BBC Sherlock: Eight days a week

Just an ordinary morning like many before. Sherlock was sprawled on the couch in his dressing gown, browsing through the newspaper and John was bustling about the kitchen, making breakfast for both of them. He was convinced that if he left Sherlock in charge of his own nourishment, the man would simply die of starvation. A bit not good for the world and for John, so he accepted grudgingly the role of the detective's dietician.

Something was different that day, though. A characteristic melody came in through the slightly opened kitchen window, breaking the silence that normally permeated the flat at this hour. One of the neighbours was listening loudly to the radio while tinkering with his car.

John smiled to himself, putting the kettle on. He recognised the song immediately, even though it wasn't in English. He had heard it so many times that he knew the lyrics by heart. John didn't plan this, he just started to sing along casually.

"Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit, il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Elysées..."

John thought he was being quiet and discreet, just humming the song under his breath, but Sherlock's hearing was unparalleled. Nothing could hide from his acute senses. He raised his gaze from the newspaper and peered curiously in the direction of the kitchen.

"Your French is atrocious, John." Sherlock commented mercilessly, but John knew him too well to actually take umbrage at his rude remark.

"Thanks."

"So is your singing voice, in fact."

John gave him a sullen stare.

"Oh yeah? Maybe you will show me how singing should be done, smartarse?"

Sherlock seemed appalled at the idea.

"I don't do singing, John."

"Come on, Sherlock." The doctor became really enthusiastic about the idea.

"No." Came curt and firm reply.

"Please?"

"No."

"Just once."

"No."

"For me?"

"No."

John rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh.

"Fine, don't do it then. I don't care."

Sherlock squinted his eyes. John gave up surprisingly quickly. That was suspicious.

"You don't?" He asked somewhat dumbfounded.

"Nope. You can do whatever you like."

Sherlock stared at him for a long while, but John managed to withstand his penetrating gaze. There was nothing but pure innocence written all over the doctor's face.

"Just once." Sherlock finally yielded with an annoyed huff.

"If you feel like it."

"The next song that comes on the radio. But only if I know the lyrics," he warned.

"Sure." Despite all his best efforts, John couldn't suppress a smile. He knew perfectly well how to handle his moody lover. Still, he couldn't really picture the detective knowing any lyrics. They were part of the boring and mundane stuff that Sherlock didn't bother to remember.

John paced to the living room, sat in his armchair and waited impatiently for the next song. Then it came. Good old The Beatles. And to John's infinite surprise, Sherlock started to sing in his beautiful baritone, trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

Ooh I need your love, babe,
Guess you know it's true.
Hope you need my love, babe,
Just like I need you.
Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.
Ain't got nothin' but love, babe,
Eight days a week.

John burst out laughing heartily and clapped his hands in appreciation.

"That was truly a brilliant performance!" He really meant it. Sherlock's voice was amazing. To tell the truth, his everything was amazing. Holmes was perfect at everything he did. "I didn't know you're a fan of The Beatles, though."

Sherlock cleared his throat to mask embarrassment.

"I am certainly not. I keep the lyrics in my mind just in case someone would use them as an inspiration for their serial killings." Sherlock said in a serious voice.

John snorted.

"Of course."

Sherlock pouted, miffed to the core, that the doctor didn't believe in his absolutely sound explanation. To appease the great detective, John had to sit at the edge of the couch and wrap his arms around him, giving him a sweet kiss. Apparently, that was enough for Sherlock to forgive his doubting lover, since he nuzzled his face against John's neck and sang the rest of the song straight to his ear:

Love you ev'ry day, John,
Always on my mind.
One thing I can say, John,
Love you all the time.
Hold me, love me, hold me, love me.
Ain't got nothin' but love, John,
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week
I love you.
Eight days a week
Is not enough to show I care.

John chuckled, feeling all warm and tingly inside. Life was good.