Sherlock Fic: Five Beers and a Fruit Drink (Gen: Sherlock, John; G)
Title: Five Beers and a Fruit Drink
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock & John
Rating: PG
Summary: After several years and several thousands of miles across the surface of the planet, John finally discovered the circumstances in which Sherlock could voluntarily, and without an ulterior motive, be genuinely polite (or close enough to it) to another human being.
After several years and several thousands of miles across the surface of the planet, John finally discovered the circumstances in which Sherlock could voluntarily, and without an ulterior motive, be genuinely polite (or close enough to it) to another human being.
It had nothing to do with the alignment of celestial bodies. It had nothing to do with a nutritious diet or an adequate amount of sleep. No. It had everything to do with America, fireworks, and a six-pack of Southern Tier.
John had anticipated the need for cajoling. Some sort of persuasion (undoubtedly doomed to fail). But after dragging Sherlock to the park to experience a slice of "spectacular American nonsense," John repressed a smile as Sherlock fell onto the blanket in a tense heap of crossed arms and legs and, with his face stubbornly turned toward the horizon, reached for the first bottle.
Strong stuff, it was. This Southern Tier. IPA.
"India Pale Ale," said Sherlock as he opened the bottle. "The UK and US versions differ substantially, the UK being 'low-gravity' and the US, much stronger."
John raised an eyebrow. "Do you even drink? I've never seen you drink. Patches, yes. Smoke, sure, when you think--"
"I drink. Occasionally."
John reached for his own bottle and looked to the sky, arguments forgotten, the case forgotten, as the fireworks began to explode one after another.
By the end of the show, John had finished one bottle. Sherlock, five.
"Did you see?" Sherlock asked, eyes alert yet unfocused, fingers tight around John's jacket collar. "Did you see that, that drink?"
"Drink, Sherlock? I think you've had enough--"
"No, not that drink! John, come on." Sherlock hauled him up, managing to grab hold of the blanket as they stood. "Come on." And with a lurch, he pulled them toward what John could only imagine was the parking lot. Smoke lingered in the sky above them.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, where--"
"The drink, John! The drink!" Sherlock exclaimed, all his energy dedicated to spitting out the words, lunging unmistakably toward their rental car. "Did you see? It was red! Red, like a sunset, John! Like a Mediterranean sunset! Like, like a Macintosh apple! That's American, isn't it?"
"I...I don't know." John glanced around, confused, searching for a red drink, a red apple, anything to verify that his friend hadn't just gone 'round and 'round the bend.
"Joe. His name was Joe. So plain. So American, don't you think?"
Recognizing their car, John wrestled to free himself from Sherlock's grip, rushing to the driver's side door, just in case Sherlock entertained the notion of driving in pursuit of this red drink. Or apple.
John stared Sherlock down over the hood of the car. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Joe? Oh! The drink! Joe and the drink! I happened to notice it. And said, 'Joe'--after he introduced himself, of course. 'Joe, I have to admit that I fancy--"
"Fancy? What is this? The Queen's fucking court?"
"--a drink like that. Where did you get it?"
John searched his pocket for the car keys.
"And he said..." Sherlock paused. "I forgot what he said. Dripping Doughnuts? Divine Dippings? No."
John sighed as he opened the door. "Dunkin' Donuts?"
"Yes! Yes! Exactly, John! Exactly!" Sherlock dived into the car as soon as the door lock clicked open. "Dunkin' Donuts! Yes. Let's go!"
"Let's go?"
"To Dunkin' Donuts, let's go!" Sherlock said, gesturing as if to heave the car along in the proper direction.
John didn't bother arguing and was, in ten minutes, pulling up to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through menu--a giant gleaming, colorful display of baked goods and beverages.
A broken female voice crackled out of the speaker beside the car. "Welcome to Dunkin' Donuts." She didn't sound welcoming at all. "How can I help you?"
John glanced at Sherlock, who wore a frighteningly wild grin, then back at the speaker. "Uh, yes. Hello. Um, we'd--well, uh, friend, would--"
Sherlock hurled himself across John's lap, gripping the edge of the open window and smiled at the speaker. "Hello. How are you?"
Static filled the heavy pause before the voice replied, "I'm...okay? How can I help you?"
"Well, miss, I'm a visitor, actually. From London," said Sherlock, all pleasantry and manners. "And I was hoping that you could help me. You see, I met a man at the fireworks--we were just at the fireworks. Lovely fireworks, really."
"Uh. Yeah. They're cool, I guess."
"Yes, extremely cool."
Stiff in his seat, John strained his neck to cast a quizzical eye at Sherlock, who was now practically purring at he speaker.
"--and he had a great, red drink in a plastic cup. With a dome--a dome sort of lid? On top?"
"Well," said the voice, "the only red drink we have is a Strawberry Coolatta. I mean, it's kind of pinkish, reddish--"
"Yes! That's it!" Sherlock slapped the door. "A Strawberry Coolatta! That is it! That sounds absolutely marvelous. Can I have one of those, please?"
John stared. Please?
"Yeah, what size?"
"Oh, what size? What size? How big is a large? How large is a large?" At his last question, Sherlock collapsed into repressed giggles, leaning his head against the steering wheel.
"It's pretty big. Like, I don't know? Probably about nine or ten inches?"
"Oh, great! Yes, that's perfect! Absolutely perfect!" Sherlock said, nearly shouting with glee. "The more gigantic the better!"
"Okay, so one large Strawberry Coolatta?" the voice asked.
"Make it two! Make it two!" Then, in a softer voice meant only for the confines of the car, Sherlock said. "You want one, right John?"
"Uh, sure. Why not?" John just wanted to move along and get back to the hotel room. Away from people. Where public embarrassment wasn't a possibility.
"Two Strawberry Coolattas, please! Thank you! With straws!"
"Yes, sir, they come with straws."
"Wonderful! Brilliant!"
John shoved Sherlock back into his seat when the voice instructed him to drive to the window. He couldn't help rolling hie eyes as Sherlock whispered to himself, "Straws! Can you imagine? You don't even have to ask for them."
When the face-voice, a university-aged student with a braid of light brown hair, handed over their Coolattas, Sherlock burst with enthusiasm.
"Yes! Those are exactly what I wanted! These Coolattas! Look at them, John! Look at how red they are."
Sherlock took a sip as John paid with cash.
"Mmm," he said, humming. "It's so good. So strawberry-y! You need to taste it, John," he said, shoving John's Coolatta inches from his face.
The girl leaned toward the car to give John his change. "Your change is--"
"No, no!" Sherlock said. "No, you keep it! You keep it. John put your straw in." Sherlock smiled at the girl. "Thank you, miss! Thank you, it's delicious. Exactly like strawberry!"
John stabbed the drink with his straw and brought it to his lips for a taste. It was nothing like strawberry.
"Exactly like strawberry! Well done!" Sherlock shot the girl another smile before he patted the steering wheel.
"Yes?" John asked, slightly irritated, mostly amused.
Sherlock sipped happily at his drink. "You're holding up the line, John. Can't keep everyone waiting. Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"
John grinned to himself, pressing lightly on the accelerator to ease away from the window and toward the street.
Sherlock's hand shot past his line of vision, waving to the girl at the window. "Thank you!" he shouted. "Delicious...uh..."
"Coolatta."
"Coolatta!"
On the way to the hotel, John peeked at Sherlock, who was hunkered down in his seat, straw to his lips, nearly finished with his drink. His lips were unnaturally red. John grinned to himself, making a note to store a cabinet of alcohol at Baker Street for strategic use. There would be times when he would need Sherlock to be agreeable, uttering please and thank you, and he best be prepared to make the improbable probable.
He just never would have dreamed he'd discover the means through an American food chain.
Fandom: Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock & John
Rating: PG
Summary: After several years and several thousands of miles across the surface of the planet, John finally discovered the circumstances in which Sherlock could voluntarily, and without an ulterior motive, be genuinely polite (or close enough to it) to another human being.
After several years and several thousands of miles across the surface of the planet, John finally discovered the circumstances in which Sherlock could voluntarily, and without an ulterior motive, be genuinely polite (or close enough to it) to another human being.
It had nothing to do with the alignment of celestial bodies. It had nothing to do with a nutritious diet or an adequate amount of sleep. No. It had everything to do with America, fireworks, and a six-pack of Southern Tier.
John had anticipated the need for cajoling. Some sort of persuasion (undoubtedly doomed to fail). But after dragging Sherlock to the park to experience a slice of "spectacular American nonsense," John repressed a smile as Sherlock fell onto the blanket in a tense heap of crossed arms and legs and, with his face stubbornly turned toward the horizon, reached for the first bottle.
Strong stuff, it was. This Southern Tier. IPA.
"India Pale Ale," said Sherlock as he opened the bottle. "The UK and US versions differ substantially, the UK being 'low-gravity' and the US, much stronger."
John raised an eyebrow. "Do you even drink? I've never seen you drink. Patches, yes. Smoke, sure, when you think--"
"I drink. Occasionally."
John reached for his own bottle and looked to the sky, arguments forgotten, the case forgotten, as the fireworks began to explode one after another.
By the end of the show, John had finished one bottle. Sherlock, five.
"Did you see?" Sherlock asked, eyes alert yet unfocused, fingers tight around John's jacket collar. "Did you see that, that drink?"
"Drink, Sherlock? I think you've had enough--"
"No, not that drink! John, come on." Sherlock hauled him up, managing to grab hold of the blanket as they stood. "Come on." And with a lurch, he pulled them toward what John could only imagine was the parking lot. Smoke lingered in the sky above them.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, where--"
"The drink, John! The drink!" Sherlock exclaimed, all his energy dedicated to spitting out the words, lunging unmistakably toward their rental car. "Did you see? It was red! Red, like a sunset, John! Like a Mediterranean sunset! Like, like a Macintosh apple! That's American, isn't it?"
"I...I don't know." John glanced around, confused, searching for a red drink, a red apple, anything to verify that his friend hadn't just gone 'round and 'round the bend.
"Joe. His name was Joe. So plain. So American, don't you think?"
Recognizing their car, John wrestled to free himself from Sherlock's grip, rushing to the driver's side door, just in case Sherlock entertained the notion of driving in pursuit of this red drink. Or apple.
John stared Sherlock down over the hood of the car. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Joe? Oh! The drink! Joe and the drink! I happened to notice it. And said, 'Joe'--after he introduced himself, of course. 'Joe, I have to admit that I fancy--"
"Fancy? What is this? The Queen's fucking court?"
"--a drink like that. Where did you get it?"
John searched his pocket for the car keys.
"And he said..." Sherlock paused. "I forgot what he said. Dripping Doughnuts? Divine Dippings? No."
John sighed as he opened the door. "Dunkin' Donuts?"
"Yes! Yes! Exactly, John! Exactly!" Sherlock dived into the car as soon as the door lock clicked open. "Dunkin' Donuts! Yes. Let's go!"
"Let's go?"
"To Dunkin' Donuts, let's go!" Sherlock said, gesturing as if to heave the car along in the proper direction.
John didn't bother arguing and was, in ten minutes, pulling up to the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through menu--a giant gleaming, colorful display of baked goods and beverages.
A broken female voice crackled out of the speaker beside the car. "Welcome to Dunkin' Donuts." She didn't sound welcoming at all. "How can I help you?"
John glanced at Sherlock, who wore a frighteningly wild grin, then back at the speaker. "Uh, yes. Hello. Um, we'd--well, uh, friend, would--"
Sherlock hurled himself across John's lap, gripping the edge of the open window and smiled at the speaker. "Hello. How are you?"
Static filled the heavy pause before the voice replied, "I'm...okay? How can I help you?"
"Well, miss, I'm a visitor, actually. From London," said Sherlock, all pleasantry and manners. "And I was hoping that you could help me. You see, I met a man at the fireworks--we were just at the fireworks. Lovely fireworks, really."
"Uh. Yeah. They're cool, I guess."
"Yes, extremely cool."
Stiff in his seat, John strained his neck to cast a quizzical eye at Sherlock, who was now practically purring at he speaker.
"--and he had a great, red drink in a plastic cup. With a dome--a dome sort of lid? On top?"
"Well," said the voice, "the only red drink we have is a Strawberry Coolatta. I mean, it's kind of pinkish, reddish--"
"Yes! That's it!" Sherlock slapped the door. "A Strawberry Coolatta! That is it! That sounds absolutely marvelous. Can I have one of those, please?"
John stared. Please?
"Yeah, what size?"
"Oh, what size? What size? How big is a large? How large is a large?" At his last question, Sherlock collapsed into repressed giggles, leaning his head against the steering wheel.
"It's pretty big. Like, I don't know? Probably about nine or ten inches?"
"Oh, great! Yes, that's perfect! Absolutely perfect!" Sherlock said, nearly shouting with glee. "The more gigantic the better!"
"Okay, so one large Strawberry Coolatta?" the voice asked.
"Make it two! Make it two!" Then, in a softer voice meant only for the confines of the car, Sherlock said. "You want one, right John?"
"Uh, sure. Why not?" John just wanted to move along and get back to the hotel room. Away from people. Where public embarrassment wasn't a possibility.
"Two Strawberry Coolattas, please! Thank you! With straws!"
"Yes, sir, they come with straws."
"Wonderful! Brilliant!"
John shoved Sherlock back into his seat when the voice instructed him to drive to the window. He couldn't help rolling hie eyes as Sherlock whispered to himself, "Straws! Can you imagine? You don't even have to ask for them."
When the face-voice, a university-aged student with a braid of light brown hair, handed over their Coolattas, Sherlock burst with enthusiasm.
"Yes! Those are exactly what I wanted! These Coolattas! Look at them, John! Look at how red they are."
Sherlock took a sip as John paid with cash.
"Mmm," he said, humming. "It's so good. So strawberry-y! You need to taste it, John," he said, shoving John's Coolatta inches from his face.
The girl leaned toward the car to give John his change. "Your change is--"
"No, no!" Sherlock said. "No, you keep it! You keep it. John put your straw in." Sherlock smiled at the girl. "Thank you, miss! Thank you, it's delicious. Exactly like strawberry!"
John stabbed the drink with his straw and brought it to his lips for a taste. It was nothing like strawberry.
"Exactly like strawberry! Well done!" Sherlock shot the girl another smile before he patted the steering wheel.
"Yes?" John asked, slightly irritated, mostly amused.
Sherlock sipped happily at his drink. "You're holding up the line, John. Can't keep everyone waiting. Didn't your mother ever teach you manners?"
John grinned to himself, pressing lightly on the accelerator to ease away from the window and toward the street.
Sherlock's hand shot past his line of vision, waving to the girl at the window. "Thank you!" he shouted. "Delicious...uh..."
"Coolatta."
"Coolatta!"
On the way to the hotel, John peeked at Sherlock, who was hunkered down in his seat, straw to his lips, nearly finished with his drink. His lips were unnaturally red. John grinned to himself, making a note to store a cabinet of alcohol at Baker Street for strategic use. There would be times when he would need Sherlock to be agreeable, uttering please and thank you, and he best be prepared to make the improbable probable.
He just never would have dreamed he'd discover the means through an American food chain.