Sherlock's First Fandom

In which I disclaim: There are many things I do not own, like a yacht, a million rubles, Robert Downey Jr., and anything pertaining to the original stories and adaptations of A. Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes

"Jawn."

He was a patient man. John has been told this on many occasions, by many different people. Field officers, patients, Lestrade, even, in moments of astonishing clarity on his part, by Sherlock himself. But this, this incessant nattering, nagging, pulling on John's sleeve like he was a little child, made him apoplectic. Sherlock just wouldn't stop.

He slapped the counter, hard. Breathing heavily through his tightly clenched teeth, John turned around and focused his eyes on the far wall of the kitchen, as if looking through it to where he knew Sherlock would be curled up in a miserable heap on the couch. "Yesssss," he barely hissed out, his eyes tightly focused on the same spot in the wall.

"Booorrred."

"Yes, Sherlock, yes, I realize that. I realize you are…"

"Bored," he moaned loader, like he was in some kind of fever dream and his vocal chords where in a sleepy haze.

"I think I may have had just about enough of this." John prowled out of the kitchen and gripped the top of the nearest armchair firmly, staring across at Sherlock on the couch. "Why can't you entertain yourself like a normal person? Go to the cinema, watch telly, read a book, go to a bloody strip club, I don't care, just something that will keep you quiet and occupied for even an hour."

"You're bored of me John?" Sherlock said, his face buried in a cushion, his back to John.

"Yes, Sherlock, yes, you could say that."

"Well, you know who else is bored?"

"Please don't…"

"ME, John. ME." He sprang up suddenly, somehow finding himself in a cross legged sitting position despite the fact that it appeared neither his arms for legs had helped him get there.

John crossed the room, opened the door and exited. Sherlock could hear him climbing the stairs up to his bedroom.

"But Jawn," he whined, like a regretful child who had taken their pouting too far and lost the use of their adult angst outlet.

John burrowed through his bookshelves, his armchair, the stack of magazines next to his computer, but finally found it in a pile of semi-clean jumpers on the floor by his bed. It was an old hardcover book, but so warn it might as well have been paper back, with a frayed soft paper dust jacket, and a withering spine.

Sherlock could hear the doctor stomping back down the stairs.

"What is it now?" Asked Sherlock sarcastically as John entered the room. "Another of those pointless VHS's about geology? A ninth cup of tea? Though you were rather clever spiking that last cup, I have to say, just not clever enough for me to drink it. Speaking of, maybe you should check on Mrs. Hudson, I don't know how she reacts to whiske…." He looked up as the book landed in his lap. "What is this?"

John stumped back into the kitchen, where he was followed by the sounds of scraping and matching lighting and all the other assorted noises that lend themselves to tea making.

"Please don't tell me it's another one of your silly crime novels. Or, god forbid, those comics I find you with."

It was Kiki's Delivery Service, it was one time, John though silently, but didn't say anything. "Come on, Sherlock, don't fool around."

"No, John, what is this?"

"Sherlock, please, don't play with me like this. You know what it is."

"Potter? What kind of name is that?"

Suddenly, a look of comprehension came over John's face. "Sherlock…" he said carefully, exiting the kitchen again and facing Sherlock on the couch. "Sherlock, do you not know what Harry Potter is?"

"Pssh," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes in a way which looked a bit too forced, " of course I do John. Don't be ridiculous. Who hasn't, I mean… preposterous notion."

A smile crept over the doctor's face. He had found one of those large and unexpected gaps in Sherlock's intellect that occasionally crept up, like the detective's disregard for the heliocentric theory of the universe, and his inability to tie a double knot. "Really, Sherlock? Then what's it about?"

Sherlock looked, panicked, down at the book in his hands, "well, I mean it's obviously about a boy…"

John inclined his head. "So far so good."

"Who has some kind of bird of prey…"

"Carry on."

"Who enjoys broomsticks, and… curtains?"
"Close, Sherlock, but no cigar."

Sherlock threw the book aside and tousled his hair angrily. "Well, what does it matter if I don't know about nonsense like children's books…"

Before the detective knew it, John was a foot away from his face with a crazed look in his eyes. "It. Is. Not. A. Children's. Book."

"Oh, I've hit a little close to home John, have I?"

It was true. He had. John always held a special place in his heart for those books. Even though he tried to keep it secret, ("I mean, what kind of respectable grown man likes Harry Potter?" he would always tell himself), he couldn't deny that the series meant quite a lot to him. He was in his twenties when the Philosopher's Stone came out. The only reason he had even read them in the first place was because his then-current girlfriend's son was a big fan, and insisted on having at least one chapter read to him every night. John always tried to play his role as the jovial quasi-father figure, so he always obliged in doing the reading. But soon, he was absolutely hooked, probably more interested in the books then the kid was. Things didn't work out with the girlfriend (they never did for John, for some reason), but he left the relationship with one the greatest gifts he could have received; a grand proclivity for one the masterpieces of young adult literature of the beginning on the 21st century. So, yes, Sherlock had struck a bit of a nerve.

"Listen," John said, looking his flatmate square in the eyes, "you are bored. And right here, is a veritably cure for boredom. Read." He picked up the book and tossed it at Sherlock. "I'm going to the store."

Evidently, something in the firmness of John's tone had motivated Sherlock to actually give the book a chance, because when John returned he found a miserable little puddle of pajamas and dressing gowns that turned out to be Sherlock, slumped half on the floor and half on the couch.

"Sherlock?" He said, closing the door behind him and approaching the puddle cautiously.

"Jawwwwwn." Sherlock wailed.

John bustled into the kitchen, setting his groceries and keys down on the counter.

"Jaaawwwwn."

"Yes."

"Did…. Did Lily really sacrifice herself to save Harry?"

A great warmth spread over John's face. He slid onto the floor next to Sherlock. "Yes, yes she did. She was a very brave woman. Both of his parents were."

Sherlock nodded, not looking up, like a small child.

"Did you like it Sherlock?"

He nodded again.

John reached around awkwardly and tried to rub the detective's back. "Did you like Hermione?"

Sherlock nodded fervently, his great black mop of hair shaking up and down like a dog's.

"I thought you would."

"She's quite clever isn't she. More than that Ron fellow. I don't like him."

The doctor nodded affectionately.

"The one thing I did think though," Sherlock looked John in the eyes very seriously, "the ending was a little unsatisfying. I mean, that's really it?"

"Sherlock."
"Yes?"

"Sherlock, you do know that there are six other books, right?"

The look of pure joy on Sherlock's face was worth all the books in the world.