To celebrate my dear friend Lucy36's birthday, I've taken our favourite detectives, and added a touch of one of France's best loved classic tales... Happy Birthday Lucy, I hope you're having a lovely day! Thanks to MapleleafCameo for checking this over for me :)

John sat and sucked at his bleeding knuckles, a small self-satisfied smile on his face. He enjoyed the occasional brawl; it helped work off the frustrations of living with an oft-bored genius.

Said genius was standing a little way away, explaining to Lestrade how Anderson was totally wrong again, and how he, Sherlock, was absolutely right. John's smile widened, Sherlock would be busy for a while, so he pulled his notebook out of an inner pocket and turned to the back pages.

His latest girlfriend was very fond of poetry, and he was getting better at writing romantic rhyme, or so he thought. So he let his thoughts drift, and jotted down several ideas, until eventually he had created an ode to rival Shakespeare.

Pleased with himself, he glanced up, only to see that everyone was standing staring at him.

"Oh, did I miss something?" He tried not to blush, but the looks on Greg's and Sally's faces told him that Sherlock had said something embarrassing about him.

"Are you really writing poetry?" Sally couldn't hold back her chuckle.

"Well… um…"

"Of course he is." Sherlock said. "Didn't you know, my flatmate is a soldier, a brawler…" he indicated John's scraped knuckles. "A poet, and an incurable romantic." The younger man grinned. "In fact, he's also known as Watson de Bergerac!"