Sherlock: Moriarty, in the Pool, with the Explosive Vest
Title: Moriarty, in the Pool, with the Explosive Vest
Fandom/Ships: BBC Sherlock, pretty gen Sherlock & John
Word Count: 1171
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Only borrowing, more’s the pity. I have no affiliation with the BBC or the producers of Sherlock. I also do not own Cluedo.
Warnings: None
Summary/Notes: Written for the sherlockbbc_fic challenge, to the prompt: John and Sherlock play Cluedo. Sherlock, much to his frustration, sucks at it. Original prompt here. Originally posted here.
It’s a Sunday. There have been no cases for a week and a half. John has the day off. It’s raining. Sherlock hasn’t moved in hours.
Even John is bored.
He’s already read the paper and he’s too antsy to read anything else. He thinks about cleaning, but the prospect is so dismal that he just can’t face it.
Instead, he goes rummaging through their shelves. In retrospect, this is probably a bad idea.
In one of the cupboards by the fireplace, he finds Cluedo.
It used to be his favourite board game, because he could nearly always beat Harry at it when they played on rainy afternoons as children. This isn’t his, though. His copy of the game was donated to a jumble sale years ago, so this must belong to Sherlock.
On first consideration, it seems perfectly logical that Sherlock would own a board game about solving mysteries. He’s a detective; he probably liked the idea of a game about detective work. On second thoughts, of course, John realizes that the image of Sherlock sitting down to play Cluedo is patently absurd.
...which may be just what they need on a rainy day.
“Sherlock?” John asks, picking up the board game and crossing over to the sofa, where Sherlock is curled on his side staring vacantly into space. “Why do you own Cluedo?”
“What?” Sherlock asks, barely moving his lips.
“You have a game of Cluedo in the cupboard. Seems a bit odd, you playing board games.”
“Joke gift.”
“Oh, who from?”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock says distastefully. He heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls onto his back.
“Really?” John asks, amused. “Did you play as children?”
“Of course not. Holmes children don’t play board games.” He says it as though it is a line long-remembered, and John wonders who used to say it.
“No, I suppose not,” John murmurs. He looks at the game, considering. “Come on, let’s play.”
“Play?” Sherlock asks, wrinkling his brow, genuinely confused.
“Cluedo. We’ve got nothing else on. We’re bored; let’s play a board game.”
Sherlock, looking put upon, sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the couch. He stares at John. “You want to play a child’s board game?”
“You don’t have to be a child to play it. There’s no age limit.”
Sherlock stares some more. “Fine. Alright.”
John, somewhat surprised, sets the box on the coffee table and sits on the floor across from Sherlock to set up the board. “Who do you want to be?” John asks.
“What?” Sherlock asks. John holds up the little plastic piece that represents Colonel Mustard. “Oh, blue.”
“Right, that’s Mrs. Peacock.”
“Hang on, they’ve got names? What do they need names for? I don’t want to be Mrs. Peacock.” He says it like it’s the most ridiculous name imaginable.
“You really have no idea what this game is, do you?” John asks, shuffling the cards. Sherlock doesn’t answer, just picks up the tiny revolver and the lead pipe. “Right, the goal is to figure out who murdered Dr. Black, what they murdered him with, and which room they murdered him in.” John grins when Sherlock makes a face at his prepositions. “The blue piece is Mrs. Peacock. Red is Miss Scarlett, yellow is Colonel Mustard, white is Mrs. White, green is Reverend Green, and purple is Professor Plum. You have to pick a piece to play with.”
“Must they all have such idiotic names?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Professor Plum.”
“Okay.” John sets the pieces out on their different coloured spots, choosing Colonel Mustard for himself.
Sherlock studies the board as John puts the winning cards in the envelope, and then shuffles the rest together and deals them out. “Wait,” Sherlock says suddenly, and John pauses in the middle of dealing. “That’s all? Murderer, weapon, location? What about motive? Surely we need some kind of evidence. Who was Dr. Black? Why would someone want him dead?”
John looks at Sherlock incredulously. “It’s only a board game, Sherlock. You’re supposed to figure it out by process of elimination. You don’t need to prove it to the police.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes, well, it’s better than nothing.”
Sherlock looks as if he doubts this, but he takes the cards John hands him anyway and starts shuffling through them. “What do I do with these?”
“There are three cards in this envelope, and you’re trying to figure out which ones they are. So you can mark down which cards you have on this chart, and once you figure out which cards I have you can mark those too.”
“I don’t need a chart,” Sherlock says, as though the idea of needing to make notes is complete nonsense.
“Right, fine. I’m using the chart, so don’t go trying to steal it.”
“I don’t need to steal your notes to know which cards you have.”
“If you say so.”
But after several rounds of accusations, John’s chart has a lot of check marks on it and he’s beginning to think he’s getting close to winning. Sherlock’s eyes flick between his handful of cards and the board. “Reverend Green, in the conservatory, with the spanner,” John says.
Sherlock frowns and holds up the conservatory card. John puts another check down in his notes. “Your turn.”
“Miss Scarlett in the dining room with the candlestick.” John moves the pieces into the dining room, because that’s the one rule Sherlock considers totally unnecessary, and refuses to comply with.
John holds up the candlestick card. “You knew I had the candlestick,” he says.
“I don’t see why this boredom is an improvement over the usual sort of boredom,” Sherlock says in reply.
“It’s keeping me entertained,” John says, grinning.
“Are you mocking me, John?”
“Possibly. Reverend Green, in the billiard room, with the spanner.”
Sherlock stares at his cards. He narrows his eyes.
“Sherlock? Did I win?”
“No.”
“If you can’t show me any of those cards, then I win.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
Sherlock sets his cards down and lies back on the sofa, turning over to face the cushions. John opens the envelope and pulls out the cards for Reverend Green, the billiard room, and the spanner. “I should’ve known you’d be a sore loser.”
“There’s no point to winning such a useless game. A child could do it. That’s why this is a child’s board game.”
“Winning is the point, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sits up and looks at him. “You like this game because you used to beat your sister at it. She was older and she usually beat you at games, but for some reason you were good at this one.”
“Yeah. She stopped agreeing to play after while.”
Sherlock nods. “Yes. Just because you’re good at it doesn’t mean it is not a stupid game. And it wasn’t Reverend Green. Mrs. Peacock would have had far more reason to want Dr. Black dead.”
“Sherlock, it’s complete chance who murdered who.”
Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal. “I’m not talking about the game.”
Fandom/Ships: BBC Sherlock, pretty gen Sherlock & John
Word Count: 1171
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Only borrowing, more’s the pity. I have no affiliation with the BBC or the producers of Sherlock. I also do not own Cluedo.
Warnings: None
Summary/Notes: Written for the sherlockbbc_fic challenge, to the prompt: John and Sherlock play Cluedo. Sherlock, much to his frustration, sucks at it. Original prompt here. Originally posted here.
It’s a Sunday. There have been no cases for a week and a half. John has the day off. It’s raining. Sherlock hasn’t moved in hours.
Even John is bored.
He’s already read the paper and he’s too antsy to read anything else. He thinks about cleaning, but the prospect is so dismal that he just can’t face it.
Instead, he goes rummaging through their shelves. In retrospect, this is probably a bad idea.
In one of the cupboards by the fireplace, he finds Cluedo.
It used to be his favourite board game, because he could nearly always beat Harry at it when they played on rainy afternoons as children. This isn’t his, though. His copy of the game was donated to a jumble sale years ago, so this must belong to Sherlock.
On first consideration, it seems perfectly logical that Sherlock would own a board game about solving mysteries. He’s a detective; he probably liked the idea of a game about detective work. On second thoughts, of course, John realizes that the image of Sherlock sitting down to play Cluedo is patently absurd.
...which may be just what they need on a rainy day.
“Sherlock?” John asks, picking up the board game and crossing over to the sofa, where Sherlock is curled on his side staring vacantly into space. “Why do you own Cluedo?”
“What?” Sherlock asks, barely moving his lips.
“You have a game of Cluedo in the cupboard. Seems a bit odd, you playing board games.”
“Joke gift.”
“Oh, who from?”
“Mycroft,” Sherlock says distastefully. He heaves a dramatic sigh and rolls onto his back.
“Really?” John asks, amused. “Did you play as children?”
“Of course not. Holmes children don’t play board games.” He says it as though it is a line long-remembered, and John wonders who used to say it.
“No, I suppose not,” John murmurs. He looks at the game, considering. “Come on, let’s play.”
“Play?” Sherlock asks, wrinkling his brow, genuinely confused.
“Cluedo. We’ve got nothing else on. We’re bored; let’s play a board game.”
Sherlock, looking put upon, sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the couch. He stares at John. “You want to play a child’s board game?”
“You don’t have to be a child to play it. There’s no age limit.”
Sherlock stares some more. “Fine. Alright.”
John, somewhat surprised, sets the box on the coffee table and sits on the floor across from Sherlock to set up the board. “Who do you want to be?” John asks.
“What?” Sherlock asks. John holds up the little plastic piece that represents Colonel Mustard. “Oh, blue.”
“Right, that’s Mrs. Peacock.”
“Hang on, they’ve got names? What do they need names for? I don’t want to be Mrs. Peacock.” He says it like it’s the most ridiculous name imaginable.
“You really have no idea what this game is, do you?” John asks, shuffling the cards. Sherlock doesn’t answer, just picks up the tiny revolver and the lead pipe. “Right, the goal is to figure out who murdered Dr. Black, what they murdered him with, and which room they murdered him in.” John grins when Sherlock makes a face at his prepositions. “The blue piece is Mrs. Peacock. Red is Miss Scarlett, yellow is Colonel Mustard, white is Mrs. White, green is Reverend Green, and purple is Professor Plum. You have to pick a piece to play with.”
“Must they all have such idiotic names?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Professor Plum.”
“Okay.” John sets the pieces out on their different coloured spots, choosing Colonel Mustard for himself.
Sherlock studies the board as John puts the winning cards in the envelope, and then shuffles the rest together and deals them out. “Wait,” Sherlock says suddenly, and John pauses in the middle of dealing. “That’s all? Murderer, weapon, location? What about motive? Surely we need some kind of evidence. Who was Dr. Black? Why would someone want him dead?”
John looks at Sherlock incredulously. “It’s only a board game, Sherlock. You’re supposed to figure it out by process of elimination. You don’t need to prove it to the police.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Yes, well, it’s better than nothing.”
Sherlock looks as if he doubts this, but he takes the cards John hands him anyway and starts shuffling through them. “What do I do with these?”
“There are three cards in this envelope, and you’re trying to figure out which ones they are. So you can mark down which cards you have on this chart, and once you figure out which cards I have you can mark those too.”
“I don’t need a chart,” Sherlock says, as though the idea of needing to make notes is complete nonsense.
“Right, fine. I’m using the chart, so don’t go trying to steal it.”
“I don’t need to steal your notes to know which cards you have.”
“If you say so.”
But after several rounds of accusations, John’s chart has a lot of check marks on it and he’s beginning to think he’s getting close to winning. Sherlock’s eyes flick between his handful of cards and the board. “Reverend Green, in the conservatory, with the spanner,” John says.
Sherlock frowns and holds up the conservatory card. John puts another check down in his notes. “Your turn.”
“Miss Scarlett in the dining room with the candlestick.” John moves the pieces into the dining room, because that’s the one rule Sherlock considers totally unnecessary, and refuses to comply with.
John holds up the candlestick card. “You knew I had the candlestick,” he says.
“I don’t see why this boredom is an improvement over the usual sort of boredom,” Sherlock says in reply.
“It’s keeping me entertained,” John says, grinning.
“Are you mocking me, John?”
“Possibly. Reverend Green, in the billiard room, with the spanner.”
Sherlock stares at his cards. He narrows his eyes.
“Sherlock? Did I win?”
“No.”
“If you can’t show me any of those cards, then I win.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
Sherlock sets his cards down and lies back on the sofa, turning over to face the cushions. John opens the envelope and pulls out the cards for Reverend Green, the billiard room, and the spanner. “I should’ve known you’d be a sore loser.”
“There’s no point to winning such a useless game. A child could do it. That’s why this is a child’s board game.”
“Winning is the point, Sherlock.”
Sherlock sits up and looks at him. “You like this game because you used to beat your sister at it. She was older and she usually beat you at games, but for some reason you were good at this one.”
“Yeah. She stopped agreeing to play after while.”
Sherlock nods. “Yes. Just because you’re good at it doesn’t mean it is not a stupid game. And it wasn’t Reverend Green. Mrs. Peacock would have had far more reason to want Dr. Black dead.”
“Sherlock, it’s complete chance who murdered who.”
Sherlock waves a hand in dismissal. “I’m not talking about the game.”