Those Little Old 'Willing Suspension of Disbelief' Blues
Title: Those Little Old 'Willing Suspension of Disbelief' Blues
Writer: redvalerian
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings, kinks & contents: Pretty much fluff
Length: 1582
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John gets his own way. And John really, really want to go to and see a West End Musical with his partner. Sherlock hates musicals. Guess who wins?
Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of his bookshelves, pulling out volumes seemingly at random and flinging them onto the floor behind him. The place was always a mess, but it had now gone one step beyond insanity. There were more piles of paper and folders on the floor than in the filing cabinets and bookshelves. His partner was turning a blind eye to the madness and mayhem as usual, and placidly reading a newspaper in his comfy chair by the fireside. John held a real live broadsheet in his capable hands. Sherlock had not been able to cure him of his need to clutter up the flat with piles of newsprint daily, despite the ready availability of free editions online. Suddenly John looked up and spoke:
"Sherlock, do you like musicals?"
That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He turned around and positively stared at John in wonder. Finally he spoke:
"I’ve never had much respect for your powers of deduction, John, but see if you can hazard a wild guess." He waited a for a reply, and when there was none he returned to ransacking the flat. Sherlock had said he was looking for some indispensable file that would solve the case they were presently working on. The ‘file’ was one he had confiscated from the Yard, and then promptly misplaced. What was in said file was a mystery to John, but it was ever thus. He’d offered to help Sherlock search earlier, but his offer was rudely declined. John knew when it was time to leave his flatmate to it and this was one of those times.
Ignoring Sherlock’s dismissive comment, John carried on regardless. He was sitting comfortably in his chair reading the review section of the Guardian instead of working on his blog. The theatre review section. He continued to speak, rather wistfully.
"They've remade Forty-Second Street and it's opening at the Lyric tomorrow night. I don't suppose there's a remote possibility that you'd consider going to the premiere with me? It's going to be the major theatrical event of the season. See - the paper says so."
He rattled the paper to emphasise his next words before continuing.
"And we've been sent two front row tickets by that theatre owner whose name you cleared last month. Remember? The ‘Case of the Diabolical Diva?” He accented the alliterative ‘D’ beginning each word with satisfaction, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John looked up at that point, waving the paper again in his partner's general direction. Sherlock gave in and stopped his search momentarily.
"I frankly don't see the appeal John,” he said, turning to look at his roommate at last. He began to wax to his theme. "In real life, people don't act like they do in musicals - do they? They don't suddenly stop what they're doing and begin to sing and dance in unison - all wearing matching chiffon dresses in various pastel shades. They don't all decide to jump up on tables en masse and then slip into 'impromptu' tap dance routines. He was pacing eloquently around the room now, waving his arms for emphasis. “They don't twirl around theatrically....Ah-ha! Here it is! I knew it was here somewhere!”
The theatrical twirl he had executed by way of demonstration had left him nose to nose with the missing file which was perched on the mantlepiece, underneath the skull. This triumphant cry stopped his little flow of eloquence as effectively as a cork in an overflowing bottle of champagne.
John sent dark thoughts in Sherlock’s direction while his oblivious partner returned to his chair at the kitchen table and began to read the file intently, pretty much forgetting John’s existence. John decided to remind him of it. Action was called for, since the subtle approach didn't seem to be working.
Dropping the newspaper, he stood up and walked purposely over to where Sherlock was sitting, snatching the offending file out of his hands. Then stepping back out of reach he held it firmly behind his back.
"So is that a definite no to tomorrow night, or is it a maybe?" he asked.
Sherlock took one look at John’s face and the indignant protest he was about to make died on his lips. Ever since his return Sherlock had felt the need to placate John, even though his more-than-friend said he understood and forgave him. Still, going to a musical was action above and beyond the call of duty, surely? Sherlock looked at John and saw that resistance was futile, but it couldn't hurt to try.
"I bet Molly would love to go with you, John. Or what about Mrs Hudson? She’s always singing show tunes." The condemned man asking vainly for a death-row reprieve.
John didn't dignify that pathetic attempt with a response. He just continued to stare at Sherlock without comment until he caved. It didn't take long. When John really wanted something, John got it. Post-Reichenbach, anyway.
"You're not going to give me the file back unless I say I'll go to the musical, are you?"
John almost felt sorry for him. For a supposed sociopath, Sherlock certainly knew his human nature, John would give him that. Well, he knew his John nature, anyway. The little medic could be as tenacious as a pit bull terrier when he wanted something. And he really wanted to go to this musical with Sherlock. Really.
Meeting Sherlock’s gaze, John smiled a little smugly and shook his head, adding: "That Oxbridge education was good for something, wasn't it, Sherlock?"
Bowing to the inevitable, Sherlock held out his hand expectantly, silently asking John to return the confiscated folder into his outstretched hand.
John stepped forward and gave it to him with the sweetest smile and a little thank you kiss on the nose. That was new, too. Kisses were one of the pleasanter unexpected results of Sherlock’s return from the dead. They both seemed to enjoy them immensely, although they hadn’t taken things any further yet.
John settled back in his chair, humming "Forty-second Street" to himself. He felt very light-hearted and happy all of a sudden. He'd really really really wanted to go to this musical, and now he was going to go. And with Sherlock too. Perfect.
God knew why he wanted it so much. He didn't actually like musicals himself as a rule. He could even see what Sherlock had meant earlier. I mean you did sometimes hear ordinary people singing as they went about their daily routine, but fifty people suddenly bursting into song in three-part harmony? Fifty people unaccountably seized with the desire to stop talking to each other like normal human beings and instead dance on the rooftops of London? He had to admit it was little hard to suspend your disbelief when that sort of thing happened.
But God, wasn't Sherlock the King of Suspended Disbelief? What was the big deal about musicals, anyway? Why did they alone have to conform to the real world, when nothing else ever did. Not in the mad universe they inhabited, anyway.
He breathed a contented sigh of relief as he looked at the tickets they'd been sent. Dress Circle. Perfect.
He imagined himself sweeping into the theatre on Sherlock's arm, with Sherlock looking all dark and Darcy-like and John in his best suit and tie. There woudn't be a hint of formaldehyde in the air. Not a whiff of a conspiracy. Instead they'd be shown to their seats, enveloped in a mist of expensive perfume, cologne and the feather boas of the other theatre-goers.
And then the lights would dim, the orchestra would tune up, the curtain would slowly rise and he'd be in another world for a few hours. A world full of beautiful people who sang together in perfect harmony and danced in unison to the same beat, kicking their legs higher and higher and higher. Everybody would be smiling and glittering and gleaming and dressed in white top hats and tails and there'd be no shadow on the stage anywhere. Not a single shadow anywhere. Everything would be beautiful and nothing would hurt. Because that was the whole point of musicals. They were all light and bright and sparkling. They let you escape from the blackness that threatened to suck you down.
Couldn't Sherlock see that?
It wasn't so much the musicals themselves that were so appealing, it was more the optimistic ideas that they represented. The best ones had been produced during the thirties and forties as a direct response to dark and worrying times. Not unlike the times in which they were all living now. Moriority might be dead at last, but who knew when the next criminal mastermind would appear to try to destroy their lives. To try to separate them again. He began to sing the words of “Forty-Second Street” softly:
Side by side, they're glorified
Where the underworld
Can meet the elite
Forty-Second Street
Forty-Second Street
"John," interrupted Sherlock, half-heartedly. "What about if we leave at the interval? Would that do?"
By way of answer, John chucked the Union Jack cushion at him, before settling back to reading his paper. But he continued to hum happily to himself, and there was a silly little smile on his face. He and Sherlock were going on a date of all things. A real-live date. To a musical no less. Who would have thought it?
If he’d glanced up, he would have seen a silly little smile on Sherlock’s face too.
Writer: redvalerian
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: G
Warnings, kinks & contents: Pretty much fluff
Length: 1582
Summary: Post-Reichenbach, John gets his own way. And John really, really want to go to and see a West End Musical with his partner. Sherlock hates musicals. Guess who wins?
Sherlock was pacing back and forth in front of his bookshelves, pulling out volumes seemingly at random and flinging them onto the floor behind him. The place was always a mess, but it had now gone one step beyond insanity. There were more piles of paper and folders on the floor than in the filing cabinets and bookshelves. His partner was turning a blind eye to the madness and mayhem as usual, and placidly reading a newspaper in his comfy chair by the fireside. John held a real live broadsheet in his capable hands. Sherlock had not been able to cure him of his need to clutter up the flat with piles of newsprint daily, despite the ready availability of free editions online. Suddenly John looked up and spoke:
"Sherlock, do you like musicals?"
That stopped Sherlock in his tracks. He turned around and positively stared at John in wonder. Finally he spoke:
"I’ve never had much respect for your powers of deduction, John, but see if you can hazard a wild guess." He waited a for a reply, and when there was none he returned to ransacking the flat. Sherlock had said he was looking for some indispensable file that would solve the case they were presently working on. The ‘file’ was one he had confiscated from the Yard, and then promptly misplaced. What was in said file was a mystery to John, but it was ever thus. He’d offered to help Sherlock search earlier, but his offer was rudely declined. John knew when it was time to leave his flatmate to it and this was one of those times.
Ignoring Sherlock’s dismissive comment, John carried on regardless. He was sitting comfortably in his chair reading the review section of the Guardian instead of working on his blog. The theatre review section. He continued to speak, rather wistfully.
"They've remade Forty-Second Street and it's opening at the Lyric tomorrow night. I don't suppose there's a remote possibility that you'd consider going to the premiere with me? It's going to be the major theatrical event of the season. See - the paper says so."
He rattled the paper to emphasise his next words before continuing.
"And we've been sent two front row tickets by that theatre owner whose name you cleared last month. Remember? The ‘Case of the Diabolical Diva?” He accented the alliterative ‘D’ beginning each word with satisfaction, while Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John looked up at that point, waving the paper again in his partner's general direction. Sherlock gave in and stopped his search momentarily.
"I frankly don't see the appeal John,” he said, turning to look at his roommate at last. He began to wax to his theme. "In real life, people don't act like they do in musicals - do they? They don't suddenly stop what they're doing and begin to sing and dance in unison - all wearing matching chiffon dresses in various pastel shades. They don't all decide to jump up on tables en masse and then slip into 'impromptu' tap dance routines. He was pacing eloquently around the room now, waving his arms for emphasis. “They don't twirl around theatrically....Ah-ha! Here it is! I knew it was here somewhere!”
The theatrical twirl he had executed by way of demonstration had left him nose to nose with the missing file which was perched on the mantlepiece, underneath the skull. This triumphant cry stopped his little flow of eloquence as effectively as a cork in an overflowing bottle of champagne.
John sent dark thoughts in Sherlock’s direction while his oblivious partner returned to his chair at the kitchen table and began to read the file intently, pretty much forgetting John’s existence. John decided to remind him of it. Action was called for, since the subtle approach didn't seem to be working.
Dropping the newspaper, he stood up and walked purposely over to where Sherlock was sitting, snatching the offending file out of his hands. Then stepping back out of reach he held it firmly behind his back.
"So is that a definite no to tomorrow night, or is it a maybe?" he asked.
Sherlock took one look at John’s face and the indignant protest he was about to make died on his lips. Ever since his return Sherlock had felt the need to placate John, even though his more-than-friend said he understood and forgave him. Still, going to a musical was action above and beyond the call of duty, surely? Sherlock looked at John and saw that resistance was futile, but it couldn't hurt to try.
"I bet Molly would love to go with you, John. Or what about Mrs Hudson? She’s always singing show tunes." The condemned man asking vainly for a death-row reprieve.
John didn't dignify that pathetic attempt with a response. He just continued to stare at Sherlock without comment until he caved. It didn't take long. When John really wanted something, John got it. Post-Reichenbach, anyway.
"You're not going to give me the file back unless I say I'll go to the musical, are you?"
John almost felt sorry for him. For a supposed sociopath, Sherlock certainly knew his human nature, John would give him that. Well, he knew his John nature, anyway. The little medic could be as tenacious as a pit bull terrier when he wanted something. And he really wanted to go to this musical with Sherlock. Really.
Meeting Sherlock’s gaze, John smiled a little smugly and shook his head, adding: "That Oxbridge education was good for something, wasn't it, Sherlock?"
Bowing to the inevitable, Sherlock held out his hand expectantly, silently asking John to return the confiscated folder into his outstretched hand.
John stepped forward and gave it to him with the sweetest smile and a little thank you kiss on the nose. That was new, too. Kisses were one of the pleasanter unexpected results of Sherlock’s return from the dead. They both seemed to enjoy them immensely, although they hadn’t taken things any further yet.
John settled back in his chair, humming "Forty-second Street" to himself. He felt very light-hearted and happy all of a sudden. He'd really really really wanted to go to this musical, and now he was going to go. And with Sherlock too. Perfect.
God knew why he wanted it so much. He didn't actually like musicals himself as a rule. He could even see what Sherlock had meant earlier. I mean you did sometimes hear ordinary people singing as they went about their daily routine, but fifty people suddenly bursting into song in three-part harmony? Fifty people unaccountably seized with the desire to stop talking to each other like normal human beings and instead dance on the rooftops of London? He had to admit it was little hard to suspend your disbelief when that sort of thing happened.
But God, wasn't Sherlock the King of Suspended Disbelief? What was the big deal about musicals, anyway? Why did they alone have to conform to the real world, when nothing else ever did. Not in the mad universe they inhabited, anyway.
He breathed a contented sigh of relief as he looked at the tickets they'd been sent. Dress Circle. Perfect.
He imagined himself sweeping into the theatre on Sherlock's arm, with Sherlock looking all dark and Darcy-like and John in his best suit and tie. There woudn't be a hint of formaldehyde in the air. Not a whiff of a conspiracy. Instead they'd be shown to their seats, enveloped in a mist of expensive perfume, cologne and the feather boas of the other theatre-goers.
And then the lights would dim, the orchestra would tune up, the curtain would slowly rise and he'd be in another world for a few hours. A world full of beautiful people who sang together in perfect harmony and danced in unison to the same beat, kicking their legs higher and higher and higher. Everybody would be smiling and glittering and gleaming and dressed in white top hats and tails and there'd be no shadow on the stage anywhere. Not a single shadow anywhere. Everything would be beautiful and nothing would hurt. Because that was the whole point of musicals. They were all light and bright and sparkling. They let you escape from the blackness that threatened to suck you down.
Couldn't Sherlock see that?
It wasn't so much the musicals themselves that were so appealing, it was more the optimistic ideas that they represented. The best ones had been produced during the thirties and forties as a direct response to dark and worrying times. Not unlike the times in which they were all living now. Moriority might be dead at last, but who knew when the next criminal mastermind would appear to try to destroy their lives. To try to separate them again. He began to sing the words of “Forty-Second Street” softly:
Side by side, they're glorified
Where the underworld
Can meet the elite
Forty-Second Street
Forty-Second Street
"John," interrupted Sherlock, half-heartedly. "What about if we leave at the interval? Would that do?"
By way of answer, John chucked the Union Jack cushion at him, before settling back to reading his paper. But he continued to hum happily to himself, and there was a silly little smile on his face. He and Sherlock were going on a date of all things. A real-live date. To a musical no less. Who would have thought it?
If he’d glanced up, he would have seen a silly little smile on Sherlock’s face too.