Regarding Sheep
BBC Christmas in July kidfic for sabrinaphynn.
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to be in charge of the series, I'm not even in England. They're not mine, and there is definitely no profit or harm intended.
Rating: G
Categories: Christmas fic! (in July, because I suck), kidfic! feelgoodie brainless fun stuff.
Warnings: unbeta'd, and not exactly high art. Also, an attempt by a grown woman to think like a 9 year old boy, which probably merits a warning in of itself.
Summary: John doesn't want to write Sherlock a Christmas card, because he's weird, and he made Molly cry.
Author's Note: This is for sabrinaphynn because she wanted to see fics about family Christmas traditions. It was a bit late for Christmas, so I thought I'd do Christmas in July instead. I'm not what one would call 'organised' by any stretch of the imagination. I hope she likes it, even though it's very late.
Regarding Sheep
John sat on the floor of his room, in the epicentre of a mess of scattered paper, staring down at the four remaining cards in a fit of indecision. It was his third year of school, and therefore it was his third year of giving a Christmas card to every member of his class, but it was the first year he’d ever had this dilemma. Up until the beginning of the year, little John Watson (although this year he was in third grade, so even if he was still short, he wasn’t really little anymore, despite what his mother might say) had liked everybody most of the time. Everybody talked to each other, even if they weren’t really friends, and everybody at least had friends. This year there was a complication. Sherlock, the new kid, didn’t have friends and didn’t talk to anybody.
Sherlock was weird. There was simply no other way to describe it. He answered all the questions in class, and tried to correct the teacher. He only spoke French when they were learning French, which meant he was a show-off, and also that you couldn’t borrow pencils from him because you couldn’t understand a word he said. He also dobbed on Sally and Anderson for passing notes, and made Molly cry. John didn’t think Sherlock was very nice, and he didn’t really want to give him a Christmas card.
And his name was strange.
Besides, he thought everything was stupid, so he would probably just throw it out.
While John tried to make up his mind, he began putting the rest of the cards in their envelopes and writing the intended recipient’s name on them in his neatest hand. They all had little messages inside, but he wrote for much longer, and chose the prettiest cards for his good friends. He even added a little smiley face next to Murray’s name on the envelope. After he’d sealed the last card into its envelope and stacked them into a neat pile, he turned back to those four unused cards, and after chewing on his thumbnail, picked out one with a picture of an ugly sheep and an ugly baby. He didn’t have to give Sherlock one of the pretty cards after all. Who really liked sheep or babies anyway? Nobody he knew, that was for sure. As he scribbled a hasty ‘Merry Christmas Sherlock!’ inside, he smiled to himself, thinking that it really wouldn’t have been fair not to give Sherlock a card, even if he was weird and mean.
Besides, it was easy to make Molly cry.
She once cried because her pencil snapped.
John didn’t think he’d ever understand girls.
When John snuck in from lunch early to slip the cards into his classmate’s desks, Sherlock was already sprawled across his chair reading a book about birds. John wrinkled his nose, thinking that maybe Sherlock would like the card; someone who thought birds were more interesting that playing might actually like sheep. Not babies though. Nobody likes babies. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes following him around the classroom, and he began questioning the wisdom of writing a card for his strangest classmate. When he got to Sherlock’s desk, he hesitated awkwardly, tapping the cards on his hand and wishing that life came with an escape hatch for these moments. Or a jet pack. It would be cool to jet pack out of this one. Maybe even an ejector seat, which would look cool, but might be painful.
Sherlock stared up at him for a moment, before the edges of his mouth turned down slightly, and he gestured on to the next desk.
“Please, continue.” Sherlock muttered politely, shifting his eyes back to the pages of his book.
John hesitated for a moment, then dropped Sherlock’s card onto his desk as if he was playing hot potato and it was the potato, and quickly moved onto the next one. Three desks anointed with their cards later, and Sherlock cleared his throat.
“This has my name on it?” Sherlock said, staring down at the envelope quizzically.
“It’s for you.” John shrugged.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, glaring at the paper as if it had personally offended him.
“Uh… a Christmas card.”
There was a moment of heavy silence in the room, before Sherlock’s face lit up in what was a festive blush next to their school’s green uniform. His chair clattered as he pushed it back suddenly from his desk, and rushed out the door, calling a ‘thank you’ as he fled.
The whole experience was very odd.
Then again, when Sherlock was involved almost everything was, so John didn’t dwell on it long.
When school was finished, and everybody had thanked John for their cards and promised to see each other during the holidays, John was waiting under a tree for his mother to pick him up. He was rustling through his bag for his library book (his mother wasn’t known for her punctuality), when Sherlock dropped down beside him to sit without saying a word, and began rummaging through his bag as well. John gave up on his book, and sat back to watch, mystified, and Sherlock eventually produced an eraser shaped like a soccer ball and handed it to him solemnly.
“Merry Christmas.” he said quietly, and then got up and walked away without another word.
At first, John thought this was also very odd, but he liked soccer, and it was nice eraser. People always said thank you for his cards, but no one other than his friends had ever given him a present back before. It was nice.
Maybe Sherlock was nice.
He was still mostly weird though.
On the first day back, when John was waiting for Murray by the bubbler, Sherlock strode up and plopped down onto the ground beside him. He seemed to be thinking hard for a moment, and then appeared to be struck by a sudden epiphany.
“Do you like sheep?” he asked.
“Um, yeah.” John lied.
“Have you ever seen a lamb? I have a photo of one from my grandma’s house on my phone.”
John’s amazement at Sherlock’s cheap flip phone carried the conversation until Murray arrived, and from then on, Sherlock would stride over to him whenever he had a moment alone, and begin a conversation somehow using sheep, until they were firm friends, and the topic was almost entirely forgotten. Sherlock never failed to buy him a woollen jumper, and other sheep related merchandise for Christmas, however, and it was a tradition that followed their friendship into their adult years. Eventually John began to receive sheep from other friends as well, as they all seemed to think it was his ‘thing’.
One day, when John was sprawled out on their carpet revising for an anatomy exam with his chin resting on a stuffed toy lamb his ex-girlfriend had given him, Sherlock poked his head into the room with an amused expression on his face.
“Why do you keep that thing John?” he asked, laughter leaking into his voice.
“It’s a sheep.”
“You don’t really like sheep do you?”
“Nobody likes sheep Sherlock.”
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to be in charge of the series, I'm not even in England. They're not mine, and there is definitely no profit or harm intended.
Rating: G
Categories: Christmas fic! (in July, because I suck), kidfic! feelgoodie brainless fun stuff.
Warnings: unbeta'd, and not exactly high art. Also, an attempt by a grown woman to think like a 9 year old boy, which probably merits a warning in of itself.
Summary: John doesn't want to write Sherlock a Christmas card, because he's weird, and he made Molly cry.
Author's Note: This is for sabrinaphynn because she wanted to see fics about family Christmas traditions. It was a bit late for Christmas, so I thought I'd do Christmas in July instead. I'm not what one would call 'organised' by any stretch of the imagination. I hope she likes it, even though it's very late.
Regarding Sheep
John sat on the floor of his room, in the epicentre of a mess of scattered paper, staring down at the four remaining cards in a fit of indecision. It was his third year of school, and therefore it was his third year of giving a Christmas card to every member of his class, but it was the first year he’d ever had this dilemma. Up until the beginning of the year, little John Watson (although this year he was in third grade, so even if he was still short, he wasn’t really little anymore, despite what his mother might say) had liked everybody most of the time. Everybody talked to each other, even if they weren’t really friends, and everybody at least had friends. This year there was a complication. Sherlock, the new kid, didn’t have friends and didn’t talk to anybody.
Sherlock was weird. There was simply no other way to describe it. He answered all the questions in class, and tried to correct the teacher. He only spoke French when they were learning French, which meant he was a show-off, and also that you couldn’t borrow pencils from him because you couldn’t understand a word he said. He also dobbed on Sally and Anderson for passing notes, and made Molly cry. John didn’t think Sherlock was very nice, and he didn’t really want to give him a Christmas card.
And his name was strange.
Besides, he thought everything was stupid, so he would probably just throw it out.
While John tried to make up his mind, he began putting the rest of the cards in their envelopes and writing the intended recipient’s name on them in his neatest hand. They all had little messages inside, but he wrote for much longer, and chose the prettiest cards for his good friends. He even added a little smiley face next to Murray’s name on the envelope. After he’d sealed the last card into its envelope and stacked them into a neat pile, he turned back to those four unused cards, and after chewing on his thumbnail, picked out one with a picture of an ugly sheep and an ugly baby. He didn’t have to give Sherlock one of the pretty cards after all. Who really liked sheep or babies anyway? Nobody he knew, that was for sure. As he scribbled a hasty ‘Merry Christmas Sherlock!’ inside, he smiled to himself, thinking that it really wouldn’t have been fair not to give Sherlock a card, even if he was weird and mean.
Besides, it was easy to make Molly cry.
She once cried because her pencil snapped.
John didn’t think he’d ever understand girls.
When John snuck in from lunch early to slip the cards into his classmate’s desks, Sherlock was already sprawled across his chair reading a book about birds. John wrinkled his nose, thinking that maybe Sherlock would like the card; someone who thought birds were more interesting that playing might actually like sheep. Not babies though. Nobody likes babies. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes following him around the classroom, and he began questioning the wisdom of writing a card for his strangest classmate. When he got to Sherlock’s desk, he hesitated awkwardly, tapping the cards on his hand and wishing that life came with an escape hatch for these moments. Or a jet pack. It would be cool to jet pack out of this one. Maybe even an ejector seat, which would look cool, but might be painful.
Sherlock stared up at him for a moment, before the edges of his mouth turned down slightly, and he gestured on to the next desk.
“Please, continue.” Sherlock muttered politely, shifting his eyes back to the pages of his book.
John hesitated for a moment, then dropped Sherlock’s card onto his desk as if he was playing hot potato and it was the potato, and quickly moved onto the next one. Three desks anointed with their cards later, and Sherlock cleared his throat.
“This has my name on it?” Sherlock said, staring down at the envelope quizzically.
“It’s for you.” John shrugged.
“What is it?” Sherlock asked, glaring at the paper as if it had personally offended him.
“Uh… a Christmas card.”
There was a moment of heavy silence in the room, before Sherlock’s face lit up in what was a festive blush next to their school’s green uniform. His chair clattered as he pushed it back suddenly from his desk, and rushed out the door, calling a ‘thank you’ as he fled.
The whole experience was very odd.
Then again, when Sherlock was involved almost everything was, so John didn’t dwell on it long.
When school was finished, and everybody had thanked John for their cards and promised to see each other during the holidays, John was waiting under a tree for his mother to pick him up. He was rustling through his bag for his library book (his mother wasn’t known for her punctuality), when Sherlock dropped down beside him to sit without saying a word, and began rummaging through his bag as well. John gave up on his book, and sat back to watch, mystified, and Sherlock eventually produced an eraser shaped like a soccer ball and handed it to him solemnly.
“Merry Christmas.” he said quietly, and then got up and walked away without another word.
At first, John thought this was also very odd, but he liked soccer, and it was nice eraser. People always said thank you for his cards, but no one other than his friends had ever given him a present back before. It was nice.
Maybe Sherlock was nice.
He was still mostly weird though.
On the first day back, when John was waiting for Murray by the bubbler, Sherlock strode up and plopped down onto the ground beside him. He seemed to be thinking hard for a moment, and then appeared to be struck by a sudden epiphany.
“Do you like sheep?” he asked.
“Um, yeah.” John lied.
“Have you ever seen a lamb? I have a photo of one from my grandma’s house on my phone.”
John’s amazement at Sherlock’s cheap flip phone carried the conversation until Murray arrived, and from then on, Sherlock would stride over to him whenever he had a moment alone, and begin a conversation somehow using sheep, until they were firm friends, and the topic was almost entirely forgotten. Sherlock never failed to buy him a woollen jumper, and other sheep related merchandise for Christmas, however, and it was a tradition that followed their friendship into their adult years. Eventually John began to receive sheep from other friends as well, as they all seemed to think it was his ‘thing’.
One day, when John was sprawled out on their carpet revising for an anatomy exam with his chin resting on a stuffed toy lamb his ex-girlfriend had given him, Sherlock poked his head into the room with an amused expression on his face.
“Why do you keep that thing John?” he asked, laughter leaking into his voice.
“It’s a sheep.”
“You don’t really like sheep do you?”
“Nobody likes sheep Sherlock.”