Gigue in G Major

Humor wasn't exactly Sherlock's strongest point, John was quick to observe as their life in their Baker Street flat commenced. In all the world, as the earth rotated gently on its axis and circled the sun (as it was wont to do, as its hobby), John could not name two things that would make Sherlock laugh.

He could name one thing, however, and that was stupidity.

There were a few instances a week where Sherlock would laugh. It was not for very long, nor was it very hearty, and John felt it was rather more sarcastic than genuine, but it counted as humor, albeit barely.

The 'short bark,' as it has been popularly called, graced their Baker Street abode like an ill-tempered, fickle fairy. Present only when someone made a profoundly stupid observation (usually John, sometimes the telly), it consisted of Sherlock tipping his head back - onto the back of the couch if seated, otherwise as far back as his neck would allow - and giving one staccato noise from the base of his diaphragm. It was accompanied by an indignant, equine exhalation from flared nostrils, and usually preceded a lecture about why whatever it was that was wrong was a pathetic error of logic, or whatever.

Said 'bark' also showed up with its mate, the icy-chill-of-ignoring-someone, when Sgt. Donovan called him a 'freak' within earshot once, and also at other like instances when an insipid annoyance (not otherwise worth Sherlock's attention) presented itself.

There were also, on even rarer occasions, moments when Sherlock's eyes 'danced with amusement' as the hackneyed phrase goes. These presented themselves primarily when John made an observation that Sherlock thought astute, clever or ironic, though John could not predict what kind of comment would strike Sherlock in such a light. "You're an idiot," elicited this response more readily than anything else, he eventually realized, and the behavior often came with a tightening of the lips that hid a smirk. It was also accompanied by the act of quickly turning away; it seemed that anything was easier for Sherlock to admit than to acknowledge he'd found something funny.

But one day, to his surprise, John caught a glimpse of what he thought must have been a mythical creature - a genuine, wholehearted, side-tickling laugh that made his flatmate close his eyes, duck his head slightly, and mask the whole of his face with one hand as he roared.

It was a baleful day on Baker Street, the type of day that Sherlock had begun by rampaging in search for cigarettes in nothing but his bedsheet, continued by yelling at the picture of a missing child on the milk-carton, and further continued by sitting in the shower for three hours singing an entire opera by Rossini - all the parts, very badly, changing the end so that half the people killed each other.

The grace of God fell upon them, however, for by the noon hour a client arrived that wasn't as boring as usual. While it meant that the lunch of beans on toast made by John went untouched by either of them, at least Sherlock was sitting somewhat still, was at least half-dressed, and was no longer stinking of whatever rubbish-bins he had been digging through the previous day.

For the past quarter hour, they had been listening to a client (a dull middle-aged divorcee who, as Sherlock deduced, had recently discovered a new favorite Chinese restaurant, was a keen jogger, showered twice a day, lived with his elderly mother and her two cats, and secretly frequented gay bars, though probably just on weekends while his mother was visiting family) drone on about his recent problem.

The man, a Mr. Jabez Wilson, described how he'd been performing a data entry job advertized on Craigslist, for which he qualified because of his Medical Secretary certificate and, as he was told, due to his long fingernails.

The company, "Doubled Digits Inc.," was a medical research firm managed by the innovative Dr. Samson Ross, who had found that men's keeping long fingernails was beneficial for their prostate health, advocating the practice to the point that the firm was conducting clinical trials to prove that keeping long fingernails could prevent prostate cancer and encouraging male longevity.

Because, apparently, of his conviction in the habit, Dr. Ross felt great solidarity with men of long fingernails and refused to hire anyone who did not have them upon application, as a testament of their faith in the practice.

Entrusted with this new job, as a man well-endowed with fingernails of his own, Mr. Wilson left a loyal non-long-nailed employee in charge of his small hobby-shop (business being slow), and spent his days typing the text from PDF-scan copies of anatomy books into a word processing document for the purpose of eventually compiling flyers for the company. He worked alone in an office where he was left to himself, since, as he was told, the main office did not have space for him to conduct this work, which, as they told him, would require great concentration.

On the third week, he arrived at the office only to discover that his job had vanished - the door was locked, no one else in the building had ever heard of the company, and the forwarding address left with the landlord by Dr. Ross was, upon Mr. Wilson's investigation, a manufacturer of prosthetic penises for female-to-male transsexuals.

Mr. Wilson's story ended by presenting the nondescript 8 1/2" x 11" paper he had found taped to the door; it read:

Doubled Digits Inc. For the Promotion of Male Fingernails

IS BANKRUPT

October 9, 2010

Mr. Wilson's face was rueful and forlorn as he presented the page, simply typed in Helvetica 12pt font, to the consulting detective. Sherlock took one look at it and passed it to John. At that moment, John marveled to see his flatmate's reaction; Sherlock's body was shaking almost to the point of convulsions and a Cheshire grin was stretching with eery vastness across his face, though he pressed a hand to his face and bent his head in a sad effort to hide his amusement.

Then again, maybe he wasn't trying too hard.

"Don' laugh! It isn't funny, y'know...I'm out seventy quid a week!" said Mr. Wilson, his face turning red with anger.

Sherlock was not able to restrain himself, now doubled over with his head between his knees, his laughter so violent that John kicked a plastic bucket (that had something rather nasty-looking but unidentifiable inside) at Sherlock's head lest the consulting detective needed to vomit into it.

"Sorry...ahem...I've never seen him like this," said John, barely able to swallow his own amusement. He'd never heard of anything so ludicrous as trying to prevent prostate cancer by growing out one's fingernails.

Such unbridled mirth, coming from Sherlock, was slightly disconcerting, but also exceptionally contagious. John kept looking back and forth between Sherlock and the client, the former's head bobbing up and down as he howled, the latter's face becoming increasingly pinched. While embarrassed at Sherlock's behavior, which was clearly becoming over the top, John could not help but be charmed by the situation.

It was really very funny. And John's mythopoetic memory was suddenly activated, and he realized that the supposed-doctor's name was Samson. Samson, of Biblical origin, whose strength was in his hair...and, some scholars had argued, his finger-nails, too. It was increasingly clear that Mr. Wilson had been the victim of a rather elaborate - and expensive - prank.

And the address left behind was literally a penis factory.

The more he thought about it, the harder it was to keep his amusement stifled. Sherlock wasn't helping matters by stomping his bare foot on the floorboards and clenching his hands in such a way that if he'd had long fingernails, he might have done serious damage to his palms; as it was, there were red welts forming in his alabaster skin from the pressure.

Still, somehow, John was enchanted by Sherlock's sudden regression to such a primal expressiveness. His friend was completely at the mercy of whatever part of this farce had tickled his humor so well, and now that the floodgates had been opened, there was no way to dam the water. As he'd lost control of himself, Sherlock was so fierce, so irrational, so crazed that John felt like Tarzan had landed in their living-room.

It did occur to John that, with his mop of longish curls, wiry musculature, and impressive eyes, it wasn't much of a stretch to think that Sherlock had been transformed into an ape-man. This thought made him just want to bundle up his friend in something warm, give him a sedative and some hot tea, and force Sherlock to sleep for ten hours straight, even if he had to sit by the bedside every minute.

As it was at the moment, however, Sherlock was still laughing, Mr. Wilson was getting up and swearing at them both and knocking over the untouched plate of beans and toast that had been within Sherlock's reach, and Mrs. Hudson was turning off the vacuum cleaner she'd been using on the hall carpet and was knocking with curiosity on their door with her customary 'yoo hoo!'

John knew he could not take much more, and called for Mrs. Hudson to come in if she liked.

"That's enough," their visitor said, turning on his heel, "I heard you was good in a pinch, Mr. Holmes, but-"

Sherlock's hair was still wet from the shower, and all of a sudden, like a dog he shook it wildly, smattering John with water that smelled of pine-tar shampoo, and it was absolutely the last straw. John, unable to contain himself a moment longer, began to chuckle.

At which point, Sherlock sat bolt-straight up, serious as a priest in a second.

"Don't laugh, John, it isn't funny. Do sit down again, Mr. Wilson, your case is really most refreshingly unusual."

Realizing the absurdity of it all of a sudden made John completely burst into laughter, pressing one hand to his forehead in embarrassment and one hand against his stomach.

"I said, don't laugh, John."

It was amazing how such a quiet command bore so much gravitas and weight that despite the whole situation at hand, John immediately sat up straight and swallowed the last of his mirth, alert and at attention.

"Um. Yes. Carry on," he said.

But his snapping to seriousness was futile in the face of what followed.

Sherlock Holmes hiccuped.

It was undeniably the most irresistible and cute thing that he'd ever seen Sherlock do, intentionally or not. Sherlock sounded like a little girl squealing with delight, and his whole body shook, rigidly, under their influence. He was so startled that for a moment, he just sat there on the couch, his back as straight as a rod, as if he had been hitherto unaware that his body was capable of such a thing.

Mr. Wilson and John happened to meet each others' eyes, and neither of them could restrain themselves - Mr. Wilson gave a huge breathy laugh that almost resembled a sob, while John just chuckled and protested, "Oh God. Oh God..."

This turned Sherlock stone-faced, and he stood up silently and swiftly, but not before another hiccup escaped his lips and his cheekbones flushed with pink.

"Go...go get a spoonful of honey, Sherlock, if we have some," John advised, not able to get up due to his own laughter, instead bending forward and hiding his face in a pillow to get a grip on himself.

Sherlock gave one final hiccup before he left the room, glowering at the present company as if he hoped their heads would explode.

/

Response to prompt: Livejournal community, Sherlockbbc, Make Me A Monday - Week 71, user angieveep:

"John finds laughing Sherlock irresistible. So what makes Sherlock laugh?"