A Nobel Fandom
Dec. 10th, 2012 06:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
solrosanSummary: It was that time of the year again. The leaves started to change, the weather got cooler, the Nobel Prizes were announced, and Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to indulge in fandomish behaviour.
Notes: I wrote this in October and was planning to publish the different parts the same day each prize was announced, but I didn't quite have the time.
A big thank you to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
laurtew for helping me with the peace prize-part and for looking over the English a bit. At the end there are links to all the Nobel Prize announcements (the Swedish and Norwegian are cut, so you don’t have to worry about that).
-x-
It was that time of the year again. The leaves started to change, the weather got cooler, and Sherlock Holmes filled 221b Baker Street with an endless number of scientific papers covering seemingly random topics in medicine, physiology, physics and, of course, chemistry.
This was a pretty mild peculiarity compared to many other of Sherlock’s quirks and it made John smile rather than roll his eyes or get frustrated. John actually found it rather endearing how excited Sherlock was during the weeks leading up to the Nobel Prize Announcements.
There was some order to the chaos. Each field was subdivided into six different categories: people and discoveries rumoured to get the Prize, people and discoveries Sherlock thought deserved it, and people and discoveries that had already got it.
This year there was a seventh category – a mix from all of the others – with articles Sherlock thought John ought to read. John found it sweet how Sherlock wanted to include him instead of deeming him an idiot who wouldn’t understand any of it. As the day of the first announcement approached John realised that he started to get quite excited about the whole thing as well.
“Read everything for tomorrow now?” John asked on Sunday night when Sherlock tossed yet another paper to John’s pile.
“Since I started doing this I’ve managed to read all the laureates’ award winning papers in advance eight times,” Sherlock said. “And only once have I done it the same year as they got the Prize, so I’d say no, I’ve not read everything. But I’m done with the printed ones.”
“Why do you re-read some of them?” John put down his copy of last year’s Nobel Lecture in Physics. “Doesn’t it just take up space on your… hard drive?”
“That’s why I re-read the best of them. Like this one,” Sherlock said, picking up Large facilities and the evolving ribosome, the cellular machine for genetic-code translation. “It’s remarkable, but it doesn’t do me any good. So I read it once a year and then I delete it.”
“Then what’s the point of reading them in the first place?”
Sherlock smiled, putting the paper back in the pile. “Because it’s a damn good read.”
Monday, October 8, 2012. The Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine.
Out of all the Nobel Prizes John was most interested in the one being announced on Monday. Probably because the prize in physiology or medicine – and sometimes chemistry, when it was “boring” as Sherlock put it – was the only one where he had a chance to keep up with Sherlock’s excited ramblings.
So when Sherlock cleared everything off the coffee table at 10:15 and turned on the live-stream from Stockholm, John sat down beside him.
Sherlock hushed him.
“I didn’t say a—“
“Schy!”
“It’s just phone-queue music right now and it’s fifteen minutes left,” John said, waving at the laptop.
Sherlock just gave him a quick glare before turning back to the computer, putting his hands together in front of his mouth, waiting. John pulled up his legs and blew on his hot tea, waiting as well, but watching Sherlock rather than the screen.
Last year’s prize had been a disappointment to Sherlock. John had found it well earned and they had had a heated argument about it. John wasn’t sure, but he thought he won that argument in the end.
Sherlock hushed him again – even if John hadn’t said a word – when the music stopped and some actual footage was shown. A humble desk with six chairs had been placed on a lecture hall floor in front of a huge projection of a Nobel Medallion. A panel of five people walked out.
John went back to watching Sherlock as one of the men started to speak in Swedish. Sherlock’s eyes were full of anticipation as he tried to figure out what the strange sounds meant.
“John Gurdon,” Sherlock mumbled when he heard something he thought he recognised. “Shinya Yamanaka. That’s a name too, right?”
Now it was John’s turn to hush Sherlock, because the Swedes had switched to English.
“Oh…” they both said when they understood what and who were awarded the prize. John glanced at Sherlock, noticing that he approved.
“Do you want to know a secret?” John asked, muting the computer, before Sherlock would go into a long ramble about the reprogramming of mature cells.
“What?”
“I’ve met Sir John Gurdon.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open, the childish excitement replaced by envious shock.
John laughed. “You look like Harry when I told her I got helicoptered to Buckingham Palace.”
“What did he… What did you… Why?”
“He held a guest lecture when I was at uni,” John said, shrugging as if what he was going to say next was nothing of interest. “A couple of mates decided that we should get his autograph. He thought we were crazy, but he signed our books.”
John could almost hear Sherlock’s brain breaking.
“Do… hrm… Do you still have it?” Sherlock asked, trying really hard to sound unaffected.
“I do.” John put away his mug. “It’s in the box in the back of my closet that you tried to have me throw out because you needed the space for some… cultivations, I think you said?”
“Oh….”
“Yes, ‘oh’” John said, smiling. “You can have it if you like.”
Sherlock stared at him, mouth still slightly opened in amazed shock. “Really?”
“Really.” John’s smile grew bigger. “Happy Nobel Prize week, Sherlock.”
Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and disappeared to John’s room. John could hear him going through his closet. Chuckling, John reached for one of the articles Sherlock had marked for him to read.
This was John’s new favourite holiday.
Tuesday, October 9. The Nobel Prize in Physics.
Sherlock didn’t sit down with the computer until 10:40 on Tuesday, but it was the Physics Prize being announced today and out of the science prizes it was the least interesting, according to Sherlock. Therefore just five minutes of phone-queue music had to be endured.
Despite Sherlock’s relatively low interest in the Physics Prize they’d had a long discussion about it three days ago when John had mentioned the Higgs boson. That carelessness had earned him a twenty minutes lecture on why a discovery less than a year old wouldn’t get the prize.
John had caved to Sherlock’s arguments, even though he firmly believed that finding an elementary particle by shooting small things at each other was very different from spraying poisonous insecticides over an entire continent. After awarding the discovery of DDT with a Nobel Prize you would expect them to be more careful though. Sometimes time might be needed for things to be looked over properly.
Still, they both had read all of the 1964 PRL symmetry breakings papers. John couldn’t say he was any closer to understanding how mass could arise than he had been before reading them, but he was quite satisfied by the fact that Sherlock didn’t seem to grasp it either. John suspected that it was Sherlock’s inability to instinctively understand the basic research in physics that made it less interesting than the others science prizes.
It didn’t stop Sherlock from telling John to shut up twice before the live stream from Stockholm started nor to mutter about the Swedish once it did start.
“Oh, I recognise his name,” John said, pointing at the picture of David Wineland.
“Don’t tell me you have his autograph too.”
“No, I think it was one of the articles you printed.” John started looking around to see if he could find it. The suspense was lost, because he knew quantum physics at this level was far beyond him.
“I didn’t print anything about quantum systems,” Sherlock mumbled, raising the sound to make sure John didn’t say anything else. “You must confuse him with someone else.”
Sherlock took the time to listen to the dumbed down, popular science explanation of the discovery, proving to John that this didn’t come quite as naturally to Sherlock as many other things.
Wednesday, October 10. The Nobel Prize in Chemistry.
If John was allowed to use a terrible Christmas reference then he would say that Wednesday was Christmas Day. Sherlock would undoubtedly sneer at him if he said anything of the sort, but it was really hard to not think about a kid at Christmas when Sherlock walked around the flat and refreshed the Nobel Prize’s website every other minute.
“It’s almost an hour until they announce,” John said. “They are not going to start before 10:45. At the earliest.”
“What if they messed up the time zones?” Sherlock asked, refreshing again.
“I’m pretty sure they know what time it starts in Sweden,” John said, forcing Sherlock to sit down on the sofa and moving the computer to the coffee table. “If anyone made a time error it would be you and you haven’t missed one so far, so why would you today?”
Sherlock snorted and pressed the refresh button again. He made a happy noise when he finally could start the stream, even though it was just the annoying music John couldn’t get out of his head anymore.
John rolled his eyes, but sat down next to Sherlock with a book to wait for the announcement of the Nobel Prize in Chemistry.
“It’ll be a medicine discovery this year,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes fixed on the screen. “I just know it.”
“You’re the science world’s equivalence to the football supporter who thinks he can do a better job than the referee, aren’t you?”
Sherlock took the time to glare at him for a whole five seconds before turning back to the computer. “Medicine has its own prize and there are a lot of discoveries that aren’t biochemical that deserves recognition.”
“You don’t think the Medicine or Physiology Prize-fans would be angry if they had to share with biochemistry as well?”
“’Physiology or Medicine’,” Sherlock corrected him. “And I’m not saying they should share it with biochemistry. It’s just that biochemistry has been overrepresented lately because there have been practical uses in medicine following those discoveries.”
“Oh, those terrible practical uses in medicine,” John said, having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said. “You know what I mean.”
John smirked, but he didn’t say another word, letting Sherlock stare at the screen and listen to the music in peace.
At 10:45, when the music stopped and the posh pressroom of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences became visible, Sherlock slapped John on the knee to have him look up from the book. It was unnecessary because John had put down the book as soon as the music was interrupted.
“No,” Sherlock whispered when he picked up the names of the winners. John looked at Sherlock, quite impressed that Sherlock managed to pick out the names of the laureates and know what they would most likely be awarded for.
They stayed quiet as the Secretary of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science started to speak in English.
“Well?” John said when Sherlock – with a disgusted frown – closed the computer after Professor Lidin tried to scare the viewers by yelling “Booo!”
“I knew it,” Sherlock said, leaning back and waving aimlessly in the air. “G-protein receptors…. What could have more medical applications than that?”
“I’m sure I can think of some things,” John said amused.
“If you say ‘antibiotics’ I’ll literally smack you on the head.”
“Don’t sulk.” John got up and offered Sherlock a hand to help him up. “It’s a well-earned prize. You can’t deny that.”
“Fine,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hands. “It does have a lot of practical usages.”
“There you are.” John pulled him up. “Don’t be such a chemistry snob.”
Sherlock pushed John down on the sofa again and left to find Lefkowitz’s and Kobilka’s articles that he knew he had printed at some point.
Thursday, October 11. The Nobel Prize in Literature.
“You can’t still sulk about the Chemistry Prize,” John said, standing over Sherlock who lay on the sofa reading an interview with Sir John Gurdon. “Move.”
“Why?”
“The Literature Prize is announced in just a couple of minutes.” John moved Sherlock’s legs to make room for him to sit.
“That’s not a Nobel Prize as much as it’s cultural corruption by elitist snobs whose native language make them sound like cartoon characters.”
“Yeah, because you’re not an elitist cultural snob at all, Mr I-have-a-Stradivarius.” John opened the laptop and turned on the live stream.
“I’m not a snob; that man is.” Sherlock waved at the screen where a man in the three piece suit just walked out of a white and gold painted door.
“You’re a snob,” John whispered and held up a hand to stop Sherlock from arguing just as the man was going to stop speaking Cartoonish.
“Mo Yan,” Sherlock repeated after the Secretary of the Swedish Academy. “Finally! About time.”
“What?” John looked at him, blinking in surprise. “You know who he is?”
Sherlock snorted. “Obviously not. No one has ever heard about these people.”
“Someone has to.” John took the computer to look at Mo Yan’s bibliography. “Fairly sure more people know about an author than biologists or chemists or physicists.”
“People are idiots,” Sherlock said, turning back to what he was reading. “I still think more people are familiar with their findings than that man’s works.”
“I might actually give you that one,” John said and added the only book he could find by Mo Yan to his Amazon shopping basket. If he had spent weeks reading what all the other Nobel laureates had written he could very well read a book by Mo Yan too.
Friday, October 12. The Nobel Peace Prize.
Sherlock’s interest for the Peace Prize surprised John at first. He wasn’t as excited about it as he was the natural science ones, but he willingly admitted that some of the Peace laureates were more deserving than some of the laureates in the other fields. Though he persisted on calling the Literature Prize a waste of space and time.
John enjoyed the Peace Prize for the same reason he appreciated the one in Physiology or Medicine: he had a fair chance of knowing and understanding what the Prize was awarded to. Then there was the not insignificant detail that the Norwegian Nobel Committee had the decency to start in English.
John raised his eyebrows in surprise at the announcement. Awarding the mess that is the European Union with a Peace Prize didn’t sound right, but he found himself nodding in agreement as he heard the motivation.
Sherlock frowned, mumbling under his breath: “It’s not possible.”
“What?”
“It’s completely ridiculous,” Sherlock s whispered, still staring at the screen as the announcement was repeated in Norwegian.
“A bit, yeah.” John nodded, smiling at the utter shock that radiated from Sherlock. “But you heard what they said and put in a historic perspective it—“
Sherlock reached for his mobile. “Not that. I think that Mycroft just got a Nobel Prize.”
John laughed. “Yes, that is ridiculous.”
Congratulations.
SH
“If he actually would get a Nobel Prize, would you be proud or annoyed?” John asked.
I don’t know what you
are talking about.
MH
“He would become insufferable,” Sherlock said with a frown, not looking up from his phone. “And it would only be the Peace Prize—“
“’Only the Peace Prize’,” John repeated, smirking.
“—so he wouldn’t be able to invite me to Stockholm.”
Congratulations, anyway.
SH
“If you ask very nicely I’m sure he can get you tickets to the banquet,” John said, getting up from the sofa and closing the computer as he did.
Sherlock snorted. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Just as well,” John said, shrugging. “I don’t think I can get off from work in December.”
Thank you. We are
very pleased.
MH
Sherlock smiled as he read the last text, then he looked up at John with a smirk. “And what makes you think I’d bring you?”
“Because,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I gave you a book with Gurdon’s autograph and I’ll take it back if you’re not nice.”
“That’s blackmail.” Sherlock held up his hands for John to pull him up.
“Yes, it is,” John said, helping him to his feet. “And I don’t think it would be a good idea to let you loose around the laureates without a keeper.”
Sherlock huffed and stomped out of the sitting room in a played sulk. John chuckled; this week was turning out to be more amusing than he had ever expected.
Monday, October 15. The Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel.
“It’s not a Nobel Prize!”
John rolled his eyes, opening the computer again after Sherlock had closed it in protest for the second time. “If we’ve done all the other ones, we’re doing this one too.”
“It’s not a Nobel Prize.”
“No one but you cares.”
“Then why do you bother with any of it?”
John blinked, feeling stumped. “Because… because it’s important to you.”
Sherlock stared at John for a moment before a smile started to twist in the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going to watch sports with you.”
“I’m not sure I would want you to,” John said, turning on the live stream with the queue-music. “But let’s watch the Economic Prize.”
“It’s not a Nobel Prize!”
“Well, it’s a prize.” John tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve to get him to sit down. “And it’s part of the spectacle and we’re going to follow it through. So just sit down, shut up, and listen to the Swede.”
Sherlock glared at him for the remaining time of the queue-music, but he sat down as soon as the real broadcast started. When it had been announced that Alvin Roth and Lloyd Shapley got the prize John muted the computer.
“That’s that,” John said, leaning back. “Wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“I’ve been through worse.”
John pulled the Union Jack-pillow from behind him and hit Sherlock in the head with it. Sherlock blinked in surprised before shaking his head, smiling. He reached for a printed article in the top of the nearest pile and John got up to make them tea.
The Nobel Prize Announcements were over. For this year.
-x-
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Physics
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Chemistry
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature
The 2012 Nobel Peace Prize
The 2012 Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel
Notes: I wrote this in October and was planning to publish the different parts the same day each prize was announced, but I didn't quite have the time.
A big thank you to
laurtew for helping me with the peace prize-part and for looking over the English a bit. At the end there are links to all the Nobel Prize announcements (the Swedish and Norwegian are cut, so you don’t have to worry about that).-x-
It was that time of the year again. The leaves started to change, the weather got cooler, and Sherlock Holmes filled 221b Baker Street with an endless number of scientific papers covering seemingly random topics in medicine, physiology, physics and, of course, chemistry.
This was a pretty mild peculiarity compared to many other of Sherlock’s quirks and it made John smile rather than roll his eyes or get frustrated. John actually found it rather endearing how excited Sherlock was during the weeks leading up to the Nobel Prize Announcements.
There was some order to the chaos. Each field was subdivided into six different categories: people and discoveries rumoured to get the Prize, people and discoveries Sherlock thought deserved it, and people and discoveries that had already got it.
This year there was a seventh category – a mix from all of the others – with articles Sherlock thought John ought to read. John found it sweet how Sherlock wanted to include him instead of deeming him an idiot who wouldn’t understand any of it. As the day of the first announcement approached John realised that he started to get quite excited about the whole thing as well.
“Read everything for tomorrow now?” John asked on Sunday night when Sherlock tossed yet another paper to John’s pile.
“Since I started doing this I’ve managed to read all the laureates’ award winning papers in advance eight times,” Sherlock said. “And only once have I done it the same year as they got the Prize, so I’d say no, I’ve not read everything. But I’m done with the printed ones.”
“Why do you re-read some of them?” John put down his copy of last year’s Nobel Lecture in Physics. “Doesn’t it just take up space on your… hard drive?”
“That’s why I re-read the best of them. Like this one,” Sherlock said, picking up Large facilities and the evolving ribosome, the cellular machine for genetic-code translation. “It’s remarkable, but it doesn’t do me any good. So I read it once a year and then I delete it.”
“Then what’s the point of reading them in the first place?”
Sherlock smiled, putting the paper back in the pile. “Because it’s a damn good read.”
Monday, October 8, 2012. The Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine.
Out of all the Nobel Prizes John was most interested in the one being announced on Monday. Probably because the prize in physiology or medicine – and sometimes chemistry, when it was “boring” as Sherlock put it – was the only one where he had a chance to keep up with Sherlock’s excited ramblings.
So when Sherlock cleared everything off the coffee table at 10:15 and turned on the live-stream from Stockholm, John sat down beside him.
Sherlock hushed him.
“I didn’t say a—“
“Schy!”
“It’s just phone-queue music right now and it’s fifteen minutes left,” John said, waving at the laptop.
Sherlock just gave him a quick glare before turning back to the computer, putting his hands together in front of his mouth, waiting. John pulled up his legs and blew on his hot tea, waiting as well, but watching Sherlock rather than the screen.
Last year’s prize had been a disappointment to Sherlock. John had found it well earned and they had had a heated argument about it. John wasn’t sure, but he thought he won that argument in the end.
Sherlock hushed him again – even if John hadn’t said a word – when the music stopped and some actual footage was shown. A humble desk with six chairs had been placed on a lecture hall floor in front of a huge projection of a Nobel Medallion. A panel of five people walked out.
John went back to watching Sherlock as one of the men started to speak in Swedish. Sherlock’s eyes were full of anticipation as he tried to figure out what the strange sounds meant.
“John Gurdon,” Sherlock mumbled when he heard something he thought he recognised. “Shinya Yamanaka. That’s a name too, right?”
Now it was John’s turn to hush Sherlock, because the Swedes had switched to English.
“Oh…” they both said when they understood what and who were awarded the prize. John glanced at Sherlock, noticing that he approved.
“Do you want to know a secret?” John asked, muting the computer, before Sherlock would go into a long ramble about the reprogramming of mature cells.
“What?”
“I’ve met Sir John Gurdon.”
Sherlock’s mouth fell open, the childish excitement replaced by envious shock.
John laughed. “You look like Harry when I told her I got helicoptered to Buckingham Palace.”
“What did he… What did you… Why?”
“He held a guest lecture when I was at uni,” John said, shrugging as if what he was going to say next was nothing of interest. “A couple of mates decided that we should get his autograph. He thought we were crazy, but he signed our books.”
John could almost hear Sherlock’s brain breaking.
“Do… hrm… Do you still have it?” Sherlock asked, trying really hard to sound unaffected.
“I do.” John put away his mug. “It’s in the box in the back of my closet that you tried to have me throw out because you needed the space for some… cultivations, I think you said?”
“Oh….”
“Yes, ‘oh’” John said, smiling. “You can have it if you like.”
Sherlock stared at him, mouth still slightly opened in amazed shock. “Really?”
“Really.” John’s smile grew bigger. “Happy Nobel Prize week, Sherlock.”
Sherlock jumped up from the sofa and disappeared to John’s room. John could hear him going through his closet. Chuckling, John reached for one of the articles Sherlock had marked for him to read.
This was John’s new favourite holiday.
Tuesday, October 9. The Nobel Prize in Physics.
Sherlock didn’t sit down with the computer until 10:40 on Tuesday, but it was the Physics Prize being announced today and out of the science prizes it was the least interesting, according to Sherlock. Therefore just five minutes of phone-queue music had to be endured.
Despite Sherlock’s relatively low interest in the Physics Prize they’d had a long discussion about it three days ago when John had mentioned the Higgs boson. That carelessness had earned him a twenty minutes lecture on why a discovery less than a year old wouldn’t get the prize.
John had caved to Sherlock’s arguments, even though he firmly believed that finding an elementary particle by shooting small things at each other was very different from spraying poisonous insecticides over an entire continent. After awarding the discovery of DDT with a Nobel Prize you would expect them to be more careful though. Sometimes time might be needed for things to be looked over properly.
Still, they both had read all of the 1964 PRL symmetry breakings papers. John couldn’t say he was any closer to understanding how mass could arise than he had been before reading them, but he was quite satisfied by the fact that Sherlock didn’t seem to grasp it either. John suspected that it was Sherlock’s inability to instinctively understand the basic research in physics that made it less interesting than the others science prizes.
It didn’t stop Sherlock from telling John to shut up twice before the live stream from Stockholm started nor to mutter about the Swedish once it did start.
“Oh, I recognise his name,” John said, pointing at the picture of David Wineland.
“Don’t tell me you have his autograph too.”
“No, I think it was one of the articles you printed.” John started looking around to see if he could find it. The suspense was lost, because he knew quantum physics at this level was far beyond him.
“I didn’t print anything about quantum systems,” Sherlock mumbled, raising the sound to make sure John didn’t say anything else. “You must confuse him with someone else.”
Sherlock took the time to listen to the dumbed down, popular science explanation of the discovery, proving to John that this didn’t come quite as naturally to Sherlock as many other things.
Wednesday, October 10. The Nobel Prize in Chemistry.
If John was allowed to use a terrible Christmas reference then he would say that Wednesday was Christmas Day. Sherlock would undoubtedly sneer at him if he said anything of the sort, but it was really hard to not think about a kid at Christmas when Sherlock walked around the flat and refreshed the Nobel Prize’s website every other minute.
“It’s almost an hour until they announce,” John said. “They are not going to start before 10:45. At the earliest.”
“What if they messed up the time zones?” Sherlock asked, refreshing again.
“I’m pretty sure they know what time it starts in Sweden,” John said, forcing Sherlock to sit down on the sofa and moving the computer to the coffee table. “If anyone made a time error it would be you and you haven’t missed one so far, so why would you today?”
Sherlock snorted and pressed the refresh button again. He made a happy noise when he finally could start the stream, even though it was just the annoying music John couldn’t get out of his head anymore.
John rolled his eyes, but sat down next to Sherlock with a book to wait for the announcement of the Nobel Prize in Chemistry.
“It’ll be a medicine discovery this year,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes fixed on the screen. “I just know it.”
“You’re the science world’s equivalence to the football supporter who thinks he can do a better job than the referee, aren’t you?”
Sherlock took the time to glare at him for a whole five seconds before turning back to the computer. “Medicine has its own prize and there are a lot of discoveries that aren’t biochemical that deserves recognition.”
“You don’t think the Medicine or Physiology Prize-fans would be angry if they had to share with biochemistry as well?”
“’Physiology or Medicine’,” Sherlock corrected him. “And I’m not saying they should share it with biochemistry. It’s just that biochemistry has been overrepresented lately because there have been practical uses in medicine following those discoveries.”
“Oh, those terrible practical uses in medicine,” John said, having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock said. “You know what I mean.”
John smirked, but he didn’t say another word, letting Sherlock stare at the screen and listen to the music in peace.
At 10:45, when the music stopped and the posh pressroom of the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences became visible, Sherlock slapped John on the knee to have him look up from the book. It was unnecessary because John had put down the book as soon as the music was interrupted.
“No,” Sherlock whispered when he picked up the names of the winners. John looked at Sherlock, quite impressed that Sherlock managed to pick out the names of the laureates and know what they would most likely be awarded for.
They stayed quiet as the Secretary of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science started to speak in English.
“Well?” John said when Sherlock – with a disgusted frown – closed the computer after Professor Lidin tried to scare the viewers by yelling “Booo!”
“I knew it,” Sherlock said, leaning back and waving aimlessly in the air. “G-protein receptors…. What could have more medical applications than that?”
“I’m sure I can think of some things,” John said amused.
“If you say ‘antibiotics’ I’ll literally smack you on the head.”
“Don’t sulk.” John got up and offered Sherlock a hand to help him up. “It’s a well-earned prize. You can’t deny that.”
“Fine,” Sherlock said, taking John’s hands. “It does have a lot of practical usages.”
“There you are.” John pulled him up. “Don’t be such a chemistry snob.”
Sherlock pushed John down on the sofa again and left to find Lefkowitz’s and Kobilka’s articles that he knew he had printed at some point.
Thursday, October 11. The Nobel Prize in Literature.
“You can’t still sulk about the Chemistry Prize,” John said, standing over Sherlock who lay on the sofa reading an interview with Sir John Gurdon. “Move.”
“Why?”
“The Literature Prize is announced in just a couple of minutes.” John moved Sherlock’s legs to make room for him to sit.
“That’s not a Nobel Prize as much as it’s cultural corruption by elitist snobs whose native language make them sound like cartoon characters.”
“Yeah, because you’re not an elitist cultural snob at all, Mr I-have-a-Stradivarius.” John opened the laptop and turned on the live stream.
“I’m not a snob; that man is.” Sherlock waved at the screen where a man in the three piece suit just walked out of a white and gold painted door.
“You’re a snob,” John whispered and held up a hand to stop Sherlock from arguing just as the man was going to stop speaking Cartoonish.
“Mo Yan,” Sherlock repeated after the Secretary of the Swedish Academy. “Finally! About time.”
“What?” John looked at him, blinking in surprise. “You know who he is?”
Sherlock snorted. “Obviously not. No one has ever heard about these people.”
“Someone has to.” John took the computer to look at Mo Yan’s bibliography. “Fairly sure more people know about an author than biologists or chemists or physicists.”
“People are idiots,” Sherlock said, turning back to what he was reading. “I still think more people are familiar with their findings than that man’s works.”
“I might actually give you that one,” John said and added the only book he could find by Mo Yan to his Amazon shopping basket. If he had spent weeks reading what all the other Nobel laureates had written he could very well read a book by Mo Yan too.
Friday, October 12. The Nobel Peace Prize.
Sherlock’s interest for the Peace Prize surprised John at first. He wasn’t as excited about it as he was the natural science ones, but he willingly admitted that some of the Peace laureates were more deserving than some of the laureates in the other fields. Though he persisted on calling the Literature Prize a waste of space and time.
John enjoyed the Peace Prize for the same reason he appreciated the one in Physiology or Medicine: he had a fair chance of knowing and understanding what the Prize was awarded to. Then there was the not insignificant detail that the Norwegian Nobel Committee had the decency to start in English.
John raised his eyebrows in surprise at the announcement. Awarding the mess that is the European Union with a Peace Prize didn’t sound right, but he found himself nodding in agreement as he heard the motivation.
Sherlock frowned, mumbling under his breath: “It’s not possible.”
“What?”
“It’s completely ridiculous,” Sherlock s whispered, still staring at the screen as the announcement was repeated in Norwegian.
“A bit, yeah.” John nodded, smiling at the utter shock that radiated from Sherlock. “But you heard what they said and put in a historic perspective it—“
Sherlock reached for his mobile. “Not that. I think that Mycroft just got a Nobel Prize.”
John laughed. “Yes, that is ridiculous.”
Congratulations.
SH
“If he actually would get a Nobel Prize, would you be proud or annoyed?” John asked.
I don’t know what you
are talking about.
MH
“He would become insufferable,” Sherlock said with a frown, not looking up from his phone. “And it would only be the Peace Prize—“
“’Only the Peace Prize’,” John repeated, smirking.
“—so he wouldn’t be able to invite me to Stockholm.”
Congratulations, anyway.
SH
“If you ask very nicely I’m sure he can get you tickets to the banquet,” John said, getting up from the sofa and closing the computer as he did.
Sherlock snorted. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“Just as well,” John said, shrugging. “I don’t think I can get off from work in December.”
Thank you. We are
very pleased.
MH
Sherlock smiled as he read the last text, then he looked up at John with a smirk. “And what makes you think I’d bring you?”
“Because,” John said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I gave you a book with Gurdon’s autograph and I’ll take it back if you’re not nice.”
“That’s blackmail.” Sherlock held up his hands for John to pull him up.
“Yes, it is,” John said, helping him to his feet. “And I don’t think it would be a good idea to let you loose around the laureates without a keeper.”
Sherlock huffed and stomped out of the sitting room in a played sulk. John chuckled; this week was turning out to be more amusing than he had ever expected.
Monday, October 15. The Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel.
“It’s not a Nobel Prize!”
John rolled his eyes, opening the computer again after Sherlock had closed it in protest for the second time. “If we’ve done all the other ones, we’re doing this one too.”
“It’s not a Nobel Prize.”
“No one but you cares.”
“Then why do you bother with any of it?”
John blinked, feeling stumped. “Because… because it’s important to you.”
Sherlock stared at John for a moment before a smile started to twist in the corner of his mouth. “I’m not going to watch sports with you.”
“I’m not sure I would want you to,” John said, turning on the live stream with the queue-music. “But let’s watch the Economic Prize.”
“It’s not a Nobel Prize!”
“Well, it’s a prize.” John tugged on Sherlock’s sleeve to get him to sit down. “And it’s part of the spectacle and we’re going to follow it through. So just sit down, shut up, and listen to the Swede.”
Sherlock glared at him for the remaining time of the queue-music, but he sat down as soon as the real broadcast started. When it had been announced that Alvin Roth and Lloyd Shapley got the prize John muted the computer.
“That’s that,” John said, leaning back. “Wasn’t that bad, was it?”
“I’ve been through worse.”
John pulled the Union Jack-pillow from behind him and hit Sherlock in the head with it. Sherlock blinked in surprised before shaking his head, smiling. He reached for a printed article in the top of the nearest pile and John got up to make them tea.
The Nobel Prize Announcements were over. For this year.
-x-
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Physics
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Chemistry
The 2012 Nobel Prize in Literature
The 2012 Nobel Peace Prize
The 2012 Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel
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