For the King of Bohemia 1/3alex_caligariJune 7 2012, 18:35:27 UTC
Dear God, please don’t let him play that here, John thought. I just want a normal night out.
It started with a detour, as it usually did. “I need to stop in here, won’t be a moment,” Sherlock had said, and turned so swiftly on his heel that John thought he had disappeared for a second. He had entered a music shop, one that looked like it frowned upon anyone who wasn’t already in the London Symphony Orchestra.
“Don’t make us late,” John called after him. Sherlock returned five minutes later with a package under his arm.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Who did Lestrade say would be there?”
“I don’t know, he told me ‘the usual crowd.’ What’s in the package?”
“Oh, God, that means Donovan will be there,” Sherlock said, ignoring the question. “He brings her to the most inappropriate of places.”
“How is a pub inappropriate?” John asked.
“He invited us,” said Sherlock. “That alone makes it inappropriate. As for the package, I needed my violin restrung. I prefer to leave such things to the professionals.”
“So this means it won’t sound like a gutted cat anymore?” John smiled innocently. Sherlock glared.
“I believe this is the pub in question,” he said stiffly. He allowed John to enter ahead of him in mock politeness. John laughed at him.
It was definitely a cop pub. Even though no one was in uniform or office attire, there was a feeling of authority that pervaded the atmosphere. No one would dare start a brawl in here. John liked it. Several tables had been pushed together at the back next to an ancient upright piano and were full of people chatting loudly. It was clear that that was the gathering they were after, even without Lestrade waving them over.
John greeted the officers he recognized, which was quite a few of them, considering that most of Serious Crime was here. It was some sort of communal birthday, or a goodbye party for someone getting a promotion. It didn’t really matter, as long as it involved friends and drinks. Sally was indeed there, as well as a sour-faced Anderson. Well, hopefully there would be enough people to keep Sherlock and them separated. John noticed that several faces looked surprised at Sherlock’s appearance at the pub, but had been there long enough to have had a pint or two and relaxed into easy acceptance.
Lestrade kicked out a couple of chairs and made a complicated hand gesture to the barman, which resulted in a pint of bitter for John and, surprisingly, a whiskey sour for Sherlock. He settled the package containing his violin in his lap and appeared to completely lose interest in the people around him as he began to open it.
As evenings went, it was quite successful. It was the bit of normality that John needed to ground himself and remind him that the world wasn’t as insane as living with Sherlock made it seem, but it was also with a group of people who saw the same battlefield he did. Occasionally John would try to include Sherlock in the conversation, but he was clearly here to humour him, so John left him watching the other patrons and plucking mindlessly at the violin.
Then it happened. The thing that turned a normal night out into something embarrassingly Sherlockian. John was on his third pint, Sherlock his second whiskey sour, and Dimmock had gone up to the bar for another round. Sherlock had been gazing around at the piano, his violin, and the officers with a considering look on his face. John didn’t like that look. Sherlock got that same look when he was trying to determine whether or not a man was stupid enough to really use that cricket bat as a weapon. Suddenly he stood up and followed Dimmock. John watched him murmur something that had Dimmock looking dumbstruck, then conspiratorial as he replied. John could only imagine what Sherlock had told him.
It started with a detour, as it usually did. “I need to stop in here, won’t be a moment,” Sherlock had said, and turned so swiftly on his heel that John thought he had disappeared for a second. He had entered a music shop, one that looked like it frowned upon anyone who wasn’t already in the London Symphony Orchestra.
“Don’t make us late,” John called after him. Sherlock returned five minutes later with a package under his arm.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Who did Lestrade say would be there?”
“I don’t know, he told me ‘the usual crowd.’ What’s in the package?”
“Oh, God, that means Donovan will be there,” Sherlock said, ignoring the question. “He brings her to the most inappropriate of places.”
“How is a pub inappropriate?” John asked.
“He invited us,” said Sherlock. “That alone makes it inappropriate. As for the package, I needed my violin restrung. I prefer to leave such things to the professionals.”
“So this means it won’t sound like a gutted cat anymore?” John smiled innocently. Sherlock glared.
“I believe this is the pub in question,” he said stiffly. He allowed John to enter ahead of him in mock politeness. John laughed at him.
It was definitely a cop pub. Even though no one was in uniform or office attire, there was a feeling of authority that pervaded the atmosphere. No one would dare start a brawl in here. John liked it. Several tables had been pushed together at the back next to an ancient upright piano and were full of people chatting loudly. It was clear that that was the gathering they were after, even without Lestrade waving them over.
John greeted the officers he recognized, which was quite a few of them, considering that most of Serious Crime was here. It was some sort of communal birthday, or a goodbye party for someone getting a promotion. It didn’t really matter, as long as it involved friends and drinks. Sally was indeed there, as well as a sour-faced Anderson. Well, hopefully there would be enough people to keep Sherlock and them separated. John noticed that several faces looked surprised at Sherlock’s appearance at the pub, but had been there long enough to have had a pint or two and relaxed into easy acceptance.
Lestrade kicked out a couple of chairs and made a complicated hand gesture to the barman, which resulted in a pint of bitter for John and, surprisingly, a whiskey sour for Sherlock. He settled the package containing his violin in his lap and appeared to completely lose interest in the people around him as he began to open it.
As evenings went, it was quite successful. It was the bit of normality that John needed to ground himself and remind him that the world wasn’t as insane as living with Sherlock made it seem, but it was also with a group of people who saw the same battlefield he did. Occasionally John would try to include Sherlock in the conversation, but he was clearly here to humour him, so John left him watching the other patrons and plucking mindlessly at the violin.
Then it happened. The thing that turned a normal night out into something embarrassingly Sherlockian. John was on his third pint, Sherlock his second whiskey sour, and Dimmock had gone up to the bar for another round. Sherlock had been gazing around at the piano, his violin, and the officers with a considering look on his face. John didn’t like that look. Sherlock got that same look when he was trying to determine whether or not a man was stupid enough to really use that cricket bat as a weapon. Suddenly he stood up and followed Dimmock. John watched him murmur something that had Dimmock looking dumbstruck, then conspiratorial as he replied. John could only imagine what Sherlock had told him.
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