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For the record, I don't really know what this is.

I mean, it's Sherlock Holmes, but it's also not. I believe in an expansive definition of fanfic, but I'm not sure I would consider this fanfic, except in that it is written by me, who considers herself a fan. And at the same time, it is Sherlock Holmes.

I don't know if there will be more, but I don't really know where this came from in the first place, so, just that I suddenly had a full page of hand-written words. (I mean, I remember writing them, but I don't have the slightest clue what sparked them.)

One More Song The Radio Won't Like

Sherlock grimaces at the crowd. She hates being a stand-up comic when the people listening are heavily drunk; there's no challenge in making them laugh. Still, she has to earn the money for her rent somehow, so she fakes a friendly smile and starts, deliberately roughing her voice to make herself seem as drunk as them. No one likes a sober comic.

"You might think, with a name like mine, that I was teased as a child. Yeah, that happened. There was the well-meaning but god-awful shortening to Sherry by some of my teachers, or the ever-popular Locksy from classmates. But given the hair I have, I guess that make sense." This gains her a favourable reaction, because someone with a shaved head making jokes about her hair is apparently hilarious.

"But really, the low point of primary school was when their parents joined in. Because the parents, of course, knew about that other Sherlock Holmes. You know, the less famous one? What is he, some kind of detective?" Another laugh, like she isn't saying the most obvious things she could. Sherlock supposes that being able to make people laugh without trying is less compensation than she deserves for her parents' sadistic naming urges.

"They'd asked me if I'd deduced anything about them. Care to guess my response?" A pause, either to build the anticipation or to give them the illusion that she's going to listen to their guesses. "I said, yeah, sure, I deduced that you're a bloody arsehole." Another pause to let that sink in. "I think I'm a better judge of character than he ever was."

Having taken care of both the explanation of her name and the first use of swears to amuse, Sherlock hardly has to think about the rest of her routine, before it's done and over with. She's sitting at the bar, sipping at a glass of water and sending the strongest fuck-off vibes she's capable of, when a man sits down rather deliberately next to her. Sherlock narrows her eyes at him. "Not interested," she snaps.

"Sorry. First available seat I saw and all that."

Sherlock glances over at him. He's on the short side of average, favouring his right leg and exuding an easy charm and the kind of self-confidence rooted in deep anxiety that Sherlock usually hates. She resolves to simply ignore him and stare at her water.

"Most people at least brood over a beer," he remarks.

"Yes, well, most people actually want to be here, rather than needing to be so they can collect this week's check."

The man exhales softly, but loud enough that she easily hears it. Sherlock adds unintentionally manipulative to his list of characteristics. It's one that makes him a bit more interesting, she supposes.

"If you tell me that your name is John Watson, I will punch you," Sherlock promises.

"You're a very violent person," the man replies.

"That means so much, coming from an ex-soldier."

He snorts and Sherlock grimaces. She doesn't mean to amuse him. He clears his throat. "Why a comic, if you don't mind me asking. You don't seem to enjoy it."

"I do mind, actually."

"Right."

Sherlock knows she's being difficult, but she's in no mood to be otherwise. "Here, let me provide you with a deduction. Free of charge, just this once. Please hold your applause until the end. Despite the fact that your name is John Watson, you have no medical training and you served with the RAF, rather than the Army. Your plane went down in Iraq, but near an American base. You were still lucky to survive with only relatively minor injuries. You come from a large family, but none of them live in the London area, and you aren't close with any of them. You've only ever visited London before, but you came here because you though it would be easier to be lonely in a city full of people. You initially sat down next to me because it was just a seat, but you could have moved on shortly after, you just chose not to. You love a challenge; I hate being thought of as one." Sherlock doesn't mention the fact that he's clearly been considering thoughts of suicide, because then she thinks she'd be obligated to be nice.

John stares at her for a couple of long moments, while she smirks. "That's amazing," he says eventually.

Sherlock shrugs. "It's the equivalent of a cheap party trick, only far more likely to get me punched." Despite her words, Sherlock's grin grows, and it's genuine. She likes making people think the name's nothing more than an unwelcome burden, then hitting them hard. John was easier to figure out than most people, but she hadn't expected him to be pleased.

"I'd think your threats of violence would secure that all on their own."

Sherlock shrugs lazily. "I take my kicks wherever I can get them."

"All right, then. I'll take it under advisement that next time I miss flying I can just start a pub fight."

Sherlock considers the fact that he's potentially suicidal and scrawls her name and mobile number on the back of her napkin, handing it over as she stands, finally seeing the pub owner walking towards her, check in hand. "I expect you not leave me out if that happens," she tosses out as she exits.

Feel free to leave comments, questions, encouragement, constructive criticism, demands that I write more, or requests that I write actual, clearly defined, fanfic instead.

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