sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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(Well, well, well. There goes my sanity. If you find English mistakes you can keep them. Honestly, I don't even know.)

PAW PRINTS, OR: THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT KURT

„Sherlock?“ John called from the bathroom, sounding slightly alarmed. “Why are there giant paw prints in the bathtub? “
Sherlock responded by wiggling his toes on the sofa cushions and rolling his eyes. John was being annoying and he was not in the mood to react.

“Sherlock? Bloody hell, what kind of experiment… “ John stopped mid-sentence. A helpless groaning noise derived from the bathroom. “Why is our only mirror broken? Jesus, who the hell are all those… bushes of hair from?”

Sherlock grunted.

Yes, John was convenient. He made tea and cleaned the kitchen sink, rescued Sherlock from chainsaw-wielding serial killers and ordered take-away on a regular basis. It was rather pleasant, having a John in one’s life.
Right now, though, John was being slow on the uptake and it was exhausting. All Sherlock wanted was to be left alone, sulk in peace and mentally go through his collection of toxic caterpillars. It was necessary for a case.

John walked out of the bathroom and planted himself in front of Sherlock. Dull.

“You are going to answer me now. Because whoever made this mess in our bathroom is going to clean it.”

Sherlock flopped dramatically. “I am quite sure that Kurt is not going to clean anything, John.”

“Who the buggering fuck is Kurt!?”

“My new boyfriend. Evidently.”

John blinked exactly 17 times. He couldn’t have looked more dumbfounded if Sherlock had gotten up and pulled a yodeling rabbit out of his pants.

“Well. Well.” John cleared his throat awkwardly. “Why did Kurt break our mirror?”

“Sometimes Kurt can’t quite handle his own strength.” Sherlock informed him stoically.

Ah. However hard John tried, he couldn’t stop himself from imagining Sherlock at a gay bar, being chatted up by an enormous, hairy guy called Kurt who couldn’t handle his own strength. Within seconds, the mental image became more elaborate, featuring Sherlock wearing a cocktail dress and Kurt unbuttoning a neon pink latex shirt to reveal incredible amounts of fuzzy, dark brown chest hair. John noticed he was shaking his head violently. His brain cells were protesting.

“And Kurt has left those… muddy prints all over the tiles and the bath tub?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, naturally, yes.” John cleared his throat again. He had gone slightly pale. Sherlock contemplated the odds that he would faint/vomit/have a nervous breakdown/spontaneously start to tap-dance. Interesting thought, that.
John, meanwhile, tried not to imagine what may or may not have happened between his flat mate and hairy Kurt in their bathtub. Needless to say he failed.

“Erm, Sherlock, does Kurt happen to have paws or did you… I don’t know, wear animal costumes or something?”

“I can assure you that neither of us was wearing a costume.”

“Well. Right. Well. Erm, great. It’s working out with Kurt, then?”

“This was our first real date, but I’m confident. I’m quite fond of Kurt.”

“You ended up in the bathtub on your first date?”

“Kurt tends to put his desires bluntly. That’s one of the reasons why I get along with him.”

“Ah.” A noise escaped John that could possibly be described as a crossover between a chuckle and a sob.“Good. Erm, how did you meet?”

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. John trying to discuss his love life was utterly tedious.

“You know him. We both met him when we were investigating The Case of the Zodiac-Zookeeper, as you called it on your moronic blog."

John frowned. He tried to remember every witness they had questioned on the murderous zoo keeper and every person they had met during their frantic search for the flash drive with the crime scene photos… – He couldn’t possibly recall anyone by the name of Kurt. Then suddenly it hit him. For approximately 10 seconds John thought he was going to pass out. His limbic system went on stand-by. “The bear that had eaten the flash drive. The one that had to be narcotised. His name was Kurt, wasn’t it?”

“Obviously.”

Well, it could be worse. At least John had gotten an explanation for the paw prints. That’s all he had asked for, wasn’t it? He wondered if the uncontrollable blinking was going to stop at some point.

“John, Kurt and I have a special something. Are you done going on my nerves?”

“Not quite. Ahm.” There was a long pause. The Sherlock-shaped lump on the sofa didn’t move. Neither did John. “You’re trying to tell me that you’re dating a male brown bear.”

“Yes.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. Stop being annoying.”

“That’s entirely impossible, Sherlock. How did the bear even… get here!?”

“And how do you even survive being this /slow/? Obviously, I went to the zoo, got hold of a key and fetched Kurt to take him on a date.”

“You pick pocketed one of the poor zoo keepers, broke into a wild animal’s enclosure and stole a fucking brown bear?”

“Yes. Do keep up, John.”

John decided to try a breathing pattern his therapist had taught him. It was supposed to help him through panic attacks, but he was quite sure that one could use it to survive bear-related breakdowns as well. In and out, John, slowly, stay grounded. Everything’s going to be alright.
“How did you get to Baker Street with a bear in tow?”

“On the tube.”

“On the tube?”

“None of the cabs would take us.”

Alright. John was having an interesting déjà-vu now. Also, the uncontrollable blinking was becoming more and more inconvenient. Take another deep breath, John. And another one.

“You did take him back to the zoo, didn’t you? You didn’t just abandon him on Piccadilly Circus?” All of a sudden, John could vividly imagine Kurt the bear eating his way through a group of Japanese Tourists. It was not a pleasant image.

“Of course I took him back to the zoo.” Sherlock informed him, making it sound like it was the most natural thing in the world and John was an idiot for even suggesting otherwise. “He wouldn’t have found it all by himself. Kurt has a terrible sense of direction.”

“But you’re, ah, going to see him again, are you?”

Sherlock looked perfectly pleased with himself. “I promised to go see him again tomorrow. I’m going to take him to Bart’s morgue. He gave his word not to eat anyone.”

“Of course he did.” John sighed, sounding oddly defeated. “I’m going out. Do we need anything?”

“Toast, nicotine patches and seven jars of honey, please.”

“What happened to the jar of honey I bought only three days ago?”

“John, Kurt might have eaten it off my-”

John fled. He was never going to find out what part of Sherlock Kurt had eaten a jar of expensive acacia honey off.
This afternoon, after having picked up nicotine patches and groceries, John went down to his favourite pub and got more drunk than the day Sherlock had set his own balls on fire.

THE END

All the fucking internets!

I nearly cried laughing. Wonderful.

Loved it!

(I hope for Lestrade's sanity that Sherlock doesn't take Kurt out on a crime scene next...)

This is ridiculously great! And this is why I love this fandom.

(AA here: Thanks for your nice comments.
Now that I am officially down the rabbithole I thought a third part wouldn't matter any more. I'm absolutely going to write something serious next. Like explicit fluffy gay porn for example. Blargh.)

KURT'S FIRST CRIME SCENE

Ruthless criminals, mutilated murder victims, a cheating wife and years of autogenic training had not prepared DI Gregory Lestrade for this.

„Sherlock, this… thing is sniffing at the murder victim.” And, as a horrified Lestrade noticed, the thing ogled said dead body with increasing appetite.

Sherlock was busy collecting pieces of broken glass from the floor. “Kurt is not a thing, Lestrade.” he snarled without looking up.

“Yes. Okay.” Lestrade had always been rather animal-friendly after all. Once he had donated 10 pounds for an animal welfare organization somewhere in Africa. “Keep your pet under control, then.”

Sherlock was starting to sound irritated. “Kurt is not my pet.”
Kurt, meanwhile, dropped onto his considerably large backside and grumbled happily.

Lestrade sighed. “So what is Kurt then?”

“He’s my boyfriend.” said Sherlock.

“Uha ah.” said Lestrade.

“Groaaaar.” said Kurt.

“Lord have mercy.” said Anderson, who for some reason was still there and had not taken his heels like the rest of the team.
Sherlock cursed the universe for its cruelty.
Kurt grabbed the dead woman’s purse with one gigantic paw and enthusiastically waggled his little bear tail.

“Please, Sherlock. I will not arrest you for kidnapping a bear, but please take him away from here.”

“I can’t.” Sherlock declared.

“Why?”

“Because it’s date night. I can’t send Kurt away during date night. I promised we were going to have a nice time together.”

Kurt poked his nose into the purse. Lestrade couldn’t think of anything to say.

“Brilliant!” Sherlock exclaimed two minutes later, jumping up and down like an exited Belstaff-clad rubber ball. “The mechanic! Cocaine in the window frame! Come along, Kurt.”
Thereafter, the consulting detective wandered out of the room. Kurt got up and waddled after him.

Lestrade stood there, blinking for a bit and wondering if he had landed in a bizarre parallel universe. Then he decided to go find John.

Gregory Lestrade found John Watson cleaning the bathroom of 221B in a trance-like state. This afternoon, the two men went down to John’s favourite pub and got more drunk than the day Sherlock had set Anderson’s balls on fire.

THE ULTIMATE END

*dying*

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