Ficlet: Trendline Adjustment
Nov. 11th, 2012 10:56 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
magnetic_poleFlist, this is truly my last election post. Truly.
Title: Trendline Adjustment
Fandom and characters: Elementary (CBS), Joan, Sherlock
Rating and word count: G, 650
Summary: Twelve years ago, Joan had gone to bed early and woken to discover that Al Gore's victory wasn't the certainty everyone said it was. The 2012 election is a different case entirely.
"Sherlock?" Joan called as she hung up her jacket.
A single light was on in the dining room. Sherlock sat hunched in front of the computer, leg bouncing.
"I'm back," Joan said. “Longer lines than usual at the polls.”
"Unusually high turnout," he said without turning around. "Good for your candidates."
“I was a Republican, once,” she said, objecting half-heartedly.
He turned around. His eyes were bloodshot and his pulse elevated, but his pupils were normal. Good.
“That was in 1988, the first time you voted,” he said. “Now you’re a woman between the ages of 30 and 49 with a postgraduate education, no religious affiliation, and an aversion to the suburbs.”
For no reason at all, this irritated her.
“You shop at the organic grocery store,” he added.
Well, then.
“I’m going to bed early,” she said. “With a book.”
Sherlock blinked. “What did I say?”
*
What had he said? Nothing she she didn’t already know about herself. She was tired. Her feet hurt.
Only after she changed into pajamas and settled down under the quilt did she begin to wonder why Sherlock was so interested in American politics. Irrelevant, she would have thought, unless he found it necessary to understand for a case.
She turned off the light, pulled the quilt over her head, and rolled over onto her stomach. All those irrational pundits and politicians, she thought. He might short-circuit by midnight.
The thought made her laugh into her pillow.
Sherlock fascinated her. Why had she gone into surgery, again? She was good at it, of course. It was easy for her, and the competition was satisfying.
Only people with problems themselves had seriously considered psychiatry, anyway.
She thought of the people she knew from medical school who had done so, and she wondered if they usually voted Democratic and shopped organic, as well.
*
Sherlock was still awake in the dining room the next morning.
"Congratulations," he said.
Thank goodness. This day might have gone quite badly.
"Coffee in the kitchen," he added.
"What do you care about American politics, anyway?" she asked, leaning over his shoulder. A spreadsheet with data filled his screen. She scanned the left-handed column: CNN, Rasmussen, Gallup, Google Consumer Surveys.
"A wager," he said. "Not online, or with a bookie," he added witheringly, before she could respond. "I'm not that kind of addict."
"With whom, then?" she asked.
He paused.
She waited.
"Allistair. He has an irrational obsession with Nate Silver."
"Half of New York does.”
Sherlock snorted. "The man's competent with numbers, full stop. That’s not a sign of second sight. We'll receive a brand-new espresso machine tomorrow, I can assure you."
*
"You're not interested?" Joan asked later, when Sherlock joined her in the kitchen to make more coffee. "Polling? Poker? Fantasy..." she paused, deadpan. "Cricket?"
He eyed her suspiciously, filled the cafetiere, and set the timer.
"My brother paid for a trip to Australia with online poker," she said. "Not uncommon for someone with a talent for math."
"Boring," he said. "A step above an accountant or a mechanic, save the element of chance.”
“And cases are more interesting?”
“Cases are more challenging,” he said. “The unknowns are...often unknown.”
“You hate unknowns,” she said.
“I hate not knowing what they are,” he said. “A crucial difference.”
Sherlock retreated to dining room, leaving Joan to wait until the timer went off.
*
The coffee tasted better than yesterday. She knew that Sherlock had made it with exactly seven tablespoons of the same dark roast coffee, as he always did, and he had set the alarm to four minutes to allow it to steep.
Clearly, she herself was the unknown. Perhaps the news had buoyed her mood.
To her surprise, the thought didn’t bother her.
At one time, surgery had attracted her with its precision. Now, she didn’t care to be a mechanic, either.
“Yes!” From the dining room, Sherlock’s gleeful crow filled the first floor. “The Republican from North Dakota has just conceded!”
Joan didn’t know quite what that meant, but she suspected that Sherlock had identified an unknown, too.
Title: Trendline Adjustment
Fandom and characters: Elementary (CBS), Joan, Sherlock
Rating and word count: G, 650
Summary: Twelve years ago, Joan had gone to bed early and woken to discover that Al Gore's victory wasn't the certainty everyone said it was. The 2012 election is a different case entirely.
"Sherlock?" Joan called as she hung up her jacket.
A single light was on in the dining room. Sherlock sat hunched in front of the computer, leg bouncing.
"I'm back," Joan said. “Longer lines than usual at the polls.”
"Unusually high turnout," he said without turning around. "Good for your candidates."
“I was a Republican, once,” she said, objecting half-heartedly.
He turned around. His eyes were bloodshot and his pulse elevated, but his pupils were normal. Good.
“That was in 1988, the first time you voted,” he said. “Now you’re a woman between the ages of 30 and 49 with a postgraduate education, no religious affiliation, and an aversion to the suburbs.”
For no reason at all, this irritated her.
“You shop at the organic grocery store,” he added.
Well, then.
“I’m going to bed early,” she said. “With a book.”
Sherlock blinked. “What did I say?”
*
What had he said? Nothing she she didn’t already know about herself. She was tired. Her feet hurt.
Only after she changed into pajamas and settled down under the quilt did she begin to wonder why Sherlock was so interested in American politics. Irrelevant, she would have thought, unless he found it necessary to understand for a case.
She turned off the light, pulled the quilt over her head, and rolled over onto her stomach. All those irrational pundits and politicians, she thought. He might short-circuit by midnight.
The thought made her laugh into her pillow.
Sherlock fascinated her. Why had she gone into surgery, again? She was good at it, of course. It was easy for her, and the competition was satisfying.
Only people with problems themselves had seriously considered psychiatry, anyway.
She thought of the people she knew from medical school who had done so, and she wondered if they usually voted Democratic and shopped organic, as well.
*
Sherlock was still awake in the dining room the next morning.
"Congratulations," he said.
Thank goodness. This day might have gone quite badly.
"Coffee in the kitchen," he added.
"What do you care about American politics, anyway?" she asked, leaning over his shoulder. A spreadsheet with data filled his screen. She scanned the left-handed column: CNN, Rasmussen, Gallup, Google Consumer Surveys.
"A wager," he said. "Not online, or with a bookie," he added witheringly, before she could respond. "I'm not that kind of addict."
"With whom, then?" she asked.
He paused.
She waited.
"Allistair. He has an irrational obsession with Nate Silver."
"Half of New York does.”
Sherlock snorted. "The man's competent with numbers, full stop. That’s not a sign of second sight. We'll receive a brand-new espresso machine tomorrow, I can assure you."
*
"You're not interested?" Joan asked later, when Sherlock joined her in the kitchen to make more coffee. "Polling? Poker? Fantasy..." she paused, deadpan. "Cricket?"
He eyed her suspiciously, filled the cafetiere, and set the timer.
"My brother paid for a trip to Australia with online poker," she said. "Not uncommon for someone with a talent for math."
"Boring," he said. "A step above an accountant or a mechanic, save the element of chance.”
“And cases are more interesting?”
“Cases are more challenging,” he said. “The unknowns are...often unknown.”
“You hate unknowns,” she said.
“I hate not knowing what they are,” he said. “A crucial difference.”
Sherlock retreated to dining room, leaving Joan to wait until the timer went off.
*
The coffee tasted better than yesterday. She knew that Sherlock had made it with exactly seven tablespoons of the same dark roast coffee, as he always did, and he had set the alarm to four minutes to allow it to steep.
Clearly, she herself was the unknown. Perhaps the news had buoyed her mood.
To her surprise, the thought didn’t bother her.
At one time, surgery had attracted her with its precision. Now, she didn’t care to be a mechanic, either.
“Yes!” From the dining room, Sherlock’s gleeful crow filled the first floor. “The Republican from North Dakota has just conceded!”
Joan didn’t know quite what that meant, but she suspected that Sherlock had identified an unknown, too.
