fandomhigh | The Science of Deduction, Friday

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science of deduction

The Science of Deduction, Friday - 11/5

The only reason Sherlock was in class today was because it was better than singing at John. Which essentially ranked it just below certain levels of hell. And grammar school.

He had a violin out of self defense and wasn’t afraid to use it should the urge to sing crop up.

“Class today is going to be on the importance of using a mobile phone,” Sherlock said, making sure each word was precise and devoid of musicality. “Access to the internet and the ability to contact someone at a moment’s notice is--”

God damn it all. His fingers were twitching for the violin bow. Gritting his teeth, Sherlock tucked the instrument under his chin and started to play.

William had so far managed to avoid bursting in to song. But the day was young, and as soon as Sherlock had uttered the word “phone” he suddenly found himself compelled to pull his own out of his jacket pocket.

Hello hello baby you called
I can't hear a thing
I have got no service
In the club, you say? say?
Wha-wha-what did you say huh?
You're breakin' up on me
Sorry I cannot hear you
I'm kinda busy
K-kinda busy
K-kinda busy
Sorry I cannot hear you I'm kinda busy

Oh good Lord, why was this happening? Was that even music?

As Bruce saw William get up and start singing, he felt relief that it wasn’t him this time. He quickly realized that such thoughts were foolish at a time like this, because he was suddenly standing on his desk with his phone held up to his ear.

Stop callin'
Stop callin'
I don't wanna think anymore
I left my head and my heart on the dancefloor
Stop callin'
Stop callin'
I don't wanna talk anymore
I left my head and my heart on the dancefloor

The dancefloor in this case was, of course, his desk. It was basically Bruce’s first table dance. ~~You’re welcome, ladies.~~

Which meant that Sherlock was not immune to the singing just because he was playing an instrument, it would seem. And, unfortunately, he managed to have a decent voice despite singing Gaga.

E-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
Stop telephonin'
Me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
I'm busy e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
Stop telephonin'
Me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e
Can call all you want but there's no one home
And you're not gonna reach my telephone
Out in the club
And I'm sippin that bubb
And you're not gonna reach my telephone
Call all you want, but there's no one home
And you're not gonna reach my telephone
Out in the club
And I'm sippin that bubb
And you're not gonna reach my telephone.

God help you all. He was going to murder everyone who witnessed this. And find a way to delete it from YouTube.

Bruce felt a little better about the ordeal when Sherlock got in on it. It was a fleeting feeling, though, because he started rapping the bridge.

Boy the way you blowing up my phone
Won't make me leave no faster
Put my coat on faster
Leave my girls no faster
I shoulda left my phone at home
'Cuz this is a disaster
Calling like a collector
Sorry, I cannot answer

Bruce wondered briefly what would have happened if he hadn’t brought his phone to class. It was an idle thought that was lost in the music, though.

William, meanwhile, was wondering just who he was singing to.

Not that I don't like you
I'm just at a party
And I am sick and tired of my phone r-ringing

Bruce was pretty sure he was just talking to the operator at this point.

Sometimes I feel like I live in grand central station
Tonight I'm not takin' no calls
'Cuz I'll be dancin'
I'll be dancin'
I'll be dancin'
Tonight I'm not takin' no calls
Cuz I'll be dancin'

This would all be so much easier if Sherlock had any idea who Lady Gaga was. Or could figure out why the hell they were all singing.

Beyond the simple fact that the island was screwing with them.

Once he clenched his jaw shut and sped through the rest of the damned song, he drew his bow across the violin strings, drawing out a noise not unlike a cat being strangled. It was charming. Really.

“If anyone else sings, you’re not welcome in class. Understood?”

[[Preplayed with

faithandscience and

willbethenight who put up with my weirdness.]]

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//Hardly.// At least in that regard, Jono was fairly positive that he knew what he was talking about. //I've tried to sing along with my guitar. One distracts from the other entirely too much.//

What the ears heard and the mind heard didn't tend to want to blend too terribly well.

"...who on earth enjoys listening to themselves sing?" So not the point, Sherlock.

//Obviously, not me,// Jonothon noted, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. //But there is a certain charm in being able to. Th'voice is like any instrument. It takes work to fine-tune.//

That got another oh so mature roll of Sherlock's eyes. He was tapping his fingers on the desk again, and made a face before the damned singing took over again.

"Sat in the cafe by the cracker factory," Sherlock began, glancing away and waving his hand ~~like a spaz~~ dramatically. "You were practicing a magic trick. And my thoughts got rude, as you talked and chewed on the last of your pick and mix.

//Erm...?//

Sherlock was singing at him.

... And, for that matter, Jonothon seemed to have acquired a bass guitar out of absolutely nowhere and now he was playing along. Thank you, Fandom.

//Brilliant.//

At least there was that, damn it. Sherlock was really starting to loathe this place for the little indignities.

"Said your mistaken if your thinking that I haven't been caught cold before - As you bit into your strawberry lace - And then a flip in your attention in the form of a gobstopper - Is all you have left and it was going to waste," Sherlock continued, at least giving a good show of it. "Your past-times, consisted of the strange, and twisted and deranged - And I love that little game you had called - Crying lightning - And how you like to aggravate the ice-cream man on rainy afternoons."

Oooh, winding bass solo. Sort of. It was short, and rhythmic, and not terribly impressive. Why in the world was he playing a bass, anyhow? Jonothon's usual weapon of choice, after all, was his Stratocaster.

And, while he couldn't sing, at least he could do some impressive things with his hips while he played.

You know, in case providing the instrumentals wasn't good enough, somehow.

"Please stop gyrating," Sherlock managed to say before the song continued.

Because that needed to be said if you asked him, okay?

"The next time that I caught my own reflection, it was on it's way to meet you thinking of excuses to postpone," he sang. "You never look like yourself from the side, but your profile did not hide the fact you knew I was approaching your throne."

Jonothon actually took that moment to give Sherlock a bit of a dirty look before depositing his arse on Sherlock's desk, then. Difficult to dance when you were sitting down, wasn't it?

//With folded arms you occupy the bench like toothache. Saw them, puff your chest out like you never lost a war,// and this was Jono, demonstrating that, while he could carry a tune, and, in fact, quite well, it was a bit of a jarring transition from audio to psionic and back again. //And though I try not to suffer the indignity of reaction, there was no cracks to grasp or gaps to claw.//

Why yes, yes he did look a little out of sorts by this he-is-not-immune-to-this.

Sherlock probably shouldn't look quite so smug about being correct about things. It was unbecoming.

"And your past-times, consisted of the strange and twisted and deranged and I hate that little game you had called... Crying lightning. And how you like to aggravate the icky man on rainy afternoons." Or everyone. Ever. Anytime. "Uninviting, but not half as impossible as everyone assumes."

Shhh, don't let anyone know that last part.

"You are crying lightning."

//Your... past-times, consisted of the strange, and twisted and deranged, and I hate that little game you had called... Crying lightning.//

Jonothon did not look smug in the least. Jonothon was continuing to look perturbed by this as he played along.

//Crying lightning.//

Very, very perturbed.

//Crying lightning.//

Now that urge had passed, Sherlock smoothed his jacket down. From all that moving, apparently.

"Not so terrible, is it?"

And there went the bass guitar, vanishing into the ether like it had never been there in the first place.

Jonothon eyed the empty space where it had been with a furrowed brow for a moment, and then slid off of the desk and crossed his arms.

He shrugged.

//It was still off.//

"Nevertheless." Like he cared about that. "You should join John at therapy some time. Learn absolutely nothing about your traumas and talk about feelings."

//... And be prescribed an armload of pills that I can't take anyhow. No thanks.//

Really, Jonothon knew all about his traumas. He didn't need to start sobbing at some perfect stranger about them.

Sherlock paused for a moment, possibly missing Jono's point on purpose, possibly just being him about it. "No, she's one of those who disdain medication and want to discuss how being shot at makes you feel. Probably keeps shock blankets around."

//... I... don't get shot at often.//

Lately.

And that really didn't encompass things like how he would have been eviscerated last week if he'd had any guts left to lose.

"Or blowing up, or getting arrested because the police are too dim to solve something on their own."

//I don't get arrested often, either,// Jonothon noted.

He really had to withhold any statements on the being blown up bit.

"Of course not, you try not to draw any attention to yourself. You fail, but the attempt remains."

//There's nothing th'matter with attempting to live in th'background,// replied Jono, perhaps a touch stung.

Of course he failed at it. How could somebody like him possibly blend in?

This was a point where someone needed to point out the 'little bad' of how Sherlock thought about things.

"There is if you do it so poorly."

Yes. Sometimes, when you desperately needed a John, you were left wanting.

//And what would you suggest I do to fix that?//

Grow a jaw, perhaps? Or just stop being on fire?

Sherlock gave him a look, appraising and clinical. Then, very slowly relaxed his shoulder, slouching down until he seemed shorter and nowhere near as posh as he'd once been.

"Observe and imitate those around you. People won't give you more than the barest of glances if you really start to blend in."

So... just... act like everything was alright? But do it with a slouch?

And possibly lose the leather?

//Regardless of how I look?//

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