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quarryquest for expert intel regarding London Waitroses.
This can be read as a standalone piece, but it will make a lot more sense if you've read The Scottish Play.
*****
John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Alive Club, was nobody’s fool. He knew all too well that the sentiment which had led Sherlock to offer him the Christmas gift of one trip to the shops was to be exploited immediately in order to ensure that it actually occurred.
In preparation for this, when they arrived home at Baker Street he cleaned out all the cabinets. He tossed anything which was even near the expiration date, and merrily served up omelettes for dinner in order to use up the last of the eggs. Once the cupboards were bare and the refrigerator contained one lonely jar of pickled pancreas, he sat down to make a list.
Decisively, he wrote down: Milk.
*****
The day after the list was born happened to be the day on which the Wessex Cup race was due to be run. That morning it was agreed that after the race John would go to the surgery, where he would be taking an emergency shift as requested in an early morning call from a hysterical Sarah who was frantically trying to deal with an epidemic of food poisoning among her staff, and Sherlock would do the shopping.
First, though, there was a Colonel Ross to irritate.
John, mindful of the fact that there was still an innocent man being detained in the matter of Straker’s death, had rung Lestrade and invited him to come along for the reveal. Now, the two of them walked along in the chill air, strolling and enjoying the electric atmosphere of the track. Sherlock had dashed off somewhere upon their arrival, and John was using the opportunity to practise allowing him out of his sight without chasing after him.
“I suppose this is something I’m going to have to mop up after he’s waltzed off the field of play?”
John grinned. “You’re mixing your metaphors, but otherwise, yes.”
“All right, fill me in.”
“The forensics, when they finally come in, are going to tell you John Straker was killed by a horse kicking him in the skull.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. But he was trying to lame the animal, so it’s justice served, really.”
“Hm.” Greg sounded unconvinced.
“After committing the murder, the horse wandered off and was effectively kidnapped by the owner of the rival stable. That’s where Sherlock found him.” John considered trying to candy-coat the next bit, but decided if he couldn’t be straight with Greg at this point there was no hope of his staying out of prison for the rest of his life. “Ross had got a bit shirty, and we decided,” (he cheerfully implicated himself as well, figuring he had punched Ross in the nose, after all), “to have a bit of fun with him. Sherlock convinced Brown to keep the horse concealed until it was time to run this race.”
Greg rolled his eyes and bit back the impulse to lecture. He knew he’d just be wasting his breath. “Right, so why am I here? To arrest the horse?”
“Well, if you like.” Greg shot him a sharp glance, and John grinned. “I just thought that since Sherlock planned to dump all the paperwork on you, you could at least get in on the fun part.”
“Yes, well I’m not allowed to annoy civilians when I’m on duty,” he grumbled in return.
“But you enjoy watching Sherlock do it.”
“I don’t,” he denied, a light of mild panic in his eyes.
“Yes you do; go on, admit it between friends.”
Greg hummed, then equally hawed to keep the matter balanced. Then, a bit grudgingly he admitted, “All right, I do. They always look so angry, and they so clearly want to punch him, but they never actually do it. It’s like you’re sitting and watching for the tide to come in, but then it doesn’t. It’s dead fascinating.”
“Sherlock is a force of nature,” John agreed, though personally he expected he himself was at least partly responsible for this miraculous effect. He prided himself on having developed a very effective, ‘Touch him and die,’ glare.
“Jo-ohn!” The call came in a sing-song from Sherlock, who was practically skipping, a protesting Colonel Ross being herded without actual contact, just the deft movements normally associated with expert sheepdogs. “Look who I found!”
Something loosened in John’s chest at the sight of his partner. He’d done well, he told himself. He’d let him wander and now he was back; safe and sound. “Colonel Ross,” he greeted the sputtering man, “how nice to see you again.”
“Colonel Ross tells me that of course he’d know his own horse anywhere, that a child could recognize him. What do you say, John?”
“Hm.” He pretended to consider, allowing the drama that Sherlock so adored to build. “I’m not sure. Horses can be tricky, changing colour when you least expect it. There’s a saying, you know,” he added, aiming it at Ross in a confiding tone.
Ross glared at him. John beamed back.
Greg cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if John Watson had the same magical ability to remain un-punched as did Sherlock Holmes. “Well then, a missing horse. I understand you’ve already sworn out a complaint, sir, or I would be happy to write it up for you. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” He reached out and the other man automatically shook his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector.”
“Now, what seems to be the trouble?”
Clearly irritated (check, thinks John), Ross went on, “As you say, a missing horse. Mr Holmes here personally assured me Silver Blaze would run in the next race today, yet I have seen neither hide nor hair of my horse.”
“Patience, Colonel,” chided Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy of it all. “I assured you Silver Blaze will run, and so he shall. I have personally arranged it for you, as I promised. Now, as you say, the race you have such an interest in is next. Shall we secure a spot from which we can observe the running of it?”
Grumbling under his breath all the way, Colonel Ross allowed Sherlock to herd him to an advantageous viewing spot. Greg and John followed, hiding grins and exchanging glances which threatened to unleash harmonized giggles.
Ross made a great show of examining each horse as it strode by on its way to the gate, enjoying himself immensely until there came the sixth and last horse bearing a jockey clad in the black and red silks which were the Colonel’s own.
“What the devil?! What horse is Joe riding? Where the blazes is Silver Blaze? Where’s my horse, dammit!”
All three men, Sherlock, John and Greg, toppled over laughing at the sight of the irate, red-faced Colonel jumping about and gesticulating wildly as he cursed and consigned everything he could think of to the devil. That was how they missed the beginning of the race.
After a moment, they pulled themselves together and found that the Colonel had done the same; he was now watching the race intently and apparently cheering on whatever horse it happened to be which was wearing his colours.
Sherlock heartily clapped the Colonel on the back. “You see? He’s off to an excellent start, Ross. Capital!”
John knew he shouldn’t be as amused as he was. If the horse didn’t win they were going to be in so much trouble - but it still would have been worth it.
Happily, Silver Blaze did win the race, and John breathed a sigh of relief over it as the foursome proceeded to reunite the horse with his owner in the winner’s circle.
“You see, Colonel, you have only to wash his face and leg, and Silver Blaze will be returned to you in markings as well as in body.”
Ross looked uncertain now, and John smiled smugly. “The genuine article, wouldn’t you say, Colonel Ross?” he put in snidely.
The smaller man shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose so.”
*****
“So you’ve got the list?”
Sherlock growled, low in his throat, because this was the third time he’d been asked a near variant of this question since they’d left the track. “Yes, John. I’ve got the list,” he replied as patiently as he possibly could (which was not very). He even retrieved the piece of paper from his pocket and waved it in the air to prove the veracity of his statement.
“And you’re going to stick to the list.”
He refused to dignify this with a response, instead exchanging the infuriating list for his phone and tapping out a text to Lestrade.
“Sherlock.”
He ignored him, looking up the weather in Fez for no reason.
John sighed, reflecting uncomfortably that if he had realized he would be sending Sherlock off on his own, he would have been much more specific when he’d drawn up the list; he would have included brand names and the colour of the tin which was wanted. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that this could all go so horribly, horribly wrong. “You know what, never mind. We’ll do this some other time when I can go with you.”
Sherlock looked up from his phone and drew himself up indignantly. “John, are you implying that I am incapable of doing this on my own?”
John considered that carefully before answering truthfully, “Yes.”
Possibly he should have considered even more carefully, because he saw immediately that there was now absolutely no possible way he was going to be allowed to tag along and monitor the shopping expedition. Sherlock had gone all offended on him.
“I choose not to do the shopping. I am most certainly capable of acquiring and bringing home the required items.”
“Last month you washed your hair with dissolved dishwasher tabs because you’d run out of shampoo,” John pointed out.
“Oh, it’s all soap for heaven’s sake! What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that particular soap made your scalp so itchy, and you so annoying because of it, that I had to go out at three in the morning to get you proper shampoo to keep from shooting you.”
“Mmm.” He turned back to his phone.
“So what that means,” John went on, “is that when you see the word ‘shampoo’ included on a shopping list you need to actually put shampoo into the trolley rather than any old soap.”
“Oh look, this is where you get out.” Sherlock banged on the divider and gestured toward the kerb.
“Sherlock, this is -,” John began to protest, because it was still a good two blocks’ walk, but the cab had already come to a stop and his friend was shoving at him insistently.
“A bit of a walk will be good for you. I’m certain that’s one of those things people say. See you at home.”
John gave up, opened the door, and stepped out of the car. He leaned down and regarded his partner, who was once again absorbed with whatever his phone was telling him. In a last ditch attempt to keep the inevitable at bay he instructed sternly, “Stick to the list, Sherlock. The list is not a suggestion; the list is your god for the afternoon.”
His friend looked up and affected a wounded expression. “I am extremely hurt by your lack of faith in my abilities, John. I assure you that I will, in fact, shop much more skilfully than anyone else who has ever shopped in the history of popping out to the shops.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
*****
Sherlock frowned mightily at his new arch-enemy – The List. He was feeling acutely annoyed that John didn’t trust him. This had been his idea, after all, his gift for John. Still, he supposed that past actions associated with doing (or not doing as the case may be) the shopping could have tainted his friend’s expectations for this particular gift. He was also annoyed because whilst doing the shopping wasn’t normally his area, when he made something his area (even if just temporarily) he did it extraordinarily well and, what’s more, he did it with style.
And so, with a flourish, Sherlock claimed a trolley and swooshed into the Waitrose.
On the list: Milk
There was – good lord, there was a lot of milk. He’d had absolutely no idea there were so many ways people attempted to make one sort of milky thing seem different from another sort of milky thing.
He gritted his teeth.
Bloody hell.
The milk was important. It was for John’s tea. This was supposed to be John’s gift. Sherlock was supposed to be being extraordinarily good at this.
He peered myopically at some of the choices on offer and took a half-hearted peek into the fridge in his mind palace; this yielded only a severed head and a bit of margarine (he chucked the margarine into the bin of deletion, unsure how it had got in there in the first place).
He sighed a long-suffering, Sherlockian sigh. He pulled out his phone.
*****
“John, thank god. I really can’t thank you enough for coming in. I told those idiots not to all go out for Chinese together.”
Sarah looked frazzled, but still lovely as usual and he cursed himself yet again for not trying harder to make things work between them. How could he have known so early on that dates which devolved into attempts on their lives would be the best he could hope for where a relationship was concerned?
“It’s not a problem. I’m happy to help.”
His phone chimed. Instinctively, he pulled it out and checked the message while with the other hand he hung his coat on a hook.
*Advise details of milk selection.*
John could just see Sherlock, tapping his foot impatiently, awaiting the response. He looked up at Sarah guiltily. “Sorry, it’s Sherlock.”
She tensed, and caught her lower lip between her teeth for an instant. “John -,” she began in a warning tone.
“No, sorry, I’ll not go dashing off, I promise. It’s just -,” he paused fitfully, then finished in a rush, “He’s doing the shopping, and it’s just now hitting me what an awful and terrible thing I’ve unwittingly unleashed on the world by sending him to the shops alone.”
Sarah stared at him for an instant, then laughter bubbled up from the depths of her and she looked ten years younger and as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “You got Sherlock to do the shopping?” she asked, her words punctuated with giggles.
John grinned and playfully protested, “It was his idea, I just gave him the list.”
Sarah’s laughter only grew. “A list! You gave Sherlock a list and sent him to the shops! Oh my god, this is wonderful. There’s bound to be an exploding Tesco any second. You should really phone round to the nearest A&E so they’re prepared.”
*Where are you?*
*Don’t be stupid.*
*Which shop, you twat.*
*Waitrose.*
“He’s gone to Waitrose.”
Sarah’s giggles had yet to trail off, and this news fuelled them like dry tinder. “Of course he has! Of course Sherlock went to Waitrose.”
“Pull up their online shopping, yeah?”
She stopped giggling for an instant because her eyes grew wide and her lips parted as her jaw very charmingly dropped. “You, John Watson, are a genius,” she breathed.
*Whole milk - look for blue caps.*
Sherlock pocketed his phone, picked up the first carton with a blue cap he saw, and bunged it into the trolley. (He does not read the label, and therefore does not realize it contains Alpro chilled almond milk.)
*****
On the list: Eggs
He took stock of the options presented to him.
Ostrich, duck, quail, and - what he confirmed based upon rough pictograms because none of the packaging stated this clearly - chicken. He reached out confidently, then faltered short of the mark. He was meant to buy chicken eggs, yes? Normal people ate chicken eggs. It should have been obvious, shouldn’t it? Yet, next to him, an ordinary-looking relatively young woman (stay at home mum - just left the kids with granny - happily married [for now] - grew up in Stickney - used to play piano) was quite casually checking her duck eggs to be sure none were cracked.
Sherlock frowned at the exotic array of eggs.
His fingers twitched just slightly as he considered texting John again. He dismissed the thought nearly before it had formed, because he was perfectly capable of doing the shopping!
Sherlock then resolutely turned the power of his brain on the eggs.
He confiscated one carton of each variety, removed one egg from each carton, and placed Specimens Q, C and D in a row on top of the carton containing the remaining chicken eggs. Specimen O is too large to fit on the carton so he placed it on the ground to the right of it.
(Sherlock is unaware he has now gained an audience comprised of a handful of shoppers who are strolling along eyeing sidelong this oddity sitting cross-legged in the middle of the aisle. Each of them fervently hopes this chap will continue staring intently at the four eggs long enough for him or her to casually speed round the corner and down the next aisle over, then slowly meander past the eccentric again to see if he’s done anything else interesting.)
Luckily, Sherlock was extraordinarily clever, and a visual examination proved to be all that was needed. He was able to dismiss Specimens O and Q out of hand. The ostrich egg was clearly too large to be what he was after. The quail eggs were small and spotted; hardly proper eggs at all, he would have complained mightily if John had served those up at breakfast. Specimen D was larger than Specimen C, but not cartoonishly oversized as was Specimen O. It would have been interesting to perform an experiment to compare the volume of the contents of these Specimens. He could determine if it would be more cost efficient for John to boil one ostrich egg rather than...waste of time, he reminded himself. Specimen C was clearly what was routinely fried up and soft boiled at 221B Baker Street. Why the rest of the world wanted wretched tiny spotted eggs he hadn’t the foggiest notion.
He put the unwanted eggs away neatly (because when you are experimenting in an unfamiliar lab it is polite [and much safer] to leave things as you found them if at all possible) then selected a carton of eggs which had been produced by various members of the species Gallus domesticus.
*****
On the list: Bread
After his study in eggs, the bread selection seemed reassuringly straightforward - at first. Shelf after shelf of plastic-encased, pre-sliced potential toast was on offer.
Sherlock prided himself on being an expert chef based upon the fact that he could produce slices of toast which were completely and without question edible...with no predictable negative after-effects. He didn’t, of course, do so frequently, but possessing the skill was, to his mind, enough to be getting on with.
But again, there was so very bloody much of the stuff! Even just narrowing the selection to whitish, mostly square loaves left him with a bewildering array of choices. What could possibly be so different about bread?
In a fit of temper he decided to find out. He systematically plucked from the shelf a package of each specimen which was whitish and mostly square. This made the trolley rather full, but he was sure that once he’d gotten back to the flat and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no significant difference and there should only be one type of whitish, mostly square bread for sale, it would all be worth it.
*****
On the list: Muttlefishing
*What the bloody hell is muttlefishing?*
*And what aisle is it in?*
“Muttlefishing?”
“Is that Sherlock?” Sarah popped her head round the door. “What section is he in?”
“I have no idea. He’s asking me about muttlefishing. What the hell is muttlefishing?”
“Never heard of it. Spell it for me.”
He did, and she typed it into the search box. “Waitrose hasn’t heard of it either.”
“Try a Google search maybe?”
“One word, yes?”
“He sent it as one, but it sounds made up so I’m not certain.”
“Mm. One word brings up youtube links, is it a band?”
“Sherlock hates pop music. He says it makes his brain bleed.”
“Does he mean muddle with a D rather than muttle? Fish muddle – two words – brings up some recipes. Maybe he’s going to make you dinner?” As she added this last bit she started giggling again.
John snorted. “Ha bloody ha. If he does you can be my taster.”
*No idea. Why are you buying fish?*
*It’s on the list – my god, remember?*
John frowned.
“What?”
“He’s saying there’s fish on the list, but I didn’t put it on there. I don’t like cooking fish in the flat, it makes it smell all fishy for days.”
Sarah grinned. “And you have quite enough mystery smells going on in 221B without your adding to them.”
*No fish on the list – what are you on about?*
*Muttlefishing! It’s right here on the list! Now what bloody aisle is it in? I expect it’s next to the toothbrushes considering the organizational system employed by this wretched store.*
John thought for a bit, running over the things which he’d put on the list. “Oh lord, he’s misread multivitamins.”
Sarah dissolved into laughter. “Your handwriting really is awful,” she managed.
*****
Not on the list: Salad dressing
Sherlock was sailing through one of the aisles when the word ‘pizza’ caught his eye. John had just been saying something about going out for a pizza yesterday. It occurred to him that he could make his gift even nicer if he included a pizza with the shopping so that they could stay in, still have a pizza, and Sherlock himself could get on with his experiment comparing the melting point of the tissue of individual human organs without the distraction of being dragged out. He stopped the trolley.
Looking more closely, though, he realized he was in the midst of the salad dressing selection. Half an hour previously he would have told you salad dressing and pizza could not possibly be shelved next to each other in any organizational system; now he barely blinked at the idea. Glancing around, he tried to catch that flash of the word again. After a second he did, and frowned. It was on a splashy advert stuck to the shelf. Pizza Express House Dressing! it declared in bright letters.
Well honestly, Sherlock thought, that was just false advertising. What the hell did pizza have to do with salad? Affronted, he turned on his heel and propelled the trolley forward, in search of real pizza.
Not on the list: Pizza
*What kind of pizza do you want?*
John frowned. Pizza wasn’t on the list either.
*I sense you are straying from the list.*
*You wanted a pizza. I am purchasing you a pizza. What kind do you want?*
“Where is he now?” Eagerly, Sarah peered over his shoulder at his phone’s screen.
“He seems to be buying pizza. Which is worrisome.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why? Pizza seems safe. If he were buying butane I’d say you should be worried.”
“Actually, with Sherlock I’d consider butane fairly safe. Pizza, though, isn’t on the list.”
*Stick to the list.*
“I can’t believe he hasn’t been thrown out yet.”
“He can actually behave himself fairly well these days.” John considered that statement. “Unless provoked,” he qualified.
*****
On the list: Biscuits
The less said about the row in the biscuit aisle over the last package of chocolate hobnobs, the better.
Just know that Sherlock emerged victorious and John would not have to go without.
*****
Not on the list: Colgate toothpaste
Sherlock’s brain did the calculation handily. The three for two offer was not something to be sneered at.
Not on the list: Mr Muscle Sink and Drain Foamer
Ditto. John would be ever so pleased when there were three bottles rather than just one to combat his latest experiment turned plumbing obstruction.
On the list: Beans
Beans were beans. He seized the first ‘Heinz’ writ large and tossed whatever pack of cans it happened to be scrawled across in with the rest.
(The bread layer in the trolley sinks another inch under this fresh assault, but Sherlock isn’t terribly concerned about this. He can run tests on smashed bread just as easily as he can on intact loaves.)
*****
On the list: Tea
*I am being followed.*
“Now he says he’s being followed.”
“Ask him which aisle he’s in.”
*That seems unlikely. Where are you?*
*By the PG Tipps. I am being followed by a very sneaky little old lady who is after your chocolate hobnobs.*
John dropped his phone he was laughing so hard.
“What? What?” Sarah hopped from one foot to another, eager to be let in on the joke.
He waved one hand helplessly at the phone. She picked it up and was soon in a similar state.
“Sherlock is being tailed through the aisles of Waitrose by Mrs Slocombe, you know he is!”
“And she’s after the chocolate hobnobs!”
“She’s walking on tip-toe and peering round corners at him!”
“Planning her heist!”
“She’s going to casually ask him to get something down from the highest shelf to distract him while she plunders his trolley.”
They gave in and simply howled with laughter for a little while. The phone chimed again, and that was enough to set them off all over again.
Wiping tears of laughter from his cheeks, John checked the new message.
*I have resolved the situation and can confirm I am in possession of the hobnobs.*
The phone chimed again.
*The hobnobs and I, however, are now in custody.*
*****
In the end, they needed Greg to do some badge flashing and rather fast talking. It seemed that this particular Waitrose had been having problems with the local youth and sticky fingers, so their security force was operating under strict orders to take no nonsense. Sherlock was lucky to have avoided being doused with pepper spray; luckily he had spotted the danger in time and sensibly adopted a plummy accent along with his best ‘to the Manor born’ attitude. This had confused everyone long enough for John to arrive on the scene, and when it became clear Mrs Slocombe was determined to see genuine police action and the Waitrose personnel were similarly inclined, he apologetically called in their favourite DI.
Unfortunately, Greg had spent the time between their little outing to the track and being summoned to the Waitrose by John sorting through all the paperwork for the Straker case, so he wasn’t in the best of humours by the time the badge flashing and fast talking was required. That was why, after about twenty minutes of this, he simply said, “Fine. I’ll arrest him. Sherlock, hands.” He cuffed the proffered wrists, walked him out to his car, and inserted him into the backseat.
“Greg, stop! This is my fault; I shouldn’t have sent him on his own. You can’t arrest him for this, can you? He hasn’t actually done anything wrong.”
“John, shut up, I’m not arresting him. That was just the quickest way to get him out of there and I was sick of trying to humour those plonkers.”
John blinked. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh. And you’re right, this was your fault. What were you thinking?”
“He insisted,” protested John.
“Sherlock insisted on doing the shopping,” said Greg doubtfully.
John waved a hand through the air helplessly. “It’s a long story; can we just go home now? This has been a very long, very strange day.”
Greg sighed. “Yes, fine. I’ll drive you; get in.”
Once the car was moving, the DI glanced in his rearview at his passengers. “Listen, if the two of you get in any more trouble in the next few days, call Dimmock. I’ve had it about up to here.” With one hand he indicated a high water mark somewhere above the top of his head.
John winced. “Yeah, sorry. Like I said, it’s a long story.”
Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent, as he had been since that last text message. He stared intently out the window.
It wasn’t a long drive to the flat and they were soon home; Sherlock swooping up the stairs and John following more sedately in his wake.
After he’d taken off his coat, John instinctively headed into the kitchen to make tea, but was faced with an empty cupboard. “Shite.” He went into the sitting room where Sherlock was striking a pensive pose on the sofa. “I’m off out to get some tea and I’ll pick up a takeaway on the way back. Curry or Chinese?”
Sherlock looked up at him, his expression stricken. “John, I’m sorry.”
John blinked.
“I thought I could do it; and despite the frankly irrational organizational system I was doing well. I -,”
“Sherlock, stop. It’s fine. Your shopping trip was derailed by a mad little old lady over a bag of chocolate hobnobs. It could have happened to anyone.” It couldn’t have, of course, but he lied without compunction. Sherlock, however, did not look cheered. John was surprised all over again that his friend was obviously taking his failure so seriously. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “You can still do it, you know.”
“I suppose there are other shops, or I could go back to that one in disguise.”
“No,” John said smugly, “I mean you can do it from the comfort of the flat. Here.” He handed him his laptop. “They have online shopping. They’ll even deliver it for you.”
“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “I can still give you your present.”
Sherlock was, again quite uncharacteristically, now regarding the computer with a rather dopey grin on his face, and John felt ridiculously pleased that it really meant so much to his partner that he get this present thing right. “Yes. You can. Have you still got the list?”
Triumphantly, Sherlock produced the wretched list from a pocket.
“Good. Don’t worry about sticking to it too closely. We can have a pizza if you like.”
Sherlock was already logging into the site, typing one-handed, and to John’s astonishment he used his free hand to produce a bag of chocolate hobnobs from another pocket.
“How on earth did you manage to get away with the hobnobs? That woman was clutching them to her as if they were her firstborn and you were Rumpelstiltskin.”
Sherlock shrugged, munching a biscuit and typing borinactives into the search field. “I wasn’t going to go through all that for nothing. What the hell are borinactives?”
John peered at the list. “I have no idea, even I can’t make out what I meant there.”
Sherlock tutted fretfully. “You’re making it very difficult to give you a Christmas present John. This year I don’t think I’ll bother.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best.”
quarryquest for expert intel regarding London Waitroses.This can be read as a standalone piece, but it will make a lot more sense if you've read The Scottish Play.
*****
John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, currently of the Keeping Sherlock Holmes Alive Club, was nobody’s fool. He knew all too well that the sentiment which had led Sherlock to offer him the Christmas gift of one trip to the shops was to be exploited immediately in order to ensure that it actually occurred.
In preparation for this, when they arrived home at Baker Street he cleaned out all the cabinets. He tossed anything which was even near the expiration date, and merrily served up omelettes for dinner in order to use up the last of the eggs. Once the cupboards were bare and the refrigerator contained one lonely jar of pickled pancreas, he sat down to make a list.
Decisively, he wrote down: Milk.
*****
The day after the list was born happened to be the day on which the Wessex Cup race was due to be run. That morning it was agreed that after the race John would go to the surgery, where he would be taking an emergency shift as requested in an early morning call from a hysterical Sarah who was frantically trying to deal with an epidemic of food poisoning among her staff, and Sherlock would do the shopping.
First, though, there was a Colonel Ross to irritate.
John, mindful of the fact that there was still an innocent man being detained in the matter of Straker’s death, had rung Lestrade and invited him to come along for the reveal. Now, the two of them walked along in the chill air, strolling and enjoying the electric atmosphere of the track. Sherlock had dashed off somewhere upon their arrival, and John was using the opportunity to practise allowing him out of his sight without chasing after him.
“I suppose this is something I’m going to have to mop up after he’s waltzed off the field of play?”
John grinned. “You’re mixing your metaphors, but otherwise, yes.”
“All right, fill me in.”
“The forensics, when they finally come in, are going to tell you John Straker was killed by a horse kicking him in the skull.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. But he was trying to lame the animal, so it’s justice served, really.”
“Hm.” Greg sounded unconvinced.
“After committing the murder, the horse wandered off and was effectively kidnapped by the owner of the rival stable. That’s where Sherlock found him.” John considered trying to candy-coat the next bit, but decided if he couldn’t be straight with Greg at this point there was no hope of his staying out of prison for the rest of his life. “Ross had got a bit shirty, and we decided,” (he cheerfully implicated himself as well, figuring he had punched Ross in the nose, after all), “to have a bit of fun with him. Sherlock convinced Brown to keep the horse concealed until it was time to run this race.”
Greg rolled his eyes and bit back the impulse to lecture. He knew he’d just be wasting his breath. “Right, so why am I here? To arrest the horse?”
“Well, if you like.” Greg shot him a sharp glance, and John grinned. “I just thought that since Sherlock planned to dump all the paperwork on you, you could at least get in on the fun part.”
“Yes, well I’m not allowed to annoy civilians when I’m on duty,” he grumbled in return.
“But you enjoy watching Sherlock do it.”
“I don’t,” he denied, a light of mild panic in his eyes.
“Yes you do; go on, admit it between friends.”
Greg hummed, then equally hawed to keep the matter balanced. Then, a bit grudgingly he admitted, “All right, I do. They always look so angry, and they so clearly want to punch him, but they never actually do it. It’s like you’re sitting and watching for the tide to come in, but then it doesn’t. It’s dead fascinating.”
“Sherlock is a force of nature,” John agreed, though personally he expected he himself was at least partly responsible for this miraculous effect. He prided himself on having developed a very effective, ‘Touch him and die,’ glare.
“Jo-ohn!” The call came in a sing-song from Sherlock, who was practically skipping, a protesting Colonel Ross being herded without actual contact, just the deft movements normally associated with expert sheepdogs. “Look who I found!”
Something loosened in John’s chest at the sight of his partner. He’d done well, he told himself. He’d let him wander and now he was back; safe and sound. “Colonel Ross,” he greeted the sputtering man, “how nice to see you again.”
“Colonel Ross tells me that of course he’d know his own horse anywhere, that a child could recognize him. What do you say, John?”
“Hm.” He pretended to consider, allowing the drama that Sherlock so adored to build. “I’m not sure. Horses can be tricky, changing colour when you least expect it. There’s a saying, you know,” he added, aiming it at Ross in a confiding tone.
Ross glared at him. John beamed back.
Greg cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if John Watson had the same magical ability to remain un-punched as did Sherlock Holmes. “Well then, a missing horse. I understand you’ve already sworn out a complaint, sir, or I would be happy to write it up for you. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.” He reached out and the other man automatically shook his hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Detective Inspector.”
“Now, what seems to be the trouble?”
Clearly irritated (check, thinks John), Ross went on, “As you say, a missing horse. Mr Holmes here personally assured me Silver Blaze would run in the next race today, yet I have seen neither hide nor hair of my horse.”
“Patience, Colonel,” chided Sherlock, and John rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy of it all. “I assured you Silver Blaze will run, and so he shall. I have personally arranged it for you, as I promised. Now, as you say, the race you have such an interest in is next. Shall we secure a spot from which we can observe the running of it?”
Grumbling under his breath all the way, Colonel Ross allowed Sherlock to herd him to an advantageous viewing spot. Greg and John followed, hiding grins and exchanging glances which threatened to unleash harmonized giggles.
Ross made a great show of examining each horse as it strode by on its way to the gate, enjoying himself immensely until there came the sixth and last horse bearing a jockey clad in the black and red silks which were the Colonel’s own.
“What the devil?! What horse is Joe riding? Where the blazes is Silver Blaze? Where’s my horse, dammit!”
All three men, Sherlock, John and Greg, toppled over laughing at the sight of the irate, red-faced Colonel jumping about and gesticulating wildly as he cursed and consigned everything he could think of to the devil. That was how they missed the beginning of the race.
After a moment, they pulled themselves together and found that the Colonel had done the same; he was now watching the race intently and apparently cheering on whatever horse it happened to be which was wearing his colours.
Sherlock heartily clapped the Colonel on the back. “You see? He’s off to an excellent start, Ross. Capital!”
John knew he shouldn’t be as amused as he was. If the horse didn’t win they were going to be in so much trouble - but it still would have been worth it.
Happily, Silver Blaze did win the race, and John breathed a sigh of relief over it as the foursome proceeded to reunite the horse with his owner in the winner’s circle.
“You see, Colonel, you have only to wash his face and leg, and Silver Blaze will be returned to you in markings as well as in body.”
Ross looked uncertain now, and John smiled smugly. “The genuine article, wouldn’t you say, Colonel Ross?” he put in snidely.
The smaller man shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. “Yes,” he said, “I suppose so.”
*****
“So you’ve got the list?”
Sherlock growled, low in his throat, because this was the third time he’d been asked a near variant of this question since they’d left the track. “Yes, John. I’ve got the list,” he replied as patiently as he possibly could (which was not very). He even retrieved the piece of paper from his pocket and waved it in the air to prove the veracity of his statement.
“And you’re going to stick to the list.”
He refused to dignify this with a response, instead exchanging the infuriating list for his phone and tapping out a text to Lestrade.
“Sherlock.”
He ignored him, looking up the weather in Fez for no reason.
John sighed, reflecting uncomfortably that if he had realized he would be sending Sherlock off on his own, he would have been much more specific when he’d drawn up the list; he would have included brand names and the colour of the tin which was wanted. He just couldn’t shake the feeling that this could all go so horribly, horribly wrong. “You know what, never mind. We’ll do this some other time when I can go with you.”
Sherlock looked up from his phone and drew himself up indignantly. “John, are you implying that I am incapable of doing this on my own?”
John considered that carefully before answering truthfully, “Yes.”
Possibly he should have considered even more carefully, because he saw immediately that there was now absolutely no possible way he was going to be allowed to tag along and monitor the shopping expedition. Sherlock had gone all offended on him.
“I choose not to do the shopping. I am most certainly capable of acquiring and bringing home the required items.”
“Last month you washed your hair with dissolved dishwasher tabs because you’d run out of shampoo,” John pointed out.
“Oh, it’s all soap for heaven’s sake! What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that particular soap made your scalp so itchy, and you so annoying because of it, that I had to go out at three in the morning to get you proper shampoo to keep from shooting you.”
“Mmm.” He turned back to his phone.
“So what that means,” John went on, “is that when you see the word ‘shampoo’ included on a shopping list you need to actually put shampoo into the trolley rather than any old soap.”
“Oh look, this is where you get out.” Sherlock banged on the divider and gestured toward the kerb.
“Sherlock, this is -,” John began to protest, because it was still a good two blocks’ walk, but the cab had already come to a stop and his friend was shoving at him insistently.
“A bit of a walk will be good for you. I’m certain that’s one of those things people say. See you at home.”
John gave up, opened the door, and stepped out of the car. He leaned down and regarded his partner, who was once again absorbed with whatever his phone was telling him. In a last ditch attempt to keep the inevitable at bay he instructed sternly, “Stick to the list, Sherlock. The list is not a suggestion; the list is your god for the afternoon.”
His friend looked up and affected a wounded expression. “I am extremely hurt by your lack of faith in my abilities, John. I assure you that I will, in fact, shop much more skilfully than anyone else who has ever shopped in the history of popping out to the shops.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
*****
Sherlock frowned mightily at his new arch-enemy – The List. He was feeling acutely annoyed that John didn’t trust him. This had been his idea, after all, his gift for John. Still, he supposed that past actions associated with doing (or not doing as the case may be) the shopping could have tainted his friend’s expectations for this particular gift. He was also annoyed because whilst doing the shopping wasn’t normally his area, when he made something his area (even if just temporarily) he did it extraordinarily well and, what’s more, he did it with style.
And so, with a flourish, Sherlock claimed a trolley and swooshed into the Waitrose.
On the list: Milk
There was – good lord, there was a lot of milk. He’d had absolutely no idea there were so many ways people attempted to make one sort of milky thing seem different from another sort of milky thing.
He gritted his teeth.
Bloody hell.
The milk was important. It was for John’s tea. This was supposed to be John’s gift. Sherlock was supposed to be being extraordinarily good at this.
He peered myopically at some of the choices on offer and took a half-hearted peek into the fridge in his mind palace; this yielded only a severed head and a bit of margarine (he chucked the margarine into the bin of deletion, unsure how it had got in there in the first place).
He sighed a long-suffering, Sherlockian sigh. He pulled out his phone.
*****
“John, thank god. I really can’t thank you enough for coming in. I told those idiots not to all go out for Chinese together.”
Sarah looked frazzled, but still lovely as usual and he cursed himself yet again for not trying harder to make things work between them. How could he have known so early on that dates which devolved into attempts on their lives would be the best he could hope for where a relationship was concerned?
“It’s not a problem. I’m happy to help.”
His phone chimed. Instinctively, he pulled it out and checked the message while with the other hand he hung his coat on a hook.
*Advise details of milk selection.*
John could just see Sherlock, tapping his foot impatiently, awaiting the response. He looked up at Sarah guiltily. “Sorry, it’s Sherlock.”
She tensed, and caught her lower lip between her teeth for an instant. “John -,” she began in a warning tone.
“No, sorry, I’ll not go dashing off, I promise. It’s just -,” he paused fitfully, then finished in a rush, “He’s doing the shopping, and it’s just now hitting me what an awful and terrible thing I’ve unwittingly unleashed on the world by sending him to the shops alone.”
Sarah stared at him for an instant, then laughter bubbled up from the depths of her and she looked ten years younger and as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. “You got Sherlock to do the shopping?” she asked, her words punctuated with giggles.
John grinned and playfully protested, “It was his idea, I just gave him the list.”
Sarah’s laughter only grew. “A list! You gave Sherlock a list and sent him to the shops! Oh my god, this is wonderful. There’s bound to be an exploding Tesco any second. You should really phone round to the nearest A&E so they’re prepared.”
*Where are you?*
*Don’t be stupid.*
*Which shop, you twat.*
*Waitrose.*
“He’s gone to Waitrose.”
Sarah’s giggles had yet to trail off, and this news fuelled them like dry tinder. “Of course he has! Of course Sherlock went to Waitrose.”
“Pull up their online shopping, yeah?”
She stopped giggling for an instant because her eyes grew wide and her lips parted as her jaw very charmingly dropped. “You, John Watson, are a genius,” she breathed.
*Whole milk - look for blue caps.*
Sherlock pocketed his phone, picked up the first carton with a blue cap he saw, and bunged it into the trolley. (He does not read the label, and therefore does not realize it contains Alpro chilled almond milk.)
*****
On the list: Eggs
He took stock of the options presented to him.
Ostrich, duck, quail, and - what he confirmed based upon rough pictograms because none of the packaging stated this clearly - chicken. He reached out confidently, then faltered short of the mark. He was meant to buy chicken eggs, yes? Normal people ate chicken eggs. It should have been obvious, shouldn’t it? Yet, next to him, an ordinary-looking relatively young woman (stay at home mum - just left the kids with granny - happily married [for now] - grew up in Stickney - used to play piano) was quite casually checking her duck eggs to be sure none were cracked.
Sherlock frowned at the exotic array of eggs.
His fingers twitched just slightly as he considered texting John again. He dismissed the thought nearly before it had formed, because he was perfectly capable of doing the shopping!
Sherlock then resolutely turned the power of his brain on the eggs.
He confiscated one carton of each variety, removed one egg from each carton, and placed Specimens Q, C and D in a row on top of the carton containing the remaining chicken eggs. Specimen O is too large to fit on the carton so he placed it on the ground to the right of it.
(Sherlock is unaware he has now gained an audience comprised of a handful of shoppers who are strolling along eyeing sidelong this oddity sitting cross-legged in the middle of the aisle. Each of them fervently hopes this chap will continue staring intently at the four eggs long enough for him or her to casually speed round the corner and down the next aisle over, then slowly meander past the eccentric again to see if he’s done anything else interesting.)
Luckily, Sherlock was extraordinarily clever, and a visual examination proved to be all that was needed. He was able to dismiss Specimens O and Q out of hand. The ostrich egg was clearly too large to be what he was after. The quail eggs were small and spotted; hardly proper eggs at all, he would have complained mightily if John had served those up at breakfast. Specimen D was larger than Specimen C, but not cartoonishly oversized as was Specimen O. It would have been interesting to perform an experiment to compare the volume of the contents of these Specimens. He could determine if it would be more cost efficient for John to boil one ostrich egg rather than...waste of time, he reminded himself. Specimen C was clearly what was routinely fried up and soft boiled at 221B Baker Street. Why the rest of the world wanted wretched tiny spotted eggs he hadn’t the foggiest notion.
He put the unwanted eggs away neatly (because when you are experimenting in an unfamiliar lab it is polite [and much safer] to leave things as you found them if at all possible) then selected a carton of eggs which had been produced by various members of the species Gallus domesticus.
*****
On the list: Bread
After his study in eggs, the bread selection seemed reassuringly straightforward - at first. Shelf after shelf of plastic-encased, pre-sliced potential toast was on offer.
Sherlock prided himself on being an expert chef based upon the fact that he could produce slices of toast which were completely and without question edible...with no predictable negative after-effects. He didn’t, of course, do so frequently, but possessing the skill was, to his mind, enough to be getting on with.
But again, there was so very bloody much of the stuff! Even just narrowing the selection to whitish, mostly square loaves left him with a bewildering array of choices. What could possibly be so different about bread?
In a fit of temper he decided to find out. He systematically plucked from the shelf a package of each specimen which was whitish and mostly square. This made the trolley rather full, but he was sure that once he’d gotten back to the flat and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was no significant difference and there should only be one type of whitish, mostly square bread for sale, it would all be worth it.
*****
On the list: Muttlefishing
*What the bloody hell is muttlefishing?*
*And what aisle is it in?*
“Muttlefishing?”
“Is that Sherlock?” Sarah popped her head round the door. “What section is he in?”
“I have no idea. He’s asking me about muttlefishing. What the hell is muttlefishing?”
“Never heard of it. Spell it for me.”
He did, and she typed it into the search box. “Waitrose hasn’t heard of it either.”
“Try a Google search maybe?”
“One word, yes?”
“He sent it as one, but it sounds made up so I’m not certain.”
“Mm. One word brings up youtube links, is it a band?”
“Sherlock hates pop music. He says it makes his brain bleed.”
“Does he mean muddle with a D rather than muttle? Fish muddle – two words – brings up some recipes. Maybe he’s going to make you dinner?” As she added this last bit she started giggling again.
John snorted. “Ha bloody ha. If he does you can be my taster.”
*No idea. Why are you buying fish?*
*It’s on the list – my god, remember?*
John frowned.
“What?”
“He’s saying there’s fish on the list, but I didn’t put it on there. I don’t like cooking fish in the flat, it makes it smell all fishy for days.”
Sarah grinned. “And you have quite enough mystery smells going on in 221B without your adding to them.”
*No fish on the list – what are you on about?*
*Muttlefishing! It’s right here on the list! Now what bloody aisle is it in? I expect it’s next to the toothbrushes considering the organizational system employed by this wretched store.*
John thought for a bit, running over the things which he’d put on the list. “Oh lord, he’s misread multivitamins.”
Sarah dissolved into laughter. “Your handwriting really is awful,” she managed.
*****
Not on the list: Salad dressing
Sherlock was sailing through one of the aisles when the word ‘pizza’ caught his eye. John had just been saying something about going out for a pizza yesterday. It occurred to him that he could make his gift even nicer if he included a pizza with the shopping so that they could stay in, still have a pizza, and Sherlock himself could get on with his experiment comparing the melting point of the tissue of individual human organs without the distraction of being dragged out. He stopped the trolley.
Looking more closely, though, he realized he was in the midst of the salad dressing selection. Half an hour previously he would have told you salad dressing and pizza could not possibly be shelved next to each other in any organizational system; now he barely blinked at the idea. Glancing around, he tried to catch that flash of the word again. After a second he did, and frowned. It was on a splashy advert stuck to the shelf. Pizza Express House Dressing! it declared in bright letters.
Well honestly, Sherlock thought, that was just false advertising. What the hell did pizza have to do with salad? Affronted, he turned on his heel and propelled the trolley forward, in search of real pizza.
Not on the list: Pizza
*What kind of pizza do you want?*
John frowned. Pizza wasn’t on the list either.
*I sense you are straying from the list.*
*You wanted a pizza. I am purchasing you a pizza. What kind do you want?*
“Where is he now?” Eagerly, Sarah peered over his shoulder at his phone’s screen.
“He seems to be buying pizza. Which is worrisome.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why? Pizza seems safe. If he were buying butane I’d say you should be worried.”
“Actually, with Sherlock I’d consider butane fairly safe. Pizza, though, isn’t on the list.”
*Stick to the list.*
“I can’t believe he hasn’t been thrown out yet.”
“He can actually behave himself fairly well these days.” John considered that statement. “Unless provoked,” he qualified.
*****
On the list: Biscuits
The less said about the row in the biscuit aisle over the last package of chocolate hobnobs, the better.
Just know that Sherlock emerged victorious and John would not have to go without.
*****
Not on the list: Colgate toothpaste
Sherlock’s brain did the calculation handily. The three for two offer was not something to be sneered at.
Not on the list: Mr Muscle Sink and Drain Foamer
Ditto. John would be ever so pleased when there were three bottles rather than just one to combat his latest experiment turned plumbing obstruction.
On the list: Beans
Beans were beans. He seized the first ‘Heinz’ writ large and tossed whatever pack of cans it happened to be scrawled across in with the rest.
(The bread layer in the trolley sinks another inch under this fresh assault, but Sherlock isn’t terribly concerned about this. He can run tests on smashed bread just as easily as he can on intact loaves.)
*****
On the list: Tea
*I am being followed.*
“Now he says he’s being followed.”
“Ask him which aisle he’s in.”
*That seems unlikely. Where are you?*
*By the PG Tipps. I am being followed by a very sneaky little old lady who is after your chocolate hobnobs.*
John dropped his phone he was laughing so hard.
“What? What?” Sarah hopped from one foot to another, eager to be let in on the joke.
He waved one hand helplessly at the phone. She picked it up and was soon in a similar state.
“Sherlock is being tailed through the aisles of Waitrose by Mrs Slocombe, you know he is!”
“And she’s after the chocolate hobnobs!”
“She’s walking on tip-toe and peering round corners at him!”
“Planning her heist!”
“She’s going to casually ask him to get something down from the highest shelf to distract him while she plunders his trolley.”
They gave in and simply howled with laughter for a little while. The phone chimed again, and that was enough to set them off all over again.
Wiping tears of laughter from his cheeks, John checked the new message.
*I have resolved the situation and can confirm I am in possession of the hobnobs.*
The phone chimed again.
*The hobnobs and I, however, are now in custody.*
*****
In the end, they needed Greg to do some badge flashing and rather fast talking. It seemed that this particular Waitrose had been having problems with the local youth and sticky fingers, so their security force was operating under strict orders to take no nonsense. Sherlock was lucky to have avoided being doused with pepper spray; luckily he had spotted the danger in time and sensibly adopted a plummy accent along with his best ‘to the Manor born’ attitude. This had confused everyone long enough for John to arrive on the scene, and when it became clear Mrs Slocombe was determined to see genuine police action and the Waitrose personnel were similarly inclined, he apologetically called in their favourite DI.
Unfortunately, Greg had spent the time between their little outing to the track and being summoned to the Waitrose by John sorting through all the paperwork for the Straker case, so he wasn’t in the best of humours by the time the badge flashing and fast talking was required. That was why, after about twenty minutes of this, he simply said, “Fine. I’ll arrest him. Sherlock, hands.” He cuffed the proffered wrists, walked him out to his car, and inserted him into the backseat.
“Greg, stop! This is my fault; I shouldn’t have sent him on his own. You can’t arrest him for this, can you? He hasn’t actually done anything wrong.”
“John, shut up, I’m not arresting him. That was just the quickest way to get him out of there and I was sick of trying to humour those plonkers.”
John blinked. “Oh.”
“Yes, oh. And you’re right, this was your fault. What were you thinking?”
“He insisted,” protested John.
“Sherlock insisted on doing the shopping,” said Greg doubtfully.
John waved a hand through the air helplessly. “It’s a long story; can we just go home now? This has been a very long, very strange day.”
Greg sighed. “Yes, fine. I’ll drive you; get in.”
Once the car was moving, the DI glanced in his rearview at his passengers. “Listen, if the two of you get in any more trouble in the next few days, call Dimmock. I’ve had it about up to here.” With one hand he indicated a high water mark somewhere above the top of his head.
John winced. “Yeah, sorry. Like I said, it’s a long story.”
Sherlock was uncharacteristically silent, as he had been since that last text message. He stared intently out the window.
It wasn’t a long drive to the flat and they were soon home; Sherlock swooping up the stairs and John following more sedately in his wake.
After he’d taken off his coat, John instinctively headed into the kitchen to make tea, but was faced with an empty cupboard. “Shite.” He went into the sitting room where Sherlock was striking a pensive pose on the sofa. “I’m off out to get some tea and I’ll pick up a takeaway on the way back. Curry or Chinese?”
Sherlock looked up at him, his expression stricken. “John, I’m sorry.”
John blinked.
“I thought I could do it; and despite the frankly irrational organizational system I was doing well. I -,”
“Sherlock, stop. It’s fine. Your shopping trip was derailed by a mad little old lady over a bag of chocolate hobnobs. It could have happened to anyone.” It couldn’t have, of course, but he lied without compunction. Sherlock, however, did not look cheered. John was surprised all over again that his friend was obviously taking his failure so seriously. Suddenly a thought occurred to him. “You can still do it, you know.”
“I suppose there are other shops, or I could go back to that one in disguise.”
“No,” John said smugly, “I mean you can do it from the comfort of the flat. Here.” He handed him his laptop. “They have online shopping. They’ll even deliver it for you.”
“Oh.” Sherlock’s eyes grew wide. “I can still give you your present.”
Sherlock was, again quite uncharacteristically, now regarding the computer with a rather dopey grin on his face, and John felt ridiculously pleased that it really meant so much to his partner that he get this present thing right. “Yes. You can. Have you still got the list?”
Triumphantly, Sherlock produced the wretched list from a pocket.
“Good. Don’t worry about sticking to it too closely. We can have a pizza if you like.”
Sherlock was already logging into the site, typing one-handed, and to John’s astonishment he used his free hand to produce a bag of chocolate hobnobs from another pocket.
“How on earth did you manage to get away with the hobnobs? That woman was clutching them to her as if they were her firstborn and you were Rumpelstiltskin.”
Sherlock shrugged, munching a biscuit and typing borinactives into the search field. “I wasn’t going to go through all that for nothing. What the hell are borinactives?”
John peered at the list. “I have no idea, even I can’t make out what I meant there.”
Sherlock tutted fretfully. “You’re making it very difficult to give you a Christmas present John. This year I don’t think I’ll bother.”
“Perhaps that’s for the best.”
