A/N: I was reading nursery rhymes to my little cousin, and suddenly had an image of Sherlock and John. As we continued through the book, these four stood out, and the idea wouldn't leave me in peace until I wrote it. Let me know what you think. They're shorter and a lot less serious than my other Sherlock fics.
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell,
The reason why, I cannot tell;
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not like thee, Doctor Fell.
"What…?" John trailed off, looking between the room where Sherlock was and the doctor who had just stormed out of said room. "What did he do now?" John asked with a long-suffering sigh.
"He won't let me examine him," the doctor fumed. "Apparently, His Doctor can treat his injuries better than I can, and when I disagreed, he quoted nursery rhymes at me."
"Nursery rhymes?" John questioned, wondering how the hell nursery rhymes weren't deleted when knowledge of the solar system had been.
"I do not like thee, Doctor Fell," the doctor quoted, annoyed. He was even more annoyed when the man he had been speaking to promptly burst into peals of laughter. He stalked away, muttering about lunatics.
John, still chuckling, went to go take care of His Detective. Later, after he had treated the newest injuries Sherlock had acquired, he would ask about the nursery rhymes.
Molly, my sister, and I fell out,
And what do you think it was all about?
She loved coffee and I loved tea,
And that was the reason we could not agree.
Sherlock watched as John entered the flat. He had gone out to meet his sister. Harry was off the booze, or so she said, and wanted to meet up with John to try to reconnect with him. Judging by the set of his shoulders and the anger in his normally kind blue eyes, Harry had lied once again.
"Tea?" John asked as he hung up his coat and headed for the kitchen. He didn't want to talk about what happened and prayed Sherlock would recognize that. Of course he did, but being Sherlock he ignored it.
"Yes," Sherlock replied, getting up from where he had been lying on the couch and moving to lean against the wall in the kitchen.
John grabbed two mugs, unearthed the sugar from where Sherlock had hidden it behind various experiments, and checked for milk, which they miraculously had. Sherlock broke the tense silence.
"You know," he said languidly, "This calls to mind one of the nursery rhymes my nanny read to me as a child."
"Oh?" John asked, quirking an eyebrow curiously. Sherlock very rarely spoke of his childhood, and John had no idea why he was bringing it up now.
"Molly, my sister, and I fell out," Sherlock said, deliberately not looking at John. "And what do you think it was all about? She loved coffee and I loved tea, and that was the reason we could not agree."
As he finished the rhyme, Sherlock watched John out of the corner of his eye, checking his reaction. He knew that John needed to be distracted, that he didn't want to think about his sister's alcoholism any longer, be he had no idea how his help would be received. Thankfully, John just smiled, shaking his head.
"Thank you Sherlock," John said, smiling. The consulting detective didn't do well with emotions, his own or others, and the fact that he had made an effort meant more to John than more conventional methods.
"Mm," Sherlock replied, going back to his previous position on the couch.
John brought both cups of tea into the living room, setting Sherlock's within his reach before taking a sip of his own. He was still upset that Harry was drinking again, but Sherlock's gesture, odd and unexpected as it was, made him feel better.
Doctor Foster went to Gloucester
In a shower of rain;
He stepped into a puddle,
Right up to his middle,
And never went there again.
John stomped up the stairs to his hotel room, muttering angrily. Following Sherlock to this little town in the middle of nowhere, on his day off, just so the mad genius could visit a bee farm sounded fine. Any excuse for a holiday, right? Well, after two hours, John got tired of hanging around while Sherlock fired question after question at the bee keeper, so he decided to head back to the hotel. There was little to do in the town and he really had no idea when Sherlock would be back, so he figured he would head back to the hotel and update his blog. As soon as he reached the edge of the town, the sky opened and it began to pour. Swearing, John picked up his pace, hoping to reach the safety of the hotel before he got too soaked. That hope was dashed when, not paying attention, he tripped on a stone and landed in a ditch, filled with water that came up to his stomach.
Coming out of the bathroom after a hot shower, he found Sherlock lying on the bed with John's laptop. He looked up when John entered.
"Did you have fun playing in the rain?"
John scowled, knowing that Sherlock had more than likely avoided getting drenched by remembering his umbrella. "Shut it Sherlock. I am seriously never coming here again."
The other man smirked, standing and leaving to go to his room. He was at the door before he spoke.
"Doctor Foster went to Gloucester," he said, slipping out the door and shutting it behind him. The pillow John had thrown bounced off the closed door.
Heeper-peeper, chimney sweeper,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her.
Had another, didn't love her,
Up the chimney he did shove her.
"So it was the husband?" John asked as he watched Sherlock pace.
"Obviously," he said, sparing a glance at his friend before looking at the photos once more. "The only question is where is he now?"
"How did you know it was the husband?" John asked, curious.
"His first wife divorced him. He spent too much time at work, led to the wife having an affair; the wife ran off with her lover. He remarried, someone who reminds him of his first wife. She reminds him of what he lost, infuriating him. So, one morning before he leaves for work, he snaps and kills his wife, stuffing her body in the chimney."
"Brilliant," John says, earning a small smile from Sherlock.
"Heeper-peeper, chimney sweeper," he intones, making John laugh.