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"Sherlock!" The irritated shout comes from John's bedroom, and Sherlock sighs. 9 minutes and 34 seconds early, he thinks. John's already managed to break it, then. Shifting slightly, he drawls out his reply.
"Yes, John?" Sherlock has no need to speak, knows what John wants to say, but exhibiting social norms in this case would certainly help him avoid any anger. The heavy thud of feet comes hurrying down the stairs, and John appears with gritted teeth, slightly red with the effort of containing his yells.
"My bed. Of all places, you choose my bed. Why my bed, Sherlock? Why not, oh, I don't know, the perfectly clear kitchen platform?!"
Sherlock tsks.
"It should be obvious, John, and especially so to you." He raises one eyebrow in a perfect arch, inviting John to take a guess and make a fool of himself.
"I'm not falling for this again, Sherlock. Tell me, or I swear to God I will march upstairs and throw your ... whatever it is out of the window!"
"No you won't, you don't like harming creatures that aren't insects. The less than sturdy surface of a bed was optimum for this experiment, and besides, my bed is much more comfortable than yours. I don't use it, so you may as well." John straightens slightly and moves to unfold his arms from where they'd been crossed over his chest, less likely to explode now that he has a place to sleep.
"But..." he pauses to attempt to find a reason on his own, and understandably fails. Whilst he knew Sherlock better than almost anybody else, the detective was still as mysterious as ever. "Really, Sherlock. Bunnies?"
Sherlock smirks.
"A girl's alibi rests upon it, John."