FIC: "A Study in Sternutation" (Sherlock, gen)
Title: A Study in Sternutation
Author: myownprivatesfc
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Wordcount: 1716
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairing(s): none
Genre: Humor, Case-fic
Summary: Sherlock's experimenting. Of course he is.
Beta(s): My two amazing Red friends: Fifi and Awesome!Anon. ;)
Notes: A HUGE thank you goes out to my betas, who put up with me procrastinating over this fic for well over a year. You both deserve at least half the credit for this.
Feedback: Here, please. It's the place I'm most likely to see it in a timely fashion. As to type, all comments/compliments/complaints/questions accepted; all constructive criticism doubly so.
Disclaimer: Oh, wow, yeah, no. Dear God, no. Though, to be fair, even I don't (usually) torture them as much as Moffat does.
The door slammed shut as Sherlock stormed into the flat, flopping grumpily onto the sofa. His errand had taken him much longer than he'd hoped, especially considering it wasn't one he could send John on in his stead. Other than a slight tendency towards winter colds, there wasn't much that made Sherlock sneeze. Oh, a few random things here or there, when conditions were just right, and there were one or two chemicals that frequently elicited a single sharp “Choo!” from him upon their opening, but nothing that gave him “the sneezes”, as John had teased him the last time he'd gotten ill. However, a good case of the sneezes was exactly what he needed: a woman's alibi depended on it, a woman Sherlock was sure was guilty. So off he'd gone to locate something to provoke his nose into a maelstrom. Finding something had taken longer than he'd expected-who knew snuff didn't cause nearly as many sneezes as it had always been rumored to!--and now he'd have to hurry to complete his experiment before John went to bed.
Leaving his purchases in their bag by the coffee table, he contemplated the best way to proceed. Judging by his sigh as Sherlock had come in, John was well aware of Sherlock's mood. Perhaps that was the tack to take.
“How about some tea?” he asked, careful not to look at John. That was, after all, their usual mode of conversation when Sherlock was frustrated. Sherlock may not have understood the whys and wherefores of communication, but he was entirely aware of its physical nuances.
“Tea,” John replied. “I suppose that means you want me to make you a cup. Fine, whatever, I could use a bit myself.”
Perfect. Now for the tricky bit. Sherlock waited for John to get to the kitchen, out of sight of the sofa, before calling out to him. “Something to eat, too.” With luck, John would be so excited at the idea of getting what he referred to as “real food” into Sherlock that he wouldn't question the order. The purposely loud grumbling over the state of the pantry told him that his plan had worked. Time to get down to business.
Donning a pair of vinyl gloves-it wouldn't do to get the stuff on his skin, as the unpredictable nature of that might ruin the whole thing-Sherlock carefully extracted his prize. Raising himself slightly on his elbows helped get him into a better position, and he quickly shoved a sofa pillow under his back to keep himself that way. His hands free, he opened the lid of the small bottle he held, simultaneously bringing it towards his face. He began taking deep breaths through his nose; his experiments over the course of the day had taught him that slower breaths were better than faster ones, and he forced himself to slow down, even as he worried about his timing.
There! Only three breaths, and already he could feel a strong tickle beginning at the back of his nose. It took a bit of concentration to override his instinct to suppress it, but he was long practiced in changing his routines to fit the situation, and another few breaths did the trick.
“Ehhh...ah-CHOO!” He sneezed openly, trying to keep the volume neither loud nor soft. So far, so good.
“God bless you,” John called from the kitchen. Good, he'd noticed. That was one more part of the experiment down. Sherlock withdrew a handkerchief from his shopping bag and, placing it in his lap, drew the bottle of fragrant liquid back towards his nose. For a moment, he worried the slight stuffiness from his first sneeze might have temporarily damaged his sense of smell enough to cause the whole experiment to fail, but one whiff told him the opposite seemed to be true: his nose was even more sensitive than usual, already itching and tickling in anticipation of another sneeze. Grasping the handkerchief in his left hand, Sherlock once more began inhaling through his nose, feeling his nostrils flare as he tried to breathe past the congestion. Two more breaths, and he could feel the sneeze coming, faster this time as his nose tried to rid itself of the irritant.
“Ah-CHOO! SHOO!” Two sneezes this time, and without even trying. His plan was working beautifully.
“God bless you!” John called again. He was beginning to sound slightly concerned-damn, it was too early for that!--but there was something else in his voice as well. Surprise...no, not quite. It was more positive than that. Wonder, perhaps. That was it! John was impressed. Sherlock filed that bit of information away for another time. Right this moment, he had other things on his mind. Carefully, he used his handkerchief to wipe up the bit of liquid that had splashed on the outside of the bottle, then wadded it up and tossed it aside. Then, wiping his now dripping nose on a fresh handkerchief, he prepared for what he expected to be the coup de grace. Once more, he brought the bottle to his nose, carefully breathing in. He felt the effects almost immediately this time, his breath hitching on the second inhale, but, unlike the past two times, he kept going, holding himself back even as he felt the sneezes-he was quite sure there would be several this time-gaining strength inside him. The stuttering of his breath dismayed him slightly-how could he continue breathing in that swirling, ticklish scent if he couldn't breathe properly?!--but he consoled himself by remembering that, so far, he hadn't immediately returned to breathing in the sweet fragrance after he sneezed, and, judging by how much more sensitive his nose seemed to be after every try, that would make the difference he needed to complete his experiment.
For several minutes, Sherlock continued his breathing pattern, ruthlessly holding back the sneezes trying so desperately to get out. Eventually, beginning to worry over the timing again, he took one last deep breath, carefully closed and hid his magic bottle, and finally let himself go.
“SHOO! Ah-shoo, ah-SHOO! Eh...heh...heh...HEH-SHOO! Heh-SHOO, ah-SHOO!”
“Sherlock!” John came rushing to the room. Sherlock spared a thought for his own success before being once again taken over by sneezes.
“Ah-shoo, ah-shoo. AH-shoo! AH-SHOO! Heh-K'SHOO!” The prickling feeling in his nose showed no sign of abating, and Sherlock quickly took up his handkerchief in an attempt to get himself back under control.
“Damn it, Sherlock, are you all right? What in God's name is the matter with you?!” John was clearly truly worried now, pacing and ranting as Sherlock proceeded to vigorously blow his nose. Three strong blows did the trick, getting the majority of the remaining tickles out. The rest Sherlock viciously squelched as he extracted yet another handkerchief from his bag and fastidiously wiped his hands.
“Just as I thought,” he announced, restraining a wince when he realized how raw his throat felt. “There was no way that woman could have been telling the truth. John, get my mobile and text Lestrade that it was the upstairs neighbor.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” John asked, stopping his pacing to stare at Sherlock. “Who wasn't telling the truth and...hang on. Are you telling me this was all just an experiment? That you just sneezed yourself practically into apoplexy just for a case?”
“Don't be ridiculous, John. In the first place, apoplexy is nothing more and nothing less than a stroke, and I highly doubt that I was at risk of one of those just from sneezing a bit...though you might be soon, if you don't stop eating bacon sandwiches at your desk every day. In the second place-”
“How do you know I've been eating bacon sandwiches? No, never mind, continue with what you were going to say.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically. “As I was saying, it was very simple. The upstairs neighbor insisted that the reason her fingerprints were in the deceased's flat was that she'd heard him sneezing as she'd come home from work, and gone to check on him. Naturally, he had to let her in for politeness sake-when will people learn that politeness is an evil-and that was how her prints had ended up there. However, as I've just proved, the average person won't get involved until they've heard more than just a few sneezes-the neighbor insisted she'd heard no more than three or four, a number corroborated by the downstairs tenant, who heard them as well. Thus, she clearly lied: she was in the deceased's flat because she went there to kill him. Probably came up with some domestic reason to knock on his door, a cup of sugar and all that, and then strangled him as soon as she got inside. Easy.”
“Aren't you forgetting something?” John asked, visibly torn between smugness and exasperation. “Something you should have thought of before giving yourself an allergy attack with...what was that, anyway? I can smell it, some sort of girly soap of some sort-but anyway, forgetting?”
“No.” Sherlock was puzzled. He'd done everything right. The number of sneezes, the time frame, everything fit.... “Damn!” he shouted suddenly. “Stupid, stupid! Of course it would depend on whether or not they knew each other well! She'd only moved into the flat two weeks before; she wouldn't know whether three sneezes was normal for him or not.” He moved to stand-pacing always helped him think better, and anyway, this was now a case that called for at least two nicotine patches-but John's voice stopped him cold.
“There is that,” John said calmly, “but you're still forgetting something else.” He smiled, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of the man he'd seen when they met, the man who felt more comfortable in danger than in peace. That smile made Sherlock wait for an answer, even as his brain turned over possibilities, discarding each of them nearly as soon as they came to mind. Finally, John spoke again. “What you forgot was this: I am not average.”
Sherlock stared in dismay as John walked back to the kitchen. All that, and John had destroyed it with one sentence. The worst part was, Sherlock sighed to himself, for once, John was absolutely right.
fin
Author: myownprivatesfc
Fandom: BBC!Sherlock
Wordcount: 1716
Rating: G
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Pairing(s): none
Genre: Humor, Case-fic
Summary: Sherlock's experimenting. Of course he is.
Beta(s): My two amazing Red friends: Fifi and Awesome!Anon. ;)
Notes: A HUGE thank you goes out to my betas, who put up with me procrastinating over this fic for well over a year. You both deserve at least half the credit for this.
Feedback: Here, please. It's the place I'm most likely to see it in a timely fashion. As to type, all comments/compliments/complaints/questions accepted; all constructive criticism doubly so.
Disclaimer: Oh, wow, yeah, no. Dear God, no. Though, to be fair, even I don't (usually) torture them as much as Moffat does.
The door slammed shut as Sherlock stormed into the flat, flopping grumpily onto the sofa. His errand had taken him much longer than he'd hoped, especially considering it wasn't one he could send John on in his stead. Other than a slight tendency towards winter colds, there wasn't much that made Sherlock sneeze. Oh, a few random things here or there, when conditions were just right, and there were one or two chemicals that frequently elicited a single sharp “Choo!” from him upon their opening, but nothing that gave him “the sneezes”, as John had teased him the last time he'd gotten ill. However, a good case of the sneezes was exactly what he needed: a woman's alibi depended on it, a woman Sherlock was sure was guilty. So off he'd gone to locate something to provoke his nose into a maelstrom. Finding something had taken longer than he'd expected-who knew snuff didn't cause nearly as many sneezes as it had always been rumored to!--and now he'd have to hurry to complete his experiment before John went to bed.
Leaving his purchases in their bag by the coffee table, he contemplated the best way to proceed. Judging by his sigh as Sherlock had come in, John was well aware of Sherlock's mood. Perhaps that was the tack to take.
“How about some tea?” he asked, careful not to look at John. That was, after all, their usual mode of conversation when Sherlock was frustrated. Sherlock may not have understood the whys and wherefores of communication, but he was entirely aware of its physical nuances.
“Tea,” John replied. “I suppose that means you want me to make you a cup. Fine, whatever, I could use a bit myself.”
Perfect. Now for the tricky bit. Sherlock waited for John to get to the kitchen, out of sight of the sofa, before calling out to him. “Something to eat, too.” With luck, John would be so excited at the idea of getting what he referred to as “real food” into Sherlock that he wouldn't question the order. The purposely loud grumbling over the state of the pantry told him that his plan had worked. Time to get down to business.
Donning a pair of vinyl gloves-it wouldn't do to get the stuff on his skin, as the unpredictable nature of that might ruin the whole thing-Sherlock carefully extracted his prize. Raising himself slightly on his elbows helped get him into a better position, and he quickly shoved a sofa pillow under his back to keep himself that way. His hands free, he opened the lid of the small bottle he held, simultaneously bringing it towards his face. He began taking deep breaths through his nose; his experiments over the course of the day had taught him that slower breaths were better than faster ones, and he forced himself to slow down, even as he worried about his timing.
There! Only three breaths, and already he could feel a strong tickle beginning at the back of his nose. It took a bit of concentration to override his instinct to suppress it, but he was long practiced in changing his routines to fit the situation, and another few breaths did the trick.
“Ehhh...ah-CHOO!” He sneezed openly, trying to keep the volume neither loud nor soft. So far, so good.
“God bless you,” John called from the kitchen. Good, he'd noticed. That was one more part of the experiment down. Sherlock withdrew a handkerchief from his shopping bag and, placing it in his lap, drew the bottle of fragrant liquid back towards his nose. For a moment, he worried the slight stuffiness from his first sneeze might have temporarily damaged his sense of smell enough to cause the whole experiment to fail, but one whiff told him the opposite seemed to be true: his nose was even more sensitive than usual, already itching and tickling in anticipation of another sneeze. Grasping the handkerchief in his left hand, Sherlock once more began inhaling through his nose, feeling his nostrils flare as he tried to breathe past the congestion. Two more breaths, and he could feel the sneeze coming, faster this time as his nose tried to rid itself of the irritant.
“Ah-CHOO! SHOO!” Two sneezes this time, and without even trying. His plan was working beautifully.
“God bless you!” John called again. He was beginning to sound slightly concerned-damn, it was too early for that!--but there was something else in his voice as well. Surprise...no, not quite. It was more positive than that. Wonder, perhaps. That was it! John was impressed. Sherlock filed that bit of information away for another time. Right this moment, he had other things on his mind. Carefully, he used his handkerchief to wipe up the bit of liquid that had splashed on the outside of the bottle, then wadded it up and tossed it aside. Then, wiping his now dripping nose on a fresh handkerchief, he prepared for what he expected to be the coup de grace. Once more, he brought the bottle to his nose, carefully breathing in. He felt the effects almost immediately this time, his breath hitching on the second inhale, but, unlike the past two times, he kept going, holding himself back even as he felt the sneezes-he was quite sure there would be several this time-gaining strength inside him. The stuttering of his breath dismayed him slightly-how could he continue breathing in that swirling, ticklish scent if he couldn't breathe properly?!--but he consoled himself by remembering that, so far, he hadn't immediately returned to breathing in the sweet fragrance after he sneezed, and, judging by how much more sensitive his nose seemed to be after every try, that would make the difference he needed to complete his experiment.
For several minutes, Sherlock continued his breathing pattern, ruthlessly holding back the sneezes trying so desperately to get out. Eventually, beginning to worry over the timing again, he took one last deep breath, carefully closed and hid his magic bottle, and finally let himself go.
“SHOO! Ah-shoo, ah-SHOO! Eh...heh...heh...HEH-SHOO! Heh-SHOO, ah-SHOO!”
“Sherlock!” John came rushing to the room. Sherlock spared a thought for his own success before being once again taken over by sneezes.
“Ah-shoo, ah-shoo. AH-shoo! AH-SHOO! Heh-K'SHOO!” The prickling feeling in his nose showed no sign of abating, and Sherlock quickly took up his handkerchief in an attempt to get himself back under control.
“Damn it, Sherlock, are you all right? What in God's name is the matter with you?!” John was clearly truly worried now, pacing and ranting as Sherlock proceeded to vigorously blow his nose. Three strong blows did the trick, getting the majority of the remaining tickles out. The rest Sherlock viciously squelched as he extracted yet another handkerchief from his bag and fastidiously wiped his hands.
“Just as I thought,” he announced, restraining a wince when he realized how raw his throat felt. “There was no way that woman could have been telling the truth. John, get my mobile and text Lestrade that it was the upstairs neighbor.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” John asked, stopping his pacing to stare at Sherlock. “Who wasn't telling the truth and...hang on. Are you telling me this was all just an experiment? That you just sneezed yourself practically into apoplexy just for a case?”
“Don't be ridiculous, John. In the first place, apoplexy is nothing more and nothing less than a stroke, and I highly doubt that I was at risk of one of those just from sneezing a bit...though you might be soon, if you don't stop eating bacon sandwiches at your desk every day. In the second place-”
“How do you know I've been eating bacon sandwiches? No, never mind, continue with what you were going to say.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock drawled sarcastically. “As I was saying, it was very simple. The upstairs neighbor insisted that the reason her fingerprints were in the deceased's flat was that she'd heard him sneezing as she'd come home from work, and gone to check on him. Naturally, he had to let her in for politeness sake-when will people learn that politeness is an evil-and that was how her prints had ended up there. However, as I've just proved, the average person won't get involved until they've heard more than just a few sneezes-the neighbor insisted she'd heard no more than three or four, a number corroborated by the downstairs tenant, who heard them as well. Thus, she clearly lied: she was in the deceased's flat because she went there to kill him. Probably came up with some domestic reason to knock on his door, a cup of sugar and all that, and then strangled him as soon as she got inside. Easy.”
“Aren't you forgetting something?” John asked, visibly torn between smugness and exasperation. “Something you should have thought of before giving yourself an allergy attack with...what was that, anyway? I can smell it, some sort of girly soap of some sort-but anyway, forgetting?”
“No.” Sherlock was puzzled. He'd done everything right. The number of sneezes, the time frame, everything fit.... “Damn!” he shouted suddenly. “Stupid, stupid! Of course it would depend on whether or not they knew each other well! She'd only moved into the flat two weeks before; she wouldn't know whether three sneezes was normal for him or not.” He moved to stand-pacing always helped him think better, and anyway, this was now a case that called for at least two nicotine patches-but John's voice stopped him cold.
“There is that,” John said calmly, “but you're still forgetting something else.” He smiled, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of the man he'd seen when they met, the man who felt more comfortable in danger than in peace. That smile made Sherlock wait for an answer, even as his brain turned over possibilities, discarding each of them nearly as soon as they came to mind. Finally, John spoke again. “What you forgot was this: I am not average.”
Sherlock stared in dismay as John walked back to the kitchen. All that, and John had destroyed it with one sentence. The worst part was, Sherlock sighed to himself, for once, John was absolutely right.
fin