Title: Few of Them Remember
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock/Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's Le Petit Prince
Characters/pairing: Sherlock Holmes/The Little Prince (as in Sherlock Holmes is the Little Prince, not Sherlock in a relationship with), John Watson, light S/J
Warnings: Familiarity with The Little Prince/Le Petit Prince helpful, as it probably won't make sense otherwise. Full text can be found here and the original French (which I highly recommend reading it in, if you're able) is here. It's very short, my book is less than 90 pages, and it's one of my favorite stories that I've ever read so GO READ IT RIGHT NOW.
Summary: Sometimes, Sherlock dreams. Of a rose. Of a desert. Of being tamed like he once tamed his fox.

Notes: For a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic: tl;dr Sherlock is The Little Prince, all growed up.

John isn't with him when Lestrade finally relents and allows him to question the witness himself. Lestrade doesn't say it, but it's obvious he wants Sherlock to implicate him in the crime. The man, the victim's grandfather, is over ninety years old and on death's door. Sherlock doesn't even have to see him to know he didn't do it. They must be getting desperate to solve this case.

It only takes ten minutes for Sherlock to get the answers necessary to solve the case, but he drags the meeting on. He doesn't usually like idle conversation, and the questions he's asking are starting to lean dangerously close to that, but he can't bring himself to leave. He should leave, but his instincts tell him to stay and they're usually never wrong.

His eyes scan the room before falling on an unusual drawing on the wall. It's crude, quite apparently drawn by a child. "Interesting picture," he comments. "An elephant inside a boa constrictor, isn't it?"

The old man--Sherlock had already deleted his name--is obviously surprised. "Yes, yes it is. I drew it when I was a boy. I called it my drawing Number One. Not many people are able to figure out what it is."

"And by people you mean grown-ups," Sherlock pushes. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Lestrade start to fidget. He's been there too long. He needs to leave. He wants to stay.

"Obviously." The witness smiles. "I like to show it to grown-ups, see if any of them can figure it out. It's been a long time since anyone's been right."

"Not since you crash landed in the Libyan desert."

The man's eyes sharpen and focus on him. There's a question in his posture, something he wants to ask but clearly won't even if Sherlock welcomes it.

He stands and starts toward the door, and after a few rushed niceties Lestrade is following him. He waits until Lestrade is beside him before he speaks.

"Search the step-brother's house again. If he has a towel with silver embroidery, test it. There will be traces of the poison on it. He's been trying to falsely implicate the grandfather in his crime because he's jealous of all the attention he gave his other siblings growing up."

Lestrade sighs and Sherlock hails a cab. "Just tell me one thing, Sherlock."

John would be very proud of Sherlock for resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "What is it Lestrade?"

"How did you know he was a pilot? He didn't even tell us that."

"Well he isn't anymore. That was over seven decades ago. Likely he didn't think it would have any relevance to the case." He reaches for the cab's door. "It doesn't," he clarifies, catching the confused look on Lestrade's face.

"But how did you know?"

"Left thumb," Sherlock snaps back before slamming the cab's door, unwilling to admit that he isn't actually sure. "221 B Baker Street," he tells the driver.

Sherlock doesn't sleep very often, but when he does he always dreams. Usually he dreams about a single rose. Sometimes he's watering it with a little watering can, or standing up a screen to shield it from the cold, or carefully setting a glass over it. Sometimes he sits beside it and begs it for--what? Something. Something he somehow knows he will never receive.

This time he dreams of a desert. He dreams of sand and hotness and a plane waiting to leave. He dreams of a well and the most perfect water he has ever tasted. He dreams of a wall and a bright yellow snake.

And a request. He dreams of a simple, child-like request and the crate his request came in.

Please...draw me a--

"--sheep," he mutters sharply, waking abruptly.

It takes him a moment to realize he's in his flat. But yes, that's where he is. He took the cab home and then climbed the stairs. And then he checked on his experiments and shot at the wall after getting bored. And then John had come home from work, which pleased him for a bit, had insisted they watch some television together. But that was dull so his brain had decided to take a nap and his body, being transport and lacking a mind of its own, had followed suit. And then he had woken up, and that is where he is now. Lying down on the couch and John is leaning over him and his mouth is moving.

Oh. It's rude to ignore people when they're talking. At least, that's what John and Lestrade insist. Mycroft knows better. He stops thinking so much, because he never really stops, and focuses on John and the words coming out of his mouth.

"Sherlock, alright there?" John is concerned and annoyed, but mostly concerned. Sherlock decides to sit up.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? You were saying something there." No more annoyance, less concern. That's better. And now John's walking to the kitchen. He's going to make tea."Something about a sheep. I hope you're not thinking of bringing one here. If you're going to experiment on sheep, you need to find somewhere else to do it."

"I don't like sheep. They're dull." That's an interesting thought. He'd never examined his feelings on sheep before. He wonders how he came to that conclusion. But John is talking again. He files the idea of sheep as dull away. He'll investigate it later.

Although maybe he should examine it now because John is prattling on about the patients he saw today and that has never been interesting. He needs him to stop talking.

"John," he calls out. "Come here. I need you."

He emerges from the kitchen with two cups of tea. "What is it, Sherlock?"

"Go to my desk. There is a blank sheet of paper on the left hand side. There should be a pencil near it. Bring them here."

He shakes his head as John returned and tries handing the items in question to him. "No, I need you to draw something."

John starts grumbling something about childish detectives and catering or not catering to their whims and Sherlock closes his eyes.

When he opens them, John is poised at the table, waiting for instructions. It strikes Sherlock that John's hair looks a bit like wheat. He files that thought away to examine later as well.

"Draw me a sheep."

"What?"

"Draw me a sheep," he repeats.

It was a testament to just how much he has tamed John, that it only took a few more minutes of prodding on Sherlock's part and grumbling on John's before the paper is ready for Sherlock's inspection.

"That's not a sheep."

John glares at the offending scribble. "Well I don't know how to draw a sheep."

"I need you to draw me a sheep."

John snatches the paper back and flips it over. "I thought you said sheep were dull," he complains as the pencil starts to move across the paper again.

Silently, he hands the paper back to Sherlock.

"This," Sherlock whines, "is even less of a sheep."

"No it's not," John argues. He reaches over to stab the paper with his finger. "That's a sheep. It's just..." He moves to the couch and takes the drawing back to study. "It's a sheep," he insists. "It's just been swallowed by a boa constrictor."

"Dull. Boa constrictors do not eat sheep." Sherlock fell to his side, shoving his feet under John's legs. This wasn't working at all. He'd have to think of something else before John starts talking about the clinic again.

John mutters something about childish requests deserving childish answers.

"What was that?"

"I said this boa constrictor does."

Sherlock sits up, heart pounding. "Say that again."

"This boa constrictor eats sheep." John is looking at him now. He's concerned again. "Sherlock are you feeling alright? When was the last time you ate?"

But Sherlock doesn't have time to answer him. The sheep was eaten by a boa constrictor. It's the best thing he's heard all day. He's jumping up, putting his shoes on, grabbing his coat--why is his scarf covered in egg yolks? He doesn't need it.

"John," he announces. "Get your coat."

John is staring at him. Confusion, shock--good god why can't his brain work faster?

"Coat," he repeats. "We're going out."

"But I just made tea," John protests and why is he still sitting?

"Forget the tea, we're going out."

John's still confused. He's going to have to explain it to him.

"We're going out," Sherlock repeats. "To get food. Dinner," he clarifies.

"You could have said that first." And now, finally, John is getting up and putting his coat on and complaining about the wasted tea. "If you're that impatient, you could have gone down ahead of me and gotten a cab, you know."

But no, Sherlock wants to go to dinner with John. He wants to tell John that he's different from all the rest. He's not quite sure why or how, but he'll figure it out. He always does.

That night, after they return from dinner (where John talks about his patients at the clinic, and Sherlock is surprised he doesn't quite mind it) they watch more boring television. And then John goes to bed, his footsteps fading as he climbs the steps to his room. Sherlock stays up, thinking about sheep and boa constrictors and foxes. They're all connected somehow. He's sure he knew how once. He's just deleted it, for some reason. Never mind, he'll just have to remember it again.

When he finally does fall asleep, he dreams he's a fox hiding in his burrow under golden fields of wheat. It's almost four o'clock, and he's happy. He's not sure why, but he knows someone is coming. And his heart is ready.

And he went back to the fox.

"Good-bye," he said.

"Good-bye," said the fox. "Here is my secret. It's quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes."

- The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry