Fic: Gourds and Clubs and Booze, OH MY! Part 1/?

I have a fic to post here.  It's a WIP, but it's getting the next part really, REALLY soon.  (I have to stagger projects and the comic just got another page, so it's this piece's turn now.)

ANyhow... 

Title: Gourds and Clubs and Booze, OH MY!  Part 1/?
Author: Pennies_4_eyes
Rating: pg-13
Pairing: John/Sherlock Pre-slash
Category: Humor, H/C, Pre-slash
Warnings:  Not-quite-Crack, violence, stereotyping of thugs, and general mayhem
Disclaimer: I don't own them.  See, they're fully clothed.

Summary: In which pumpkins become a motive for murder, Birds are really out to get them, Sherlock, in his infinite singlemindedness, misses a few vital things, AND John continues his ongoing practice of categorizing and naming all of Sherlock's myriad "looks".  

A/N : This is a WIP fill for marill_chan , my not-so-evil twin.  Since she filled my word table prompt, I am filling hers.  It's all on her shoulders folks.  (If I'm out there doing evil, it's usually her fault)



This fic is a really horrid stomp into pseudo-not-really-crack and as such is probably full to the brim with movie references (just check the title out), bad puns, OOC behaviors and my own messed up brand of wit. (if you want to be generous and actually call it wit.) This is part 1. Part 2 is coming up in a couple of days. I am working kinks out of it now. It was supposed to be a reciprocal H/C fill for Marril_Chan's filling of MY prompt table fic. But it's taken a weird turn. PLease forgive the pending insanity.

Also please forgive any typos. I didn't send it off to BETA.





Gourds and Clubs and Booze, OH MY! Part 1/?


"Sherlock, is there a reason we've made a detour to a liquor store?" John braced himself for the odd. He was expecting Sherlock to turn to him with that urbane look of mild exasperation that just screamed 'Look subhuman, stop pestering me with the painfully obvious', and tell him rather matter-of-factly that there was a particular alcohol brand that when distilled out in just such a fashion made a particular deadly poison. If there was one word for Sherlock Holmes, it was 'particular'. Or was that peculiar...

But instead of cooperating with John's hard earned preconceptions, Sherlock didn't bother to look at him at all. "To buy alcohol, of course," the lanky detective answered smartly, pulling a bottle of Stolovaya off the shelf, becoming absorbed in the label.

John wasn't sure whether or not to be shocked or disappointed. 'Alright,' he thought to himself. 'Shock it is.'  The question was whether to be more shocked by Sherlock's apparently deplorable taste in liquor or the sudden, violent flashbacks that were trying to drag him back to his college years where--like most medical students--his first and most enduring University experiments had been upon his poor, beleaguered liver. "To buy Alcohol," he flatly parroted, just in case he'd heard wrong.

"Yes John, alcohol." There was a nasal sigh that followed. It wore a sign that said 'God save me from fools.'

Luckily, John was used to Sherlock's longsuffering tone by now. "Oh?"

The sound of assertion Sherlock made was just a little too dignified to actually be called a grunt. "I need as high a proof as I can get a hold of.   If I were in Italy, this would be simple," Sherlock wagged the clear bottle of cheap vodka at him.  "But I'm here, and while a higher percent volume would be best, this 50% will simply have to do."

"Hmm..." John offered in place of anything else to say. However, the tenor of things to come determined, there was his professional obligation to see to. "You're not getting faced tonight, are you? 'Cause if you are, as your physician, I advise that (a) you actually eat something today first and (b) you skip that dodgy cack you're holding right now and grab something that won't burn a hole in your stomach."

Sherlock paused for a moment, still not quite looking up from the bottle label. He smirked tightly though and John had to quell that flighty feeling he got whenever he'd managed to inspire that look on his friend's face. It wasn't the lips. The pinched reining in of a smile wasn't one of Sherlock's more compelling moments. It was the eyes. Everything showed in Sherlock's terribly attractive eyes and John was a sappy git for those moments when mischievous entertainment shone in them.

He was also just a plain git in general for finding Sherlock's eyes 'terribly attractive' to begin with. But there you have it.

"It's for a case, John," Sherlock clarified, picking up several other brands, all of them utter dreck--placing them all back on the shelf after reading the labels. All except the Stolovaya .

John wasn't stupid. And yet invariably whenever he least expected it, his mouth just ran away with him in front of whomever it was that he was currently smitten with, and instead of self possessed RAMC Capt John Hamish Watson, he would suddenly become 'Johnny the amazing hormone jelly'. "Oh. Well...Yes, I see." THough he really didn't. "Researching, then...are we? Was there some crime involving alcohol?"

Sherlock actually looked up at him then, that incredulous 'Surely you're impaired in some way' look, painted on his long features. "As a matter of fact, scores of crimes involve alcohol. People are stupid quite in general, but become far more specifically so with blood alcohol levels above a certain point." Sherlock paused long enough to give him another look, this one strangely quizzical, before moving down the aisle again. "In this case, though, no. I'm extracting DNA from evidence in the kitchen. And I'm currently out of high proof alcohol to aggregate the stripped genetic material for collection."

John just blinked for a moment. Alright then... That's what he'd been waiting for. That was the 'odd' John had been expecting since first inquiring why they were in a liquor store. Of course Sherlock Holmes didn't come into a liquor store to buy booze to drink. That would be too.... anybody.

However, Currently there were two mismatched hands, a set of false teeth that had seen better days and a collection of toe nail clippings in their refrigerator. The question of the day suddenly became which item was Sherlock doing an off the cuff DNA test upon? "Evidence?" John asked, almost afraid of the answer.

"Yes, evidence. The pumpkins," Sherlock answered, frowning over a bottle of pure grain like it was the holy grail of experimental accoutrements. It had been, in college,' John thought with a fondly reminiscent queasiness.

Wait... "I thought those were for carving," John observed, genuinely curious now.

"Why would... oh yes..." Sherlock snorted derisively. "The pending Holiday. Afraid not, John. They're evidence in a murder investigation."

John wasn't surprised it was something like this. It happened nearly every damn day and the novelty of Sherlock's bizarre life just simply had yet to wear off. It was like living down the proverbial rabbit hole. "Should I even ask what pumpkins have to do with a murder case?"

Sherlock was about to answer when a rather attractive blond shop girl approached. "Hi, can I help you gentlemen find something?"

It was S.O.P. now to watch for Sherlock's swiftly assessing gaze, lighting upon countless details in an instant. There was a minute wrinkle of a frown. 'He probably knows her bloody life story now,' John thought ruefully. Which was unfortunate because she was cute and giving him the eye a bit and he hadn't had a good knob in weeks. But Sherlock was going to ruin it, it's just what he did.

"Her epithelial capillary dilation just increased about thirty percent, John. Looks like your lucky night," Sherlock announced archly, grinning almost vindictively at John as he said it.

No, no, no, no.... This was NOT going to go well.

The poor shop girl, whose nametag read 'Bess', just looked at them like they'd already been hard at the stock. "Beg your pardon?" she asked, and John desperately wanted to tell her to run, not walk, to the beer cooler and hide out there until his nightmare of a flatmate was gone. But as usual, Sherlock was ten paces ahead of him.

Sherlock actually sighed. "You're blushing," he clarified, just as boldly as he'd made his first observation. Then gray eyes turned to John, registering a momentary look of surprise before a subtle, predatory shift took place. "And now so are you, John..." And soldier or not, John really was tempted to run for it. This had all the earmarks of a pending demolition and he wanted clear of the blast radius.

"Sherlock..." John warned, knowing it was already too late. His flatmate had yet another look he recognized, the one that said 'I eat marmite on my idiots.', and there was probably no stopping this. John felt that familiar swell of sick resignation. He loved Sherlock, but oh how he hated him.

"Well, since this is so obviously chemically mutual, and unless I've missed my mark--and I never miss my mark--John is terribly behind in his scheduled coition, I'll just continue searching for something suitably caustic on your shelves while my friend here avails himself of the opportunity to, what did you call it, John...oh yes, 'get off'." And with that, Sherlock departed to the back of the store, leaving the dust settle over the perfectly leveled terrain that used to be John's dignity.

Bugger him.

"Uhm...." John offered, part of his brain still waiting for the 'all clear' before coming out to count casualties.

"Weird friend you have there." And Bess actually giggled. It wasn't coquettish at all, rather it was the honest, delightfully female noise of someone who really did think the whole thing was funny.

John was tempted to find religion in that moment.

"Yes. Well. Look, I apologize for him. It's a head trauma thing."

God bless Bess, there was another giggle. "Really," she offered, clearly not fooled. And yet somehow, very charmed.

John apparently was having a lucky night.

"Well, no, not really. You see..." and John gestured toward where Sherlock had disappeared off to, grinning stupidly. "Actually he was orphaned at an early age..."

Bess swallowed the giggle this time, he observed. But the wide smile, that went clear up to her lovely eyes, was even better. "Oh the poor dear," she demurred.

John was on a roll now. A vindictive, 'I'll show you, Sherlock Holmes' roll, that was entirely beneath him and oh so satisfying for it. "Yeah, it's right sad. Would have been fine, but he was adopted by Tim Burton's wicked spinster aunt. She locked him in a giant gothic library and fed him canned cat food once a day through a letter drop in the door. He's very poorly socialized as a result."

~~~~TBC~~~~~