her?"
"I tried. She just got more curious."
A hand, attached by a long arm to the consulting detective, tapped John's shoulder.
"Your sister's arrived. She hasn't brought you a present."
"Stop showing off, Sherlock," said Lestrade. "Like John, with better hair and dress sense... that wasn't difficult. Oh, is that my pint? Thanks very much."
"You're welcome. OK, everyone, this is my sister Harry. Harry - DI Greg Lestrade, Sergeant Sally Donovan... and Sherlock."
"Hi birthday boy! Sorry, I didn't have time to buy anything, let me pick up the tab."
"It's fine," said John, ignoring the twitch of satisfaction at the side of Sherlock's mouth. "I've already made arrangements. What can I get you?"
"Is the house red drinkable, or do we need a bottle?" Harry ascended a tall bar stool, which just about allowed her to look down on Sherlock. "So, you do forensics for the police?"
"He helps out sometimes," cut in Lestrade. "We have our own forensics experts."
Sherlock snorted. "You can hardly call a semi-evolved moron like Anderson an expert..." He looked puzzled as John kicked his ankle. "What's the matter? She broke up with him three weeks ago, why would she care?"
It was possible that Lestrade was reconsidering his policy on socialising with Sherlock. John guessed that the look on his face signified "It's your birthday, so you've got first option on punching him" but, before he decided whether to exercise his privilege, Harry burst into the silence.
"Oh my god!" she said cheerfully. "You're living with Albert."
"Albert?" asked John.
"You remember - forensics genius with no social niceties?"
Evidently Lestrade remembered, as he began to giggle. "Sherlock's path is a strange and difficult one!"
"He's a nay-sayer and hatchet man in the fight against violence!" exclaimed Harry.
In unison, they chanted "I LOVE YOU, SHERIFF TRUMAN!"
John wondered whether the matching baffled expressions worn by Sherlock and Donovan constituted his missing present from Harry. Especially now that the last line had given him a clue.
"You mean that weird American show you used to watch, where the murdered girl was wrapped in plastic?"
"What sort of plastic?" enquired Sherlock, looking more interested.
"Sheeting," said John. "But you wouldn't have liked it. The detective eventually found out it was an evil spirit who done it."
"Oh, I was with Albert on that," said Harry. "It was a metaphor for the dark secret in the family that Agent Cooper refused to confront."
"Ah," said Sherlock. "You mean the police missed the point again."
"Albert admired Agent Cooper," said Lestrade doggedly. "And he came to respect Sheriff Truman. Quite apart from loving him, of course."
"I identified with Truman," said Harry dreamily. "His lover was the most beautiful woman in town..."
"And you have the same name. He was Harry S. Truman, like the president," Lestrade explained to Donovan.
"What president?" asked Sherlock.
Harry opened her mouth, but John shook his head. Not worth it.
"Why do Americans do that?" asked Sally. "Use a middle initial, I mean?"
"It's not just Americans," said John. "I use mine."
"Oh yes, on your blog? John... H.?"
"Drawing unnecessary attention to something that's unnecessary in the first place," muttered Sherlock.
"Don't you have a middle name, then?" enquired Sally.
There was an emphatic silence.
"He does actually," said Lestrade. "We've got it on file."
"Well, go on, enlighten us," urged Harry.
Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "It's... Wisdean."
"What?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're displaying your ignorance of Gaelic. Uisdean."
"Ooshtan?"
"Near enough."
"Why?"
"It's what happens when your parents allow your older sibling to choose the baby's middle name. Your extremely well-read and malevolent older sibling." Sherlock stared at Harry. "Calling your baby brother after yourself was comparatively restrained."
"Well, you wouldn't have wanted to be Sherlock Mycroft, would you?" asked Lestrade.
"As I said before, a middle name is unnecessary. Unless you have a common name such as John Watson and there's the possibility of confusion with numerous other John Watsons, and even then some of those will be Hs too. But there is no other Sherlock Holmes.”
"Thank god for that," said Lestrade.
A ringtone interrupted them, and Harry dived into her bag. "Clara? Where? Marble Arch? Oh... it's complicated, I'll come and get you." She jumped off her stool.
"If you go down to Oxford Street, you can catch the 159 and get there a few minutes quicker," said John.
"Oh, bugger buses, running's more dramatic!" she shot back at him as she headed for the door. John stared after her as Sherlock started pestering Lestrade again about a new case.
"OK?" asked Sally.
"I was just thinking... if drama was all it took, they'd never have broken up."
She shrugged. "Like sister, like brother?"
John looked at her. "You think?"
"You're hooked on drama. Why else would you stick it out? Like flatmate." She smiled ruefully. "Maybe like police, too. Oh, I forgot - we brought you a present. Didn't get round to wrapping it." She pulled something out of her shoulder bag.
John unfolded a Tshirt bearing the slogan HELPING POLICE WITH THEIR ENQUIRIES. "Thank you... I think."
"You're welcome. You do, you know. Happy Birthday."
Note: Albert's speech.
Also posted on Dreamwidth, with
comments.