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"Sherlock…what are you doing?"

John had slipped into their cottage quietly, expecting Sherlock to be out in the garden with his bees and not…whatever this was. Sherlock had surrounded himself with noise deafening padding. John could just see a fancy looking microphone and some sort of recording software running on the laptop just beyond his husband's slender frame.

"You've ruined this take," Sherlock grunted, clicking something before standing and giving the look that he seemed to think appeared innocent. It didn't.

"Your take?"

Sherlock sighed and stepped out of all the padding. "It's all rather interesting, actually. This Canadian director is under the mistaken impression that I am someone named Benedict Cumberbatch and I am to record narration for a documentary."

John's eyebrows lifted. "Right…" He paused and let the silence settle for a moment before adding, "Tea?"

"Yes, parched."

"Yes, please, John, ta, John," John muttered, heading to the kitchen. 

"I love you," Sherlock called. 

John blushed, fought down the automatic smile and called back, "Stop manipulating me!"

He set the kettle on and leaned against the door jamb to see Sherlock had settled back into his nest. After a minute or so, he asked, "So who's this Benny Cumberbund bloke anyway?"

Sherlock gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. "No idea. James just reminded me that it is 'penguins, not penglings', whatever that means."

John tilted his head, then shrugged and looked away as the kettle started to whistle. He poured two mugs and joined Sherlock.

"James?" he asked once he was settled.

"The director."

"Does he have a last name?"

Sherlock did not make a habit of sighing, preferring to sulk but that would take too long. He pulled up a folder on the laptop and said, "Cameron."

John choked on his tea. " James Cameron?!

Sherlock deigned to look around. "Problem?"

"Sherlock, he's famous."

"Is he?"

John just sighed. "Forget it, go back to your penglings."

"There are other animals," Sherlock insisted. "There are bees. And flowers with interesting pollination cycles."

"Yes, dear."

Look at that, Sherlock got to sulk after all.

4500 miles/7250 km away

"The hell is a pengling?" Dean growled, flipping through non-English book #4.

"You asked me that twenty minutes ago, Dean, I still don't know." Sam ground out without looking up from his own Latin book.

"I do not know either." Cas's voice sent Sam's hands jerking and knocking the book to the floor. 

Dean snorted and snapped his book shut.

"You knew he was here?" Sam whined. 

"Wasn't askin' you." Dean's gaze trained itself on Cas's. "Hey."

"Hello, Dean."

Sam ignored their eye fucking and ducked down for his book. "If Cas doesn't know what it is, does that mean it's not real? An imaginary monster?"

"Aliens?" Dean put in.

"There are no aliens," Cas said. "I cannot be certain about imaginary monsters. What did the pengling kill?"

"Not sure. Sam was fooling around on-"

"Researching, Dean!"

"-line and found something about penglings invading South America."

Cas looked back and forth between them. The silence stretched.

"Sam's bored and there's no cases on the horizon," Dean said finally.

"This is…unnecessary research?" Cas asked finally.

"Disney+ released their new nature documentary for Sam to drool over yet," Dean replied.

Cas blinked. "There are other thing you could be doing."

Dean straightened and set down his book. "You weren't home."

"Oh god, just go!" Sam moaned.

They did.

"Stupid penglings," he muttered as the door closed behind Dean and Cas. He was so bored.

There was a grunt in the hall. "Keep moving!" He yelled, grabbing another book to bury himself in.

The end