Written for a prompt on Sherlockbbc_fic: John is tired of going grocery shopping by himself all the time just to come home and have Sherlock point out everything he didn't get per Sherlock's specifications. So, the next time John goes out he drags Sherlock with him. Worst idea in the world. :)

Note: I'm an American (USA) currently living in Japan, and my knowledge of England's Geography + Grocery is nil (not to mention the probably overpowering U.S. diction, apologies). Did my best to patch things over with the internet.

Disclaimers: Don't Own It. Just for fun.

Food Shopping with Sherlock

Sherlock and John climbed up from the basement grocery of Marks and Spencers and out the fire-door into the sleet of London winter. As the alarm blared out into the triangular gap between the department store and a neighboring building, John said, "Don't you think sneaking out fire-stairs is a bit conspicuous?"

"We're hardly sneaking," Sherlock said.

The pavement oozed icy puddles. Within a few steps, slush had crept through the seams of John's discount boots into his socks, numbing the sides of his feet and his toes. Three police cars were parked on the main street in front of the store. Their blue and white lights flickered strobe-like into the alleyway, making Sherlock's skin, if possible, appear even more pale.

"Though I was wary of your insistence," Sherlock said, "this shopping excursion wasn't nearly as dull as I had assumed it would be." He flung his arms so that the grocery bag in his right hand spun out like a flail before careening back into his thigh.

"Never again." Even though it meant John was lugging three bags of groceries, he was grateful he'd gone with his first instinct and just given Sherlock the drain cleaner (why Sherlock had bought six bottles of it, John really didn't want to know). One didn't have to be a genius to deduce Sherlock plus adrenaline and a dozen raw eggs equaled bad things.

Sherlock sighed and shifted the bag to his other hand. "Admittedly, as criminals go, they were below even the average in regards to intelligence."

"As you insisted on telling them," John said. "Repeatedly. With sarcasm."

"A public service. Those dullards had bought their ski-masks within the past six hours from this very establishment. They were certainly caught on camera making the purchase. But even if not, the basest idiot could have deduced that they were locals. The accents alone, not to mention the cuffs of their pants. And the oil beneath their fingernails. They gave themselves away before they even donned their pitiful disguises."

"Incredible deduction, as usual."

"Ordinarily you don't sound so annoyed when you say that."

"It's no wonder that other one tried to turn his knife on you."

Sherlock smiled.

Behind them, the fire-door squealed open again and a woman yelled, "Sir! Excuse me sirs!" John glanced back as the door clanged shut. A uniformed cop, her ginger hair pulled back in a tight bun, ran towards them.

Sherlock quickened his pace.

"I think she wants to talk to us," John said.

"Boring," Sherlock said, Drano bag swinging. "You enjoyed it too, John. You were even able to work off some frustration by clubbing the tall one with the canned beets."

"What I did not enjoy was how you made those two women cry in the baby aisle."

"Only the one meant it."

"And her husband."

"He was not the father."

The police officer came beside John and then turned into his path, effectively cutting in front of both of them. She said, "You cannot leave without giving a statement."

"We're on the same team," Sherlock said, whipping Lestrade's ID from his jacket pocket.

Oh no, John thought, just as the officer said, "You're not Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Impressive," Sherlock said with a disdainful sniff. "Lestrade cleared us."

"Forging a police identification is a criminal act," she said. "You'll need to come with me to the station."

"I assure you this is not a fake. Unlike your engagement ring, which is assuredly not a diamond, nor was it his mother's-"


The woman's lips tightened. "This way, gentlemen." She beckoned towards the flickering sirens.

Sherlock's gaze flitted towards the main street. "Our ice-cream is melting." He quirked an eyebrow and gave John his best sardonic almost smile. "Shall we?"

Sherlock wasn't thinking of running from the police. Not loaded down with a week's worth of groceries. Certainly not.


And they were running. Gloriously and stupidly running. The madcap danger was enough that John's mind canceled the pain in his leg, and the dull throb in his right shoulder was almost welcome. Would have been welcome had they been chasing criminals instead of merely impersonating them.

"Left, then left again. Roadwork on A302," Sherlock said, hardly gasping as they hit the turn.

"I can never go back to that Marks and Spencers again."

"You're the one who insisted I come along."

"Because you always complain about my shopping."

"And now."

"We're never doing this again," John vowed. Never.