Ariane DeVere (arianedevere) wrote,
Ariane DeVere
arianedevere

Sherlock fic: Sherlilocks and the Three Bores

Title: Sherlilocks and the Three Bores
Author: Ariane DeVere
Word count: 1291
Rating: PG-13

Summary: A twist on the Goldilocks story (obviously). Sherlilocks goes for a walk in the forest and finds the house of the Three Bears Bores. Crackfic to the max, ludicrous mangling of a traditional fairytale with malice aforethought. And a tiny bit of porn.



Once upon a time, on a sunny spring morning, Sherlilocks was out for a walk in the forest. Soon he came upon a house in the middle of a glade. He knocked on the front door and, when no-one answered, he used a twig and a small pebble to pick the lock and then walked inside.

On the table in the dining room were three bowls of porridge. Feeling a little hungry, he tasted the porridge in the first bowl.

“This is too hot,” he declared. This porridge is far too salty. Whoever is going to eat this is clearly incapable of any form of feeling. Doesn’t even notice the heat, and has no sense of taste. Boring, he decided.

Then he tried the porridge in the second bowl.

“This is too cold,” he declared. This porridge is far too sugary. Whoever is going to eat this is clearly afraid of pain. Wants to be thought of as sweet. Isn’t sweet at all, and is probably an idiot. Equally boring, he decided.

Then he tried the porridge in the third bowl.

“This is just right,” he declared. This porridge tastes perfect, and contains just the right amount of honey. How tedious. There’s no such thing as perfection, so the person who is going to eat this can’t really be perfect. It’s probably a fluke. Boring, boring, boring.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help taking another taste of the delicious porridge, and before he knew it he had finished the entire bowl.

Licking the spoon clean and putting it back into the bowl, he made his way into the sitting room where there were three armchairs. Sherlilocks sat down in the first chair.

“This is too big,” he declared. Minor government official with delusions of grandeur; clearly thinks he’s the most important person in the room, probably correctly most of the time. Boring, he decided.

Then he sat down in the second chair.

“This is too small,” he declared. Forensic scientist with assumptions of insignificance; clearly considers himself worthless, probably correctly all of the time. Really boring.

Then he sat down in the third chair.

“This is just right,” he declared. This chair is perfect. How tedious. It’s firm but not too hard. It’s upright and provides good support, much like its owner. Retired army doctor with delusions of inadequacy; clearly needs his confidence boosting because he is most definitely wrong in thinking that he is unimportant. Despite that, he can’t possibly be perfect. Utterly boring, boring, boring.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t help sitting in the perfect chair for a little longer, but then he wriggled comfortably on the seat and the whole chair promptly collapsed underneath him.

Getting up off the floor and dusting himself down – and noting that these people definitely needed a housekeeper more than a landlady – Sherlilocks left the room and went upstairs to the bedroom where there were three beds. He lay down on the first bed.

“This is too hard,” he declared. Concentrates wholly on his work, has no friends and doesn’t believe that he needs any. Is named Mycroft and thinks that he is the father figure in this group. He is so dull and uninteresting, he might as well be called Daddy Bore.

Then he lay down on the second bed.

“This is too soft,” he declared. Concentrates mostly on his work, has no friends because nobody likes him. Is named Anderson and wants to believe that he’s a mother figure in this group. He is so dull and uninteresting, he might as well be called Mummy Bore.

Then he lay down on the third bed.

“This is just right,” he declared. Concentrates far more on people than on his work, has few friends but is utterly loyal to anyone he feels he can trust. Has a dull and uninteresting name and thinks that he has no real purpose in this group. He might as well be called Baby...

He sat up on the side of the bed.

This bed is not too firm, but not too yielding, he thought to himself. Very comfortable and utterly cuddly, like its owner. I’m certain that it’s the same person who has the perfect porridge, the perfect chair and the perfect bed. No-one can be that perfect. Boring, boring, boring ... No! Fascinating!

Intrigued by his interest in this stranger, he couldn’t help sitting on the bed and thinking many thoughts for a while but then, starting to feel tired, he crawled under the covers and settled down on the perfectly comfortable mattress. Soon his eyes closed and he fell fast asleep.

Some time later the Three Bores came home from their daily pre-breakfast walk and immediately noticed the kitchen table.

“Someone’s been eating my porridge,” said Daddy Bore sternly, deducing instantly from the way that the spoon had been left in the bowl that the intruder was male, approximately six feet tall and in his late thirties.

“Someone’s been eating my porridge,” said Mummy Bore vaguely, realising that his left foot was itchy and wondering whether he had wandered into poison ivy – again – during their morning walk.

“Someone’s been eating my porridge,” said Baby Bore wonderingly, “and they’ve eaten it all up!” He felt instant admiration for the person who was clearly very brave and adventurous in order to risk coming into the forest and eating the Three Bores’ food.

Daddy Bore led the others into the sitting room.

“Someone’s been sitting in my chair,” he said crossly, deducing from the imprint of the stranger’s backside in the chair that he owned a slide-out magnifier which he usually kept in the left pocket of his coat and that occasionally he developed a slight lisp.

“Someone’s been sitting in my chair,” said Mummy Bore dopily, who actually didn’t have a clue whether or not anyone had been anywhere near his chair, but not wanting to look like an idiot.

“Someone’s been sitting in my chair,” said Baby Bore in amazement, “and they’ve broken it to pieces!” He wished that he could meet such a marvellous person who had the courage to break into their house and make use of their facilities with no apparent fear.

Daddy Bore led the others upstairs and into the bedroom.

“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed,” said Daddy Bore angrily, deducing from the way that the intruder had thrown back the bedspread that he took his coffee black with two sugars and that his shirts were always a little too tight.

“I like sardines,” said Mummy Bore.

“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed,” exclaimed Baby Bore excitedly, “and he’s still here!”

He looked at the dark-haired man sleeping peacefully in his bed. “And oh my goodness. He is absolutely gorgeous!” he added.

Sherlilocks opened his eyes and yawned. His gaze settled on Daddy Bore and Mummy Bore and he smirked smugly, pleased that he had been correct in all of his deductions. Then he took one look at Baby Bore, fell instantly in love, and pulled him into the bed with him.

“Oh my God,” moaned Daddy Bore in disgust, and hurried downstairs to amuse himself taunting the goldfish in the garden pond.

“Oh my God,” moaned Mummy Bore in disgust, and hurried downstairs to amuse himself with a piece of string.

“Oh. My. God,” moaned Baby Bore in ecstasy as Sherlilocks hurried down under the bed covers to amuse himself by doing obscene things to Baby Bore with his tongue.

“I’m-I’m John,” said Baby Bore much later, after he had caught his breath.

“I know,” said Sherlock – for that was indeed his proper name – licking his lips clean. He looked up at Baby Bor... John through his eyelashes. “And you’re not boring at all. You are Just Right.”

And they lived happily ever after.




Author’s Note:

You can blame squire for this one. She sent me an innocent email saying that she had been reading Scottish fairytales including one with a boy called Curly-Locks. And almost immediately my idiot plotbunny perked up her fluffy ears and said, “Oooh!”

Then Southeastern Railway pitched in a couple of days later, leaving me stranded on a cold platform one morning with no trains in sight. Bored and fed up, before I knew it I had taken out my notebook and pen. Not even bothering to put on my reading glasses so that I could actually see what I was doing, that glazed expression came across my face and I began to write ...

It’s not my fault!


Tags: sherlock, sherlock fic
Subscribe
  • Post a new comment

    Error

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 15 comments