Author: Ariane DeVere
Word count: 221
Characters: John, Sherlock
Warnings: A couple of minor cuss words
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to way more powerful and wealthy people than me.
Sherlock’s newest case gets John a bit more excited than usual. Sherlock is anything but impressed by John’s enthusiasm.
Gives You Wings
“Silverstone?” John repeated in an amazed voice. “Silverstone?”
“Oh good lord, John,” Sherlock snapped. “Do you want me to say it a few more times? Yes, Silverstone. We are going to Silverstone. We have a case at Silverstone. We’re going to Silverstone. Have you caught up yet?”
“But it’s ...” John managed to snap his mouth shut. Sherlock’s glower was now so severe that John wondered if anyone had ever pulled a muscle in their eyebrows before today, or if this would be the first recorded example.
He turned away, his mouth widening into a huge grin, and tried really hard not to bounce on the spot with excitement. It wasn’t every day that your colleague came home and informed you that he had a case which would not only involve travelling to the home of British Motorsport – at the British government’s expense (for once, John bloody loved Mycroft) – but during the weekend of the British Formula 1 Grand Prix.
Still grinning, he turned back towards his friend, who sighed dramatically. “Yes, John,” he said in resignation. “I’ll find a way for you to talk to Jenson Button.”
“Sod that,” John replied. “I swear I’ll never complain about your violin, or eyeballs in the microwave ever again if you find a valid excuse for me to sit in a Red Bull.”
So for once I don’t get to blame the terrible twosome, atlinmerrick or verityburns, for prompting this one. Instead, this time I brandish my clenched fist at my work colleague Jo who may well have been seekritly bribed by the above terrible twosome to start playing their game of oh-so-nonchalantly and casually saying, “So write something about the Grand Prix,” as she headed out of the office door on her way home, leaving my annoying plotbunny to prick up its fluffy ears and say, “Ooooh!” before having a good nibble at my toes.
Technically speaking I suppose I ought to have saved publishing this until just before the weekend of the 9th and 10th of July when the British Grand Prix is actually on, but as we’re apparently all going to die in the Rapture this weekend I thought I’d better get it published quickly; and although everybody’s supposed to be writing prompts about flying in honour of the forthcoming Rapture, this was the closest I could get. Well, it’s got the word Wings in the title, what more do you want?
Oh, and it’s a 221B. Two hundred and twenty-one words, with the final word beginning with a ‘B’.