Bonus Gift for Mustbehavingfun: Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

[holmesticemods]

Title: Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better
Author: who_is_small
Recipient: mustbehavingfun
Characters: Sherlock, John
Rating: PG
Summary: Sherlock is writing a poem, intending to prove a point. Unfortunately, he gets distracted by Urban Dictionary.
Notes: My first gift was so schmoopy that it practically lacked only John and Sherlock skipping through a meadow, with dandelions in their hair. I thought this might soften the blow a bit. (I also deduced that you are not overly fond of Mr. Anderson. Sherlock was happy to rip him a new one for you.)
Thanks to pantropia for quick and efficient beta.





"It is not as easy,“ said John, "as you think."

"Pish! Of bloody course it is. Anyone can write romantic drivel. It's a child's play. Now facts, facts are different. Facts are tricky. You could not solve a case on your own, John, admirable though you are. But I could write schmoopy prose if I really put my mind to it. And that, my friend, is the crucial," Sherlock jabbed John´s sternum with his forefinger, "difference between us."

"Ow!"

It was Sunday afternoon. The sun was shining, all the criminals were, presumably, having a nice day out with their wives and kids, and Sherlock had no case to solve. Bored out of his skull, he buzzed around John like a bee on a sugar high, being irritating.

"Bugger off," said John, "I am trying to work."

"But I’m boooored," moaned the great detective.

"Well, find a way to amuse yourself!"

Sherlock circled the room three times and returned to his default position, perched on the arm of the sofa, staring at John.

"John."

Silence.

"John."

"Yes," said John testily, pressing Ctrl+S.

"I bet you I could do much more intelligent job than the semi-coherent drivel you keep on spouting on your blog."

"I'd like to see you try."

"Anything you can do, I can do better," said Sherlock and snatched John's laptop from him.

"Hey!"

"Shush. I will prove it to you. I will write," said the detective, "a poem. A higher form of written word than prose. I have never done it before, but all that is necessary is to understand the relevant rules. I need only a thesaurus and a rudimentary grasp of the Queen's English."

John pressed his palms against his eyelids. He felt a headache coming.

"Sherlock," he said. "You are brilliant, but a thesaurus will not make a poet out of you."

"Five pounds says it will."

"You are not even romantic."

"I can be very romantic."

"What rhymes with eyes?"

"Mice!" cried Sherlock. "That's easy!"

"Five pounds it is," said John. "And I will watch you," he added, "with considerable interest."

He flopped on the sofa and disappeared behind a copy of Guardian. One interesting article about the dangers of rural cycling later, he lowered the paper and peered over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Ode to Science of Detection

Poem by Sherlock Holmes (Consulting Detective)

Other than that, only a cursor was blinking forlornly in a text window, beneath 47 opened tabs.

"So far, I feel curiously unthreatened," remarked John.

"Wait for it," said Sherlock, writing in the thesaurus window furiously.

John opened the paper again, amusing himself with the cryptic crossword. 'Soon,' he thought, 'I´ll win five pounds. And I will get to lord it over Sherlock at least until Armistice Day. Fantastic.' He filled in 25 across: Item: what to do about blind mice? (detail) and turned to the following article, dedicated to gardening.

"One day we are complaining about drought,“ the article said, "the next we're having to plan trips up to the allotment between the heavy showers that seem to pass every hour or so.“
John felt his eyelids grow heavy. He nodded off, dreaming of jars full of pickled eyes and tailless rodents in the fridge, and was just musing on which one might be less disgusting, provided he washed them down with a cup of really strong Darjeeling, when he suddenly jerked awake and realised that Sherlock had been reading out loud. Apparently, for some time now. He focused.

"…and thus I identified the murderer´s identity,"
read Sherlock,
"even without any mobile biometrics screening capability.
He stabbed her repeatedly in a crime of passion
as if sharp instruments went out of fashion.
The killer might yet dodge the early meeting with his maker in Heaven
thanks to the Homicide Act of 1957.

I found out when the victim drew her final breath
Using measurement of coagulation of saliva after death
Without any need to check
The stiffness of the broken cartilage of the neck.

Yet, the perpetrator of violent assault
Was not immediately caught
Which was Anderson´s fault
For he stupidly trampled the evidence
The dim flat-footed pillock with no competence.

To boot, he had the bloody nerve this to dismiss
Maladroit buffoon that he is.

For every idiot like Anderson
There should be someone named John
Who is appreciative of my detecting style
Unlike that shit pile.

Scotland Yard’s HR departement is clearly losing steam
When a braying ass like Anderson can become part of the team.

Though my position was tough
My eagle eye saw enough
And I prepared a trap
Which would soon very cleverly (if I say so myself) snap.

I did, however, not expect
That my suggestions would meet with disrespect
Of a certain cross-eyed goon
who would not be out of place in a Daffy Duck cartoon.

Thus, as shown in the Case of the Blind Banker
Anderson´s a wan-"

"Sherlock!"

"-what?"

"I thought that this was meant to be an ode to science of detection," cried John, "not a hate mail to poor Anderson. Seriously."

"Well," Sherlock scratched his head, "I might have got a bit carried away."

John grabbed the laptop.

"My god, Sherlock," he said, "this is not a poem. This is nine pages of profanities. Including freaking alliterative insults. What is kangpeh? And at the end, you are even cussing his mother. SHERLOCK!!" 

Holmes grinned at him.

"Right," said John, "right. I will give you ten pounds, if you stop writing this."

"Twenty."

"No bloody way."

"Being a sniffer dog in forensics does not give you power,"
recited Sherlock archly,
"and your Mum´s so ugly, they filmed "Gorillas in the Mist" in her shower."

"Fifteen.“

„Deal.“

„Kangpeh.“

„Tsk tsk, John. Such language.“


-the end-

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