Coffee and Tardises

You know someone has a sense of humor when Super crackfic extraordinaire situations turn out to be canon.


"Mm?" came the reply between violin strings twanging in tune.

"Is this your book?"

"Probably. It's in my bookcase."

John reread the title, and cocked an eyebrow. "And you've read it."

"Again. In the book case."

"Well, I can see you reading Criminal Law and The Penal System-"

"The first wasn't worth the paper it was printed on."

"But. I can't really see you having read Teleological Response of the Virus."

The violin slipped from A flat to B Sharp. "Telo- what?" Sherlock stood up, slid the violin onto the table, and grasped the book between his fingers. "It's not mine."

"But it was in your bookshelf," John snarked back, enjoying his quiet victory.

Sherlock shrugged. "Still not mine. Don't even care about viruses or virii. Pointlessly boring little creatures. Nothing forensically helpful in the least."

"So whose book is it?"

"Perhaps it's Mrs. Hudson's."

John felt his eyebrows slide up. "I… can't see that being her book."

"If not, then it's yours to keep or to toss. I do not care in the slightest." Sherlock swept back to the couch, his violin safely between elbow and crook as he went back to tuning.

John flipped through the book, understanding the virology terms, telomeres, RNA strands, proteins, and cloning methods, but trying to process that RNA had some sort of planned design seemed a bit much. Plus everything was horribly out of date. The 1980s copyright might as well have dated to the 1880s for as accurate as it was. Even things he had learned way, way back in his antediluvian days of medical school were more current than the book. But he could see that she was on the right track, that she was getting more right and her predictions were not completely wrong.

"John, com here. Look at this." The doctor looked over his shoulder, and plopped the book onto the side table.

There the book sat, completely forgotten and undisturbed for three days until Mrs. Hudson was carrying a basket of her summer linens up to the attic, "Oh, there's that book."