A Scandal in Britain, Part 1/13

Well, we Sherlock fans are veering spectacularly close to the filming of “A Scandal in Belgravia” and to celebrate I thought I’d share my long long fanfic here on Tumblr.

This is an updated version of “A Scandal in Bohemia” that I wrote six months ago, just to see if I could write a 90-page script. Because no one likes to read scripts, I converted it into thirteen blog entries from Sherlock’s POV.

I’m American and have no Brit-picker, so be kind. And Moffat, I know you’re out there. Just steal from me. STEAL FROM ME. PLEASE. I WANT TO HEAR CUMBERBATCH SAY SOMETHING THAT ORIGINATED IN MY HEAD.

*ahem* Anyway. On with the story.

*****

5 December

My friend John has posted a series of entries on his blog labelled “A Scandal in Britain.” As the needlessly dramatic title suggests, the quality of the reporting is generally poor, and the story is rife with inaccuracies and irrelevancies. I mentioned this to him the other evening - quite calmly and politely, I thought - and he snapped, suggesting that, if I was such an expert on blogging, why didn’t I write the (and I quote) “damned bloody story” myself? I replied that writing an accurate report uncoloured by sentiment can’t be all that difficult, as it is my understanding that the Scotland Yarders do it all the time. He had no reply to that.

In any case, here I am, determined to tell the story exactly as it occurred, proving that it is in fact possible to do so without introducing extraneous elements such as sentiment and romance. However, as I begin, I grudgingly (grudgingly, John!) admit that perhaps he has a point. A small one, but a point nonetheless. A blog isn’t a police report, and I suppose there is some expectation on behalf of my readers that a blog entry should be somewhat more, for lack of a better word, interesting. That being said, I’m not going to reduce myself to pandering to popular taste just to increase my hits. If you don’t find reality interesting, you’re under no contract to continue. Go scamper off and read some romance novels, or your religious book of choice. What follows is the exact and literal truth - no more, no less.

Amidst the manifold inaccuracies, John did get one thing right. The case began on March twentieth of this year. I would remember the date even if it hadn’t coincided with the beginning of the case, as it was the day that John made a rather lame (if endearing) attempt to rouse me from a week-long mope by convincing me that grocery shopping would be a suitable outlet for my particular talents.

“All of those shoppers,” he said. “Ripe for observation and analysis!”

“Mmm,” I answered.

“All of them concealing dark secrets that only a brilliant mind can uncover.”

“Mmm.”

“Sherlock, we need milk.”

“Mmm.”

“Do you love Molly?”

“What?”

“I knew that would get your attention.” He whisked past and pulled out the pillow from beneath me. “Time to get up. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Are you going to put on your coat or do I have to dress you myself?”

I raised an eyebrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

I glanced up at him. He gave a wicked smile and took my coat from the rack. With horror I realized he was about to make good on his threat, so I very reluctantly stood, muttering curses beneath my breath.

So it was that half an hour later I found myself in the pharmacy department of some nameless homogenized superstore, a basket on my elbow, staring down a long, endless shelf of merchandise. I reached out for a little box and put it into the basket, then, after a moment’s thought, took another, and another.

When John came around the corner with a cart, I was rearranging a heaping pile of boxes in my basket.

“Sherlock, what - ?”

“Oh, good, you’re here. I’m done.”

He was unimpressed and his voice was flat. “You’re done with your shopping for the week.”

“Yes, this should be all I need.”

I turned on my heel and stalked out of the aisle. John’s voice followed. It was pitched high in exasperation. “I give you an hour, and all you buy are twenty boxes of nicotine patches?”

I shrugged. “Maybe it’s for the next two weeks.”

“What about - oh, I don’t know, food? Razor blades? Toilet paper?”

With glee I spotted a little old lady struggling to choose a brand of toothpaste. “Oh, look, John. Condoms! Do you need any for your next date?” Beat. “Maybe not.”

With some satisfaction I heard him apologise effusively to the shocked woman.

I took the opportunity to duck down the feminine hygiene aisle, but he refused to take the hint. “I might not always be here, you know. I might… Get sick some day. Get the flu or something. Then where would you be?”

I didn’t think this dignified a response.

“You’d be without cereal, for one. Cereal, Sherlock.”

“Oh, this is all so dull,” I moaned. “I’d give anything to have a masked man come in and threaten to blow us all to pieces.” Too late I realized I was passing a woman eying tampons. She looked up in alarm. John muttered more apologies, then addressed me again.

“Life isn’t just all fun and games and catching criminals, you know. You do have to eat occasionally. Wash up. Change light bulbs. That sort of thing.” A pause. “If I’m not going to teach you how to shop, who is?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I got along splendidly for thirty years without you.”

“I’m assuming ‘splendidly’ in Sherlock-speak means ‘the good old days before John moved in, when I had two cans in the cupboard, one full of salt and the other arsenic’?”

“Any fool could tell the difference.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.”

“Actually, no, you aren’t. Mrs. Hudson can’t. She’s your landlady, not your mother. Lestrade has a life. And Mycroft is probably busy orchestrating some kind of international arms race, and you wouldn’t listen to him anyway.”

I glanced behind me. An attractive well-dressed woman was staring at him, her exp​ression a cross between disbelief and fear. A smile played at my lips as I turned the corner. He sighed, and didn’t even bother apologising this time.

I took as long of strides as possible in an attempt to outdistance him, but somehow, even behind the weight of the cart, he came up next to me. “Why don’t you try to find - I don’t know…” He struggled for words.

“A babysitter? Because that’s what you’re implying I need.”

“I don’t know.” He hesitated, then casually threw out a long-thought, well-considered word. “A girlfriend?”

I smiled. I knew I ought to be annoyed at him, but his obvious concern was making it rather difficult.

“A boyfriend?”

I glanced at him. He had said the word without irony. I couldn’t resist. “I thought that’s what you were.”

He glanced back. There was a steeliness in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before. He was tired of the banter. “Sherlock, you have to have had offers.”

“Oh, of course I have. Everyone wants an aromantic asexual sociopath in their lives.”

“But - ” He didn’t finish. I suppose he realized the absurdity of arguing the point. Instead, he leapt on a new train of thought. “Look,” he said, nodding to his right. “That girl. She’s watching you. Why don’t you go and chat her up?”

The woman John was suggesting ought to become my life partner was small and dark, with cropped black hair and tiny makeup-encrusted eyes that were following my every move.

“She’s watching my knees,” I said. “She likes the way my coat moves.”

“That’s a start!”

His tone was so hopeful, I actually felt bad letting him down. “Sorry. She’s a lesbian fashion design student.”

“What?”

We were at the checkout so I didn’t bother to explain. I turned the basket upside down and dumped all the little boxes on the conveyer belt. The clerk gave me a curious glance.

“Good afternoon. Just…these, then?”

“Yes, please.” I smiled at her as I handed her my check card. Despite what John might say, there are indeed times now and again when I feel moved to indulge in human pleasantries. I turned to him. “Why the incessant questioning? Is this about you going away?”

He stared at me, wide-eyed and bewildered, as if I had just revealed the darkest secret of his innermost soul.

“You - you know, then.” His voice had a strange stutter to it.

“Of course I know. I’m not blind.”

He averted my glance - licked his lips. I raised an eyebrow.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry - I should have…”

He faltered. I helped him out. “Travel-sized shampoo bottles in the bathroom. A vacation, clearly. They’ve appeared gradually over the span of several months, so you’ve been planning the trip for a long time. I saw new trunks in the hamper yesterday, so you’re planning to swim. It’s March in Britain. That means you’re either going to a place with an indoor pool or abroad. It’s easy to tell - here’s suntan lotion, SPF forty. So abroad, then. Where? You’ve been watching a disproportionately high number of shows France and French cooking, and you’ve just bought a baguette and the ingredients for crème brulee. So let me guess. Riviera? Within the month?”

John shifted his weight uncomfortably.

“Um - yes. But you - missed something.”

“Excuse me. Mr. Holmes?” The clerk interrupted, tentatively.

I kept my eyes on John, searching his face, his posture. Something was wrong. I was missing something. “Yes?”

“Your card isn’t going through.”

“What?” I turned toward her. “That’s impossible. I checked the balance this morning.”

“Your account’s been frozen, sir.”

It was John’s turn to raise his eyebrow.

“That’s ridiculous.” I took out my phone from my pocket and navigated through the menus. “Look. Here’s my statement.” I held it out for her inspection.

She looked up at me. “It says, bring your boyfriend and meet me at the Diogenes Club.”

I snatched it back.

Damn.

“John,” I said. Suddenly my thoughts began to whir again, as if my brain was some kind of rusty machinery that had been shut down for much too long. The sudden jolt from absolute inactivity to frenetic thought veered on painful. Absolutely everything around me disappeared as I read the message, again and again. Suddenly I found myself walking, now running, toward the exit. I was vaguely aware that John wasn’t following, so I called his name again. A moment later, as I reached out to hail a cab, he was beside me, his shopping abandoned and a grim exp​ression on his face.

I’ll continue the story in my next blog entry.

*****

See, John? I told you it could be done. Simple, logical, and no romance whatsoever. Ta-da!

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


You’re actually a pretty good writer for being a detective. Maybe you could branch out and write mystery novels. Just a thought.

One quick question…you aren’t going to post…you know. That thing between us?

- Comment posted by Molly Hooper


Thank you, Molly. Tell John that.

Why wouldn’t I post about the thing between us? It happened. And I wouldn’t refer to it as a “thing.” The word has highly ambiguous connotations…

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


Umm… Can you email me with a rough draft before you post it?

- Comment posted by Molly Hooper


I don’t really see why I need to, but if you feel that strongly about it…

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


Sherlock, let her read it.

Glanced over this… You’re only about an eighth of the way through. There’s plenty of space left for romance. Btw, I really don’t know how you’re going to avoid it in this case. Everyone fell in love during it. Including you.

- Comment posted by John Watson


Btw? Do you mean “by the way”? Seriously, how much longer does it take you to type the words out?

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


Also, notice how I’m restraining myself and not addressing your outrageous accusation that I would ever fall in love.

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


OK, read it. First of all, “politely”? How is berating my blog in front of my sister and her girlfriend in a packed restaurant polite? Second, it was more like thirty nicotine patches, not twenty. Third, you didn’t make clear there was a reason I had a grim exp​ression at the end. You’d just cost me an hour’s worth of shopping. I had to ditch everything right there. Not to mention the whole store was staring at you. It was a little embarrassing to admit I was the same John the black-coated lunatic was raving on about.

Other than that…pretty good. Held my attention, leastways. But like I said, you still have seven parts or so left to go. We’ll see if you can get through this whole thing without romance.

- Comment posted by John Watson


LOL! I adore reading these lovers’ quarrels. Are you *sure* you’re straight, John? xoxo

- Comment posted by Harry Watson


My boss has just informed me that if you don’t redact the details of this case, he will have certain privileges revoked. I quote, “There will no longer be room in the budget for Spencer Hart suits.”

- Comment posted by Anthea


Your brother pays for your designer suits?

- Comment posted by John Watson


No wonder he’s so sexy. Spencer Hart! <3

- Comment posted by Harry Watson


Harry, I’ve told you not to post here unless you’re sober.

- Comment posted by John Watson


Hey Anthea - Oh, I’m shaking in my boots. Or should I say my Yves Saint Lareunt shoes. Does he realise this is not five years ago? I’m not exactly an impoverished chemistry student.

(Besides, Mother is just a phone call away, and he knows it.)

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


Your MOTHER pays for your designer suits? OK, we’re entering a whole new realm of dysfunction here…

- Comment posted by John Watson


Hey Sherlock, just wanted to ask if you’re aware you treat John like complete and utter crap? You’d never guess from reading this that he’s your best friend. You should really be more careful in future. He deserves better than you.

- Comment posted by Sarah Sawyer


Actually, he’s my only friend.

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


And yes. I acknowledge there are times when he deserves better.

Oh, was that the sound of your brain just exploding? You didn’t think I was capable of admitting it, did you?

- Comment posted by Sherlock Holmes


…

- Comment posted by John Watson