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The case was complicated: two missing children, three threatening notes (one of which included a long blonde curl, with threats of an ear to follow), and a long chase through a network of council housing, culminating in Sherlock landing an impressive rugby tackle on the kidnapper while John frantically untied and checked over the children. The little girls were reunited with their sobbing parents and the Met detectives were patting each other on the backs for a job well done (John heard Sherlock grumbling about that – “Their congratulations are misplaced, John. Your discovery of the mud under the window ledge was invaluable.”) John and Sherlock were pulling their coats on and looking around for a taxi. To this day, John cannot say with any clarity how it happened; he vividly remembers refusing Greg’s invitation to come for a drink, as well as Sherlock’s glower when it was suggested, but somehow or other the two of them found themselves swept along with the Met detectives off to a pub for a post-case pint.
~~
“Ooh, trivia night!” Sally rubs her hands together gleefully. “I thought we missed it! Excellent. The usual table, Greg?”
“Yeah, perfect. John and I’ll grab some pints. Sherlock, go on with Sally and help hold the table, will you?” When Sherlock doesn’t move, Greg glances over. “Sherlock?”
John groans quietly when he sees Sherlock’s lip curl up in a familiar manner. A tirade is imminent; hopefully John can head off the worst of it before Sherlock alienates an entire pub.
“Trivia—” is as far as Sherlock gets before John interrupts.
“Sherlock, come on, it’ll be fun.” Sherlock glares at him.
“I was merely going to say, John, I feel I could win this game quite handily, even on a team by myself. I’m aware of the fact that many people feel that I don’t know anything of relevance…” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “But really, what is trivia but a collection of knowledge? And who has a larger collection of knowledge than me?”
If Sherlock was expecting an effusive agreement, he’s disappointed. Instead, the detectives at the bar are biting their lips to keep from laughing.
John sighs; this is one of those things that fall to him, as the best friend. “Er, Sherlock, I don’t think they’re going to ask questions about tobacco ash or, or, I don’t know. Stuff you know. The questions are more likely to be about, you know, films and music and footballers. Pop culture.”
Sherlock doesn’t react, but John can see his nostrils flare slightly and knows that the other man is supremely insulted. He sighs again.
“Look, you and I’ll be a team, okay? We’ll take on these arses from the Met…” There’s a chorus of “Oi!” from the table, which John ignores. “And we’ll win, yeah? Come on, let’s grab something to drink and settle in.” After studying John’s face for a moment, Sherlock nods curtly and pushes his way to a table, coat flapping behind him.
Greg claps John on the shoulder. “All right, then?”
“Yeah, I guess so.” John signals to the bartender, who nods. “It’s just… he’s so smart, right? But he’s just so unaware of stuff most people pay attention to, celebrity nonsense, footballers’ wives and all that.” He shakes his head as the bartender sets a pint down in front of him. “Yeah, can I get a water, too? Yeah, cheers.” Taking a sip of his lager, he turns back to Greg while watching Sherlock sitting alone at a table. He’s wearing an expression so prickly that no one’s even approaching him to ask if they can take the extra chairs. “So how does this work? I’m guessing the usual?”
“Pretty much, yeah. Twenty quid to buy your team in, pay it to that bloke over there.” Greg nods at a man in the corner passing out paper and pencils. “Five rounds, plus a lightning round in case of a tie. Um, let’s see.” Greg ticks them off on his fingers. “Sports, music, politics, general knowledge, and the fifth round varies. So far we’ve had films, the monarchy, a few others. There were actually a few questions about Jack the Ripper last time, Sherlock would’ve loved that. But the winning team gets fifty percent of the pot, which isn’t anything to sneeze at. Last month the winners got two hundred and fifty quid.”
John picks up his beer and Sherlock’s water, and clinks his glass against Lestrade’s. “Well, winning would be nice, but as long as we beat you? I’m fine with that.” He gives Greg a cheeky wink and carries the drinks over to Sherlock’s table.
Soon enough, John’s paid their entry fee and gotten his answer sheet. Once the man leaves, Sherlock hands John ten pounds. “What’s this?”
“My half of the fee. And when we win, we’ll split the money.”
“Sherlock, I don’t know if we’ll win. I mean, some of these questions can be pretty obscure.”
“Pfft.” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “I accept my limitations in some areas—” He frowns when John starts choking on his beer, and waits for him to stop coughing. “But you’ll make up for that, just as you always do.”
John doesn’t know what to say. He’s still gasping a bit, but before he can formulate a response the moderator turns on his microphone.
“Well hello, lads and ladies, and welcome to the Brass Bell’s trivia night! I’m Bruce, your quizmaster for this evening, so let’s get right to it. We have fifteen teams in the house tonight, which means a pot of a hundred and fifty quid to the winning team, ninety to second place and sixty to the third place team. Now, this is trivia, yeah? There are five rounds, possibly a sixth if we have a tie, and each round is ten questions. But we are looking for the right answers; this isn’t QI, so you won’t get points for being interesting even if you’re wrong. Now, the winners from last month aren’t here tonight, so the field’s wide open. I see our local coppers are here—” He’s interrupted by Lestrade’s team whooping and pounding on the table. “Oi, settle down, you lot. No arresting the winning team if you lose, yeah? I’d like to remind all teams that the use of mobile phones to research the answers is strictly forbidden, so put your phone away, Tom, you arseface!” There’s jeering across the pub as the offender, red-faced, tucks his phone into an inner pocket.
“He’s texting the missus!” One of his teammates shouts.
“Yeah, well, if I see it again I’m tossing you out on your heads. Any questions?” He pauses and looks around the bar. “All right, let’s begin!”
~~
From then on, any sort of relationship between Sherlock and John and the detectives is entirely hostile. Sherlock covers the paper jealously, as if convinced Lestrade’s team is going to try to crib the answers.
The first round is Sports. John does well on the rugby questions, and only so-so on the football questions, except for the one about Wayne Rooney, the tosser. “Arrogant bastard,” John mutters as he scribbles the name on the page. Not surprisingly, Sherlock doesn’t contribute at all to the Sports Round.
The second round is Music. Naturally, Sherlock gets all of the classical audio questions and John gets all of the pop and rock clues. They’re pretty sure they beat the Met team that round, since it was obvious they were mystified during the classical pieces. “Zadok the Priest,” Sherlock sniffs. “Performed at the coronation of every British monarch since George II. Honestly, call themselves Englishmen?”
“Sherlock, the last coronation was in 1953; most of them weren’t even born then!”
“Not an excuse.”
The third round is Politics; Sherlock does surprisingly well, despite his often vocal disdain of anything political. John is able to contribute answers to the questions about current politicians and scandals, but is woefully out of his depth on the history.
Sherlock is obviously taking the contest very seriously; he practically flings himself over the answer sheet when Sally walks by on her way to the ladies’. She rolls her eyes and scoffs, and makes sure to bump into Sherlock on her way back.
The fourth round is General Knowledge, and to no one’s surprise, Sherlock gets them all. He yanks the answer sheet and the pencil from John’s hand and prints the answers quickly but neatly, completely unlike his usual spiky cursive. “So there’s no mistaking when he checks them over, right?” John teases, earning another indignant sniff from Sherlock.
The fifth round is revealed to be James Bond. John groans; he’s a fan of 007, but he hasn’t seen every film, and he hasn’t read the books. Still, he knows more than Sherlock, so takes the paper back and gets ready to dig deep.
“All right everyone, let’s talk Bond, James Bond!” Bruce booms through his microphone. “Number one: Alphabetically, how is Bond’s superior identified?”
John smiles as he writes M.
“Number two: What was Sean Connery’s final film as 007?”
John chews the pencil, to Sherlock’s obvious disgust. He isn’t entirely sure; there was a period there when it alternated actors. He writes Diamonds are Forever, even though he’s not positive.
“Number three: Who did the theme to most recent Bond film?”
“Adele,” Sherlock whispers, and John looks at him in surprise.
“You know Adele?”
“That song was everywhere for ages, John; eventually it was bound to filter in.”
John chuckles. “Is that your way of saying you like the song?” Sherlock’s “no” is just a little too hasty to be convincing. John chuckles again as he writes the singer’s name.
“Number four: What’s the saucy name of the Bond girl in Goldfinger, played by the lovely Honor Blackman?”
John neatly writes Pussy Galore, and is amused to see Sherlock’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”
“Is that really the character’s name?”
“Look, nobody ever said Bond was highbrow literature, Sherlock. Besides, that’s the best movie!”
“I’ll take your word for it, John.”
The round continues with the final six questions. John knows three of them, is pretty sure he got two more, and is stumped by one so obscure he makes a mental note to look it up online as soon as they get home.
“And that’s the end of the round, lads and ladies! I’ll collect your sheets and tally the answers, and let you know the winners in just a few! Settle in, have another pint, and I’ll chat with you soon!”
Sherlock bolts out of his chair and out the door, already pulling his cigarette pack from his pocket, and Lestrade sits down with John and signals a waitress.
“So? How’d you two do, then?”
“We nailed the music, and the politics too, I think. Sherlock got all of the general knowledge. Only so-so on the sports. I think I did okay on Bond. You?”
Greg smiles at the waitress as she hands him a fresh pint. “Pretty well, I think. Sally did really well on the politics; I had no idea she knew so much about that stuff. We bombed the music, though. That classical killed us, and we were all either too young or too old for the rest.”
Silently, Sherlock sits down and glares at Lestrade. “Fraternising with the enemy, John?”
Greg rolls his eyes. “Oh, relax, you. Just having a chat. I heard you whupped us on music.”
“Naturally.” Sherlock’s voice is smug.
“Yeah, well, we’ll wipe that look off your face when we win the pot. In fact, d’you boys care to make it a bit more interesting? Say, fifty quid to the winning team?”
Before John can object, Sherlock shoots out his hand and shakes Lestrade’s. “It’s a deal. Also, in addition to our winnings, John and I will require three cold cases.”
“Done. But when we win, the next three cases you work on for us, you have to keep the smart-mouth comments to yourself. Just give us the information, that’s it. No comments on anyone’s intelligence, or non-intelligence, as it were. Okay?”
“I already said it’s a deal,” Sherlock replies irritably. Their conversation is interrupted when Bruce taps the mike to get everyone’s attention.
“Oi, everyone! Listen up. All right, the answers are marked and we have some results. In third place…” He holds the page up and squints at it. “Tim’n’Andy’n’Steve!”
There’s cheering from the back of the pub, and one of the three comes up to collect the sixty pounds in prize money.
“Okay, then. We have a tie for first! So we’ll be holding a lightening round between the Met Coppers and Holmes and Watson!”
The pub is filled with whistling and clapping as Bruce makes his way over to the tables with a couple of buzzers. “All right lads and Sally, here’s the drill. First team to ten wins and you must win by two. If you know the answer, hit your buzzer; if you’re wrong, the other team gets a chance to answer the question. All good?”
When everyone nods, Bruce motions to the bartender, who’s erased the most recent round of scores from the dartboard’s chalkboard. He’s written H&W on one side and Cops on the other. Bruce returns to his corner for the first question.
“Right, first off: name this television show!” The speakers blast a percussive sequence, and John hits his buzzer a half-second ahead of Sally. “Eastenders!” he calls when Bruce points to him.
“Correct! One to Holmes and Watson. Okay, number two, should be an easy one: what is His Royal Highness Prince Philip’s nationality?”
Sherlock slaps the buzzer, but comes in behind one of Lestrade’s detectives, a mousy-looking man John’s pretty sure is named Shaw. “He’s Greek!” the man calls out over the din.
“Right-o! And one for the cops there! Now, this is the last easy one. In which year did the London Eye open to the public?”
Sherlock slams the buzzer down. “2000!” His voice carries over the other patrons in the pub, most of whom are watching the tiebreaker. A few are looking at their phones with looks akin to relief on their faces, glad to be able to use them again.
“Yes sir! And another one to Holmes and Watson!”
The two teams trade points back and forth for the next four questions. Sally knows that Winston Churchill was preceded by Neville Chamberlain, and John knows that Erasure covered ABBA’s song “Take a Chance on Me”. Greg, not surprisingly, can name the last three goalkeepers for Arsenal, while Sherlock, very surprisingly, can identify the last three popes. Both teams miss the question on the capital of Costa Rica, and while John, much to his embarrassment, misses the question on the two official languages of Canada, Shaw is able to answer it correctly.
Finally, Greg’s team is leading, nine points to eight. If they get the next one, they win and John will have to find another fifty pounds to hand over, but if he and Sherlock can get it, they’ll be tied again and have another chance to win.
“Okay, lads and Sally, here’s the next and possibly final question, and it’s a science question: what is the common name of the small sea creature called Cirripedia in Latin?”
Sherlock slams into the buzzer, but Greg gets there first. It’s immediately clear, though, that he has no idea. “Erm…” He looks around wildly, as if the answer might be somewhere in the pub. “Is it… a snail?”
“Ooh, I’m afraid that’s incorrect, Coppers. Holmes and Watson, care for a guess?”
John’s heart sinks. He has no idea, and if they miss this, the Met team is still one ahead and can win on the next question.
Thankfully, he has Sherlock.
“The barnacle,” the detective calls out.
“That is correct, sir! And Holmes and Watson are back in it!”
John gapes at Sherlock. “How the hell did you know that?”
Sherlock shrugs. “Read about it. Did you know that they have the longest penis relative to body size of any creature?” He says this loud enough for several tables to hear him, and while the occupants are laughing John is blushing.
“Jesus, Sherlock, no. I didn’t know that.”
“Well, no day in which you learn something is ever a waste,” Sherlock says superciliously, and John wants to hug him and smack him at the same time.
The teams trade points on three more questions. Finally, on the strength of John’s Doctor Who addiction, they pull ahead by one and then they have the chance to put it away.
“All right, lads and Sally, once again, this could be the final question, and the category is geography. Here we go: Where is the Sea of Tranquility?”
The entire pub is silent as the remaining teams watch Sherlock, John and the detectives. It seems as though hours go by, although in reality it can’t be more than a few seconds. The detectives are whispering feverishly, but John’s almost positive he’s heard of this place before, and he touches the buzzer hesitantly.
“Is it… on the moon?”
Bruce pauses, looking serious, and then he breaks into a wide smile. “It is indeed, sir! And by my count, that makes a score of fourteen to twelve, which makes Holmes and Watson the winners of this month’s trivia night!”
The pub bursts into applause. People are clapping John and Sherlock on the back, and Bruce hands them an envelope with their winnings, which Sherlock tucks into the breast pocket of his jacket.
After accepting the congratulations of the crowd, John glances over at the detective team. Sally looks downright mutinous, while Shaw looks disappointed. Greg, on the other hand, is giving Sherlock and him a look of grudging respect. Grinning, John pushes through the crowd around the tables and offers his hand.
“No hard feelings then, any of you? Well played, I thought you had us on that barnacle question!”
Greg shakes his hand firmly. “Well done, you two. I’ll take a look tomorrow and dig out some cold cases for you, and here’s the rest of it.” He nudges Sally, who sullenly thrusts twenty pounds at him, and adds a few bills from his own wallet. “Fifty pounds, as agreed, yeah? So two hundred for a night’s work, not too shabby, mate!”
John curls his fingers around the grubby cash and grins. “Thanks again. Care for a rematch next month?”
“God, no! If you bring him along again, you’ll bankrupt us!” The two of them shake hands again, and John turns to push back towards Sherlock and their coats. He offers the money to the taller man. “Want to add this to the envelope?”
Sherlock gives him a crooked smile. “Mmm, you keep it. Since you knew the last two questions and got us the win.” He buttons his coat and motions toward the door. “Shall we? I’d like to get dim sum on the way home. Speaking of which, did you know dim sum originated in southern China? It actually originated as a snack…”
John suppresses a small sigh as he follows Sherlock. He may have created a monster.