Peeps
A fic I wrote after three glasses of champagne in ten minutes at 3:00 in the morning. Venture forward at your own peril. Know that musecroft approves.
“I am not going to your party,” Sherlock said.
“You have to,” John replied. “I’m not going alone, and you broke up my last relationship.”
“I didn’t make you break up with your girlfriend.”
“Yes, you did. You told her that I was lying to her about having to work and instead was going out to solve crimes with you.”
“Well, you were,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Right, but there was a reason I was lying to her about that.”
“Whatever. She was an idiot.” Sherlock shrugged. “I’m still not going to your stupid party. Go by yourself.”
There was a pregnant pause, before John said, “But they’re having a contest.”
Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa and staring at the ceiling, determined firmly that he was not interested in the contest. He didn’t care about the contest. He didn’t care who won the contest. He didn’t care if he didn’t win the contest. He steepled his fingers together and stared at the ceiling and said, after a moment, “What kind of contest?”
***
The contest was the stupidest contest Sherlock had ever heard of, involving a work of art concerning Peeps. “Peeps?” Sherlock said. “What are Peeps?”
“You know,” John said, gesturing vaguely in the air in a way that made Sherlock assume Peeps were hot air balloons made of octopus skin, because there was no other possible interpretation for that gesture. “They’re marshmallow chicks.”
“Marshmallow chicks,” Sherlock repeated, thoughtfully. “What do people do with them?”
“Eat them.”
Sherlock hmm’d. “And I have to make an art project involving them?”
“That’s the contest.”
“What kind of art project?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Well, I am not an artist.”
“You play the violin.”
Sherlock snorted. “You want me to write you a symphony about marshmallow Peeps?”
“In the next twenty minutes, yes. Go.”
Sherlock gave him a withering glare. “I’m not playing a symphony about Peeps on my Stradivarius. What else could I do?”
“You know, if I’m giving you the suggestions, then I’ll win the contest, not you.”
“No, you won’t. You’re not nearly clever enough to execute any suggestion you might have in the next…” Sherlock glanced at the clock. “…nineteen minutes.”
“People baked things last year. Wrote a story.”
“A story?”
“Yeah. Like a blog entry, I guess. Actually, maybe I could-”
“No one wants to read a blog entry about Peeps, John.”
“More people want to read a blog entry about Peeps than about tobacco ash.”
“Because people are idiots,” said Sherlock, passionately.
“What if you get your friend the graffiti artist to paint us a Peep graffiti?”
“In nineteen minutes? Don’t be absurd. Art like that takes time.”
“What about a haiku? You could write a haiku.”
“A what?”
“Oh, my God. Did you delete what a haiku is from your brain?”
“Do I need to know what a haiku is for any reason?”
“Maybe to win this contest.”
“What kind of friends do you have, that they’re having a Peep art contest? Actually, why do you still have friends? Haven’t I alienated all of them yet?”
“So you are trying to alienate my friends. I knew you were.”
“Of course I am.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because why would I want you spending time with people who aren’t me? Especially people who run Peep arts and crafts contests. What about a science experiment?” suggested Sherlock. “I bet I could do a science experiment. The melting point of Peeps? The boiling point of Peeps? The amount of poisonous substance in a Peep? How many Peeps you would need to stuff into someone’s throat and nasal passages until they choked?”
“Okay, none of those seem like something that people would want to know about for the contest.”
“Tell me what you think of when you think about Peeps. I need inspiration.”
“I don’t know. They’re…cute? Squishy? Delicious?”
Sherlock straightened on the sofa and fixed him with a strange look. “…Really?”
“Yes?” John offered, wondering if this was the wrong answer. “That’s pretty much what a Peep is.”
“Oh, then that’s wonderful. I’ve already won the contest.” Sherlock leaped up, suddenly full of boundless energy.
John regarded him warily. “How?”
“Cute, squishy, delicious,” repeated Sherlock. “That’s you. You’re my own personal Peep. I win.” And Sherlock kissed him.
They never went to the party.
“I am not going to your party,” Sherlock said.
“You have to,” John replied. “I’m not going alone, and you broke up my last relationship.”
“I didn’t make you break up with your girlfriend.”
“Yes, you did. You told her that I was lying to her about having to work and instead was going out to solve crimes with you.”
“Well, you were,” Sherlock pointed out.
“Right, but there was a reason I was lying to her about that.”
“Whatever. She was an idiot.” Sherlock shrugged. “I’m still not going to your stupid party. Go by yourself.”
There was a pregnant pause, before John said, “But they’re having a contest.”
Sherlock, sprawled on the sofa and staring at the ceiling, determined firmly that he was not interested in the contest. He didn’t care about the contest. He didn’t care who won the contest. He didn’t care if he didn’t win the contest. He steepled his fingers together and stared at the ceiling and said, after a moment, “What kind of contest?”
***
The contest was the stupidest contest Sherlock had ever heard of, involving a work of art concerning Peeps. “Peeps?” Sherlock said. “What are Peeps?”
“You know,” John said, gesturing vaguely in the air in a way that made Sherlock assume Peeps were hot air balloons made of octopus skin, because there was no other possible interpretation for that gesture. “They’re marshmallow chicks.”
“Marshmallow chicks,” Sherlock repeated, thoughtfully. “What do people do with them?”
“Eat them.”
Sherlock hmm’d. “And I have to make an art project involving them?”
“That’s the contest.”
“What kind of art project?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Well, I am not an artist.”
“You play the violin.”
Sherlock snorted. “You want me to write you a symphony about marshmallow Peeps?”
“In the next twenty minutes, yes. Go.”
Sherlock gave him a withering glare. “I’m not playing a symphony about Peeps on my Stradivarius. What else could I do?”
“You know, if I’m giving you the suggestions, then I’ll win the contest, not you.”
“No, you won’t. You’re not nearly clever enough to execute any suggestion you might have in the next…” Sherlock glanced at the clock. “…nineteen minutes.”
“People baked things last year. Wrote a story.”
“A story?”
“Yeah. Like a blog entry, I guess. Actually, maybe I could-”
“No one wants to read a blog entry about Peeps, John.”
“More people want to read a blog entry about Peeps than about tobacco ash.”
“Because people are idiots,” said Sherlock, passionately.
“What if you get your friend the graffiti artist to paint us a Peep graffiti?”
“In nineteen minutes? Don’t be absurd. Art like that takes time.”
“What about a haiku? You could write a haiku.”
“A what?”
“Oh, my God. Did you delete what a haiku is from your brain?”
“Do I need to know what a haiku is for any reason?”
“Maybe to win this contest.”
“What kind of friends do you have, that they’re having a Peep art contest? Actually, why do you still have friends? Haven’t I alienated all of them yet?”
“So you are trying to alienate my friends. I knew you were.”
“Of course I am.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Because why would I want you spending time with people who aren’t me? Especially people who run Peep arts and crafts contests. What about a science experiment?” suggested Sherlock. “I bet I could do a science experiment. The melting point of Peeps? The boiling point of Peeps? The amount of poisonous substance in a Peep? How many Peeps you would need to stuff into someone’s throat and nasal passages until they choked?”
“Okay, none of those seem like something that people would want to know about for the contest.”
“Tell me what you think of when you think about Peeps. I need inspiration.”
“I don’t know. They’re…cute? Squishy? Delicious?”
Sherlock straightened on the sofa and fixed him with a strange look. “…Really?”
“Yes?” John offered, wondering if this was the wrong answer. “That’s pretty much what a Peep is.”
“Oh, then that’s wonderful. I’ve already won the contest.” Sherlock leaped up, suddenly full of boundless energy.
John regarded him warily. “How?”
“Cute, squishy, delicious,” repeated Sherlock. “That’s you. You’re my own personal Peep. I win.” And Sherlock kissed him.
They never went to the party.