AN/ I have been writing nothing but unremitting angst since Reichenbach aired, so I thought I might revisit this oneshot to see if it was salvageable to present to you lovely people. Pre-slash/Slash – Peacock!Sherlock, Pea-hen!John

Johnlock Party Prompt: Day 7 – Crack.


Peacock

"What," Greg asks slowly, the stilted uncomfortable speech of a man who is not quite sure of his remaining sanity. "is your brother doing?"

He blinks. Stares. Blinks again. He doesn't think it will help, the blinking and the staring, and it is not much of a disappointment when it wholeheartedly does sod all to aid his momentary crisis.

He goes back to staring. It seems the done protocol for instances such as this.

Mycroft, curiously enough, doesn't seem to be concerned to the same extent Greg is with the odd antics happening right before his eyes. His face has the enviable expression of long-suffering resignation, contrasted to the Edvard Munch-esque mask of shock on the face of the detective inspector. Greg wonders for a second what it must have been like being older brother to the mind boggling enigma that has engaged both their attentions – and then shudders at the thought, berating his brain that he does not need any more mental scarring tonight thank you very much.

A cup of tea, the part of his brain not engaged in surprise-induced paralysis consoles him with. Milk. Three sugars. A couple of digestives to dunk, maybe a cheeky fag if the wife isn't back yet. God knows, he's earned it.

"Sherlock defies explanation at times," The elder Holmes says with a barely repressed sigh of exasperation. "It's best just to ignore him."

Such things are easier said than done. Gregory Lestrade has seen many things in his life, dark things and strange things: hounds that weren't real and then were; Dimmock dressed as a Christmas Tree one memorable Met Christmas Bash (he isn't sure whether he can ever again meet the eye of a man he has seen decked out in tinsel with baubles looped over his ears), many things that make up fond recollections and many that he's probably repressed to a deep level of his subconscious. But he has never yet seen anything like what is playing out before him: he wants to look away and flinch but he can't quite bring himself to, like a slo-mo video of a man on a bicycle, about to tumble off in a humorous way, the sorts of ones they have reels of on You've Been Framed with an accompanying laughter track to boot.

Sherlock Holmes is strutting. Swaggering with an exaggerated gait across the concrete of a crime scene, shoulders thrown back and chest thrust out, a ridiculously arrogant smirk across his face for a man who was once the domineering and eccentric world's only consulting detective, and now is doing some sort of strange walking dance across the pavement, swinging his hips like the most seasoned of exotic dancers. Long legs are owning the pavement like a cat walk.

Oh, and Greg can't forget the tail feathers. The crowning glory of the whole moment, the pièce de résistance, Sherlock has apparently procured a whole clump of peacock tail feathers, brightly coloured and ostentatious, a bouquet of vivid hues which he's gathered into a train at the back of his suit, and is... for a better word, waggling themextravagantly.

Greg wonders why no one is reaching for their cameras to immortalise this memory. He half wishes he'd brought his phone so he can one day use the footage as blackmail material. Happy days...

The thought also crosses his mind with a skip and a jump that the consulting detective might be incredibly, ridiculouslyhigh. He makes a mental note to schedule another drugs bust. He also makes a mental note to discover what exactly that man has been smoking, and where he can find some. For procedural purposes of course.

Maybe three sugars, his brain placates him soothingly. Not long now. And definitely a cheeky fag.

The tail feathers are impressive, don't get Greg wrong. Zinging blues and greens, demonstrated in all their glory, the dappling effect of red, the eye-spots of yellow and black swaying in an almost hypnotic, enticing way.

Sherlock keeps up the movements seemingly mimicked from a suave, seductive fashionista as he struts over to the assembled members of Scotland Yard, their eyes that are all staring exactly like Greg's widening with every step. The real world and all its reliable rules, it appears, has up and taken a sabbatical while no-one was looking, and still the feathers sway hypnotically with a deliberate arc of movement. Sherlock – if it is possible – puffs up his chest even more, his scarf giving the impression of a bunched navy plumage, increasingly pleased with himself judging by his strengthening grin, stretching out his feathers to their fullest height and width so that the iridescent colours catch the sunlight and shimmer.

Donovan is beginning to back away slowly from the approaching spectacle. Anderson looks vaguely nauseous. John, standing off to the side with his arms folded...

Greg blinks. What the – ?

John Watson is smiling. Not in the my-flatmate-has-finally-lost-it way, but in genuine interest of the visual spectacular, leaning back relaxed, observing the phenomena. Sherlock is walking with all the deliberate hip movements of a man playing a drag show or the lead of La Cage aux Folles, shaking a fistful of fowl feathers behind by his arse, and John seemingly doesn't care. Is quite enjoying it in fact.

Catching sight of John's expression, Sherlock strains his feathers up even wider, posture public-school straight, showing off an impressive expanse of neck, and Greg isn't sure whether the laws of common and rational sense can be abused anymore, (maybe, he wonders, they went off on holiday the same time as the real world did) but John almost appears... appreciative of the gesture. Greg watches, half disbelieving and half embarrassed, like he's watching something smouldering and nigh-on pornographic as John's eyes rake up and down Sherlock, a thorough mental-undressing if Lestrade ever saw one, his pupils dilated and a flush of red across his cheeks that has nothing to do with the mild heat of the afternoon.

This cannot be happening...

Two cups of tea, his brain pleads desperately. A gallon of tea. Late night crap on ITV. Screw the nicotine patches. We are smoking tonight.

"I ask again," Greg asks out of the corner of his mouth to the British Government, still watching the proceedings with a look of disregard "What is he doing?"

"Isn't it obvious, detective inspector?" Mycroft drawls, spinning his umbrella idly in one hand,"My dear brother has got it into his head to woo the good doctor."

The elder broth glances over at John, who has wandered away from the main flock of people, who are still staring with the collective expressions of a shoal of wide-eyed puffer fish, and is approaching Sherlock, raising an eyebrow questioningly. The younger Holmes' finally lowers his plumage to rest down by his side, the arrogant look in his eyes softening to something more intimate. "It appears as though he has succeeded. Oh, Mummy will be pleased."

Greg doesn't know quite how to respond to that. He observes as Sherlock and John both seem to have an entire conversation only through indicating glances and silent smirks, before both walking off together to what appears the direction of Baker Street. Greg tries not to think about that. Or what they'll do when they get there.

I really don't get paid enough for this, he thinks.