earlgreytea68 | The Commentary Experiment (1/1)

Title - The Commentary Experiment (1/1)
Author -

earlgreytea68
Rating - Teen
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall" / In the Bang & Clatter 'verse
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - Do you know what Sherlock would hate? Baseball commentators.
Author's Notes - Last night I got drunk while watching the Red Sox and had to distract myself from how tense the game was and ended up writing a whole Tumblrfic that I totally didn't intend. None of this is planned and I reserve the right to write future AUs that may contradict this insanity. But here you go.

"Can we mute them?" asked Sherlock.

"Look, stay in the kitchen," said John. "No one is making you watch this baseball game."

"I'm not watching the baseball game. I can *hear* it, though. Can you mute it?"

"No, I'm not going to mute it. I like to hear the crowd noise. Don't you like to hear the crowd noise?"

Sherlock's face appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking curious. "Did you hear the crowd noise when you were playing?"

"Yes."

"Interesting."

"You would have had to block it out, it would have distracted you too much. So block it out now."

Sherlock disappeared back into the kitchen. "It's not the crowd noise that's bothering me, it's the idiots talking."

"The commentators?"

There was an eloquent snort from the kitchen. "They are not 'commentating' on anything."

John ignored him because the Red Sox had a runner on first who really ought to be stealing any moment now with this pitch count.

"Seriously? Are you *listening* to them?"

"No," said John, realizing that Sherlock had wandered out of the kitchen, inexorably drawn toward the telly. "I'm trying to--"

"'If the pitch is a strike, the batter might swing'? That is literally a sentence they just said."

"Well, that is *true,* technically, and--" The runner broke, and John held his breath until he slid under the tag at second. "Terrible throw," remarked John.

Sherlock seemed not to have noticed any of the baseball that had just taken place. "'It's not like pitch count is something you'd be paying attention to at this point'?! Of course you'd be paying attention to it! You'd never *not* be paying attention to it!"

"Sherlock," inserted John, calmly. "Did you leave that dead rat boiling on the stove?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Sherlock, and darted back into the kitchen.

***

John, holding an open letter in his hand, walked out into the garden, where Sherlock was conducting an experiment involving bumblebees.

"Do you know anything about this?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced at him and said, "No, nothing," which was an obvious lie.

"Really?" drawled John. "Because the Major League Baseball broadcasting network seems to be under the impression that I wrote them a
letter stating my desire to offer commentary at select baseball games next season."

"I wonder what gave them that impression," mused Sherlock.

"A *letter,* Sherlock? Is this 1982?"

"They'd expect a letter from you. You have a reputation for being old-fashioned."

"I have a *blog,*" John pointed out. "I know how to use *technology.*"

"People who have read your blog probably have a different opinion on that," remarked Sherlock.

"Someday I am going to shoot you, and then I'm going to strangle you, and then I'm going to throw a ball at your head. Why did you write them a letter?"

"Because you would be a good commentator, John. You'd be better than the rubbish they have now. You're clever and you're witty and you're funny and you know baseball, and you like baseball, and you'd like doing it, and people should know what you think."

"*You* should be the one doing the commentary," John said. "You're the one with all the deep baseball thoughts."

"The fact that you think that is exactly why I wrote that letter."

"And what does that mean?"

"You have a habit of selling yourself short, and so it's my job to sell you long. Is that an expression?"

"No," said John.

***

John waited until Sherlock crawled into bed with him in the middle of the night. "What would you do?" he asked.

"Starting a midnight conversation?" replied Sherlock. "Isn't that *my* thing?"

John ignored him. "I know you wouldn't have done it if you didn't have a plan, so tell me what you would do."

Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about, as John had known that he would. "I'll go with you."

"And do what? Lurk around clubhouses and terrorize people?"

"That does sound like fun."

"Sherlock, I'm serious--"

"John, what does it matter? I'll keep myself occupied. I'll keep a blog or something whilst I follow you around, I'll run experiments and analyze statistics, I'll shag you a lot. It'll be what I do here."

"Only not here," John pointed out, worriedly.

"Do you really think I'm so fragile?" Sherlock huffed. "Do you really think the only thing that makes me happy is *London*? The thing that
makes me happy is *you.* And you miss baseball. More than you even realize. Write a letter back to them and tell them you'll work on a limited schedule."

"I'm not writing them a letter, Sherlock, I'm writing them an e-mail like a normal person."

"I love it when you pretend you're modern," said Sherlock.

***

"It isn't that I'm not flattered," said John, "and I do think it'll be fun, but I'm convinced you'll be disappointed. I don't have that much to say."

"That is not what we hear," said the bright and bushy-tailed producer who was walking him around the studios. John was glad Sherlock had insisted he stay behind at the hotel rather than tag along, because Sherlock would have hated this producer.

"Who do you hear this from? Because if it's from Sherlock, I'm sure you understand that he's biased."

The producer laughed like John was hilarious, and said, "No, no, we hear it from *everyone.* We would have come after you long before this but everyone knows you stay on the other side of the Atlantic these days."

"Yes, well, generally," John agreed, "but it would be..." John took a deep breath and admitted it. "It would be nice to be around baseball again for a bit. I've kept up."

"Oh, we know," the producer said. "Your letter was very thorough."

"My letter," said John. "Yes. Of course."

***

When John got back to the hotel from his first game as a commentator, he found Sherlock sprawled on the sofa, playing the violin.

John tried not to bounce with eagerness, and tried not to look like it mattered to him what Sherlock had thought, although of course it mattered. "Did you watch it?"

"Do I ever watch baseball, John?" Sherlock asked him, lazily, playing a long series of lazy descending notes.

"No," said John, because it was true, but still. He hoped he didn't look too crestfallen.

"Idiot," said Sherlock, "of course I watched it, you were fantastic."

John tried to pretend like that didn't lift his spirits considerably. "How many inane things did I say?"

"Well," said Sherlock, putting the violin down and reaching for a notebook by the side of the sofa. "I took notes."

John lifted his eyebrows. "You took notes?"

"Of course I took notes. I made a chart."

"A chart," repeated John.

Sherlock held it out to him.

The chart was a little bit of a mess, and John couldn't quite follow it. He could tell that there was scribbles of chicken-scratched notes next to the initials of the other commentators, but the space next to "JW" was completely blank.

John held the chart back out to Sherlock. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"That you were perfect."

John grinned. He knew that Sherlock wasn't telling the truth, that Sherlock was just being the very good boyfriend that he was more frequently than anyone else would believe, but it still made him grin, made him feel lightheaded with joy. "No, I wasn't."

"Yes, you were. You were a delight. You were charming and intelligent and insightful. Everyone is going to be in love with you, you know, which is almost unfortunate, because I've rather enjoyed having you all to myself."

"Oh, good," said John, "you mean I'm going to have choices? I was worried I might be stuck with you for the rest of my life."

Sherlock threw his pencil at John.

John caught it and said, "You deserved that for pretending you didn't watch."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then rolled himself off the sofa and walked over to John and took the notebook out of his hand and turned the page over. "This, though," he said, handing it back to John, "this is interesting."

John looked at the page, which was a list of words. "Veritable," he read. "Expeditiously. Back-to-back Ks." John looked up at Sherlock. "What is this?"

"The words you say that are too sexy for you to use again in the future."

John looked back at the list. "Back-to-back Ks? I can't say 'back-to-back Ks' in the future?"

"Not unless we're both naked whilst you're saying it."

"Well, this is a very valuable list," remarked John. "I am going to make sure I say every single one of these words every game." John tucked the list into his pocket and beamed at Sherlock.

And he thought Sherlock was going to kiss him or flirt with him more, but what Sherlock said was, "You liked it. You had a lovely time."

"Do you want me to tell you were right?"

"No. I only want two things."

"Two things?"

"Three things," Sherlock amended.

"Okay, what are the three things?"

"I want you to be happy. And I want you and everyone else to realize how brilliant you are."

John smiled. "What's the third thing?"

"I have always wanted to shag a clever baseball commentator, but they're so much harder to find than you might think."

"Prat," said John, fondly.

THE END.