“It’s obvious, of course.”
How many non-sequitur dialogues in 221B began with this sentence, John thought as he looked up from folding laundry.
Sherlock was on the sofa, gesturing toward the television screen. On the floor next to the heap of clothing, Rosie was clutching her Paddington Bear while raptly watching the cartoon images.
“He not only is wearing clothes, (did they stretch? are they oversized?), but he speaks English. And the whole castle is full of talking furniture. I thought this was supposed to be the *smart* princess.”
John smirked. “Only you would find fault in the logic of a Disney Princess, Sherlock.” Moments like this helped him forget all the troubles of the past, all the worries of the present. Right now, it was just John, his little girl, and the endearing genius they lived with.
“And wouldn’t someone in the villages remember that they had a regent within riding distance? Who runs their country?”
John tossed a ball of socks at Sherlock’s head, “Magic?”
He scoffed, “Oh yes, John, countries are run by magic, or rather, I’m sure that’s what my brother would have you believe, that each morning he wakes up and waves his little wand, -John, stop giggling, Watson is present, - and everything takes care of itself.”
“Somehow, I don’t know if a movie about the finer points of government paperwork would pull attention quite as well as the dancing candlestick…”
“AND! And! How is it that only two characters have French accents but the story is supposed to take place in France?” Sherlock waved his arms emphatically.
His question will forever remain unanswered, for at that point, Rosie, who found John’s navy socks in the laundry, tied them in an all-too familiar way around her Paddington’s neck, popped his little felt collar, and turned the bear toward the detective, trying to deepen her voice to speak to him,
“It just a movie, Sh’lock.”