Sherlock on a pole

An Unexpected Idea

Everything was quiet in the flat of 221b Baker Street. The sun was shining in through the windows, the curtains coloured the rays slightly green. A tall, gangly man with a cloud of mahogany curls on his head was reading a newspaper. He was seated in his favourite chair in the living room, facing the kitchen. His name was Sherlock Holmes and this was the first time in weeks that he had a day off. His flat mate, about a head shorter than him and hair the colour of wet sand, was preparing breakfast in the next room. 

John Watson shot an occasional glance at Sherlock, confused as to why he had suddenly taken an interest in the outside world. He never read newspapers; ordinary people, AKA people who didn't murder other people or possess an IQ far above average, were boring to him. John put the two cups of tea on a tray and brought it into the living room, placing it on a small side table. The he sat down in his own chair, opposite Sherlock's. The other man didn't move a muscle. He didn't seem to notice that John was present at all. 

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" 

"Reading, John, I do believe you are familiar with the concept", he answered without looking up. John chuckled.

"I am. But why are you doing it?"

No response.

When the detective found himself in his chair with a bit of spare time he usually went into his mind palace. It was a file system he had created in his brain which held just about all vital information under the sun. What wasn't tucked away in there however, was the information on how to behave towards other humans. That was why he needed John. John had taken service as Sherlock's translator; he translated the world so it would make sense to Sherlock, and he excused Sherlock's rudeness to the public. He was the link that kept the consulting detective somewhat in touch with the world.

He wondered what was going on in his flatmate's head, but he decided not to pry. He drank his tea and went into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he came back, Sherlock hadn't moved an inch. A floorboard creaked as John entered the room, and finally his flat mate put down his paper. For a moment they just looked at each other. Then Sherlock rose to his feet, but he kept Johns gaze fixed on his own.

"I'm going to learn how to pole dance, John", Sherlock said. Excitement made his eyes glow, and it was so pure that John's cheeks turned a shade of red. Usually Sherlock only gave John that look when detective inspector Lestrade called for assistance with a new murder case.

"You're going to what?" John looked away to clear his head, and he did his best not to start laughing. In his mind he tried to picture the detective letting go of his grave and somewhat stern personality and embracing his inner dance goddess. He couldn't do it.

"Pole dance, didn't you hear me?" Sherlock started pacing around the room, talking about the location of the dance studio and the new clothes he had to get, and John couldn't help but feel a bit exhilarated himself. It was hard not take after Sherlock's mind set when one was with him, he was charismatic like that.