Chapter Text
John was woken up to the sharp sound of something probably penetrating a wall. His eyes opened foggily so he could stare at the crack in the corner of his ceiling. God he was so tired. Hours at the clinic, and Sherlock up last night on the violin, not even attempting to play anything that sounded even remotely like music, had certainly worn on him. Sherlock had even taken every last pair of his ear plugs for some sort of experiment. It’s an experiment, John. No I couldn’t have gone to the store to buy some of my own there was no time, John. Really you’re the one being ridiculous, John.
Sometimes John thought Sherlock specifically picked his experiments with the objective of pissing John off. Who even needs earplugs for an experiment? What would he even analyze? It’s beyond your comprehension, John. Now go and do everything I ask while I sit here like an arse and burn things.
Yes. Excellent. Right. Another day in 221B. Another morning Sherlock absolutely demolishes the wall. What the hell was he even doing? John, of course, found it infinitely useful that he was now able to distinguish the sound of subtle wall wreckage. The thud had vibrated a bit, so the object was probably deeply lodged into the wall. But it didn’t shake enough for the object to have been very large. John gave up. He was shite at deducing anyway. Sherlock would have been disappointed.
The sound happened again.
“Uaghhh, Jesus…” John moaned. His body began to mobilize, starting to display signs of motor coordination that indicated he was trying to get out of bed. He collapsed upright onto the floor and started to head to the living room, already shouting.
“Sherlock!” his voice was husky from sleep. He cleared it.
“Sherlock!” he yelled with a bit more conviction, “You are not blowing any more holes in our flat!” He reached the stairs, “Because believe me I’m not going to pay m-“
The sight of Sherlock holding a crossbow in his dressing gown was something he was decently prepared for. The sight of Mycroft Holmes, however was not.
As John finished his descent down the stairs, his look of shock morphed into a wholly new expression.
Mycroft turned to face him, tapping his umbrella down in the new direction, and predictably gave him a small head incline. A cold smile faded onto his face.
“Dr. Watson, how-“
"Don’t Dr. Watson me.” John barked. After the experience of Mycroft’s visits had lost their unfamiliarity, John was no longer compelled to act awkwardly around the man, and with his day already meeting the description of bad after about thirty seconds in motion, he was not in the mood to deal with either Holmes. He almost smirked at the novelty of Mycroft’s surprise. Somehow he found himself savoring Sherlock’s expression more.
"Have you been letting him shoot arrows into the wall?” John demanded.
“Ceiling, John.” said Sherlock, who had recovered enough to roll his eyes.
“And you!” John said, turning on Sherlock. “You’re going downstairs to apologize to Mrs. Hudson and to pay for the damage you've done.”
He turned round to face both of them, raising a pointed finger to point accusatorily at Mycroft.
“I don’t know what you’re here for,” his pointing range grew to include Sherlock, “but you two will conduct business like civil adults. Any bickering and so help me it will be a bad day for all of us.”
He turned on his heels and stomped over to the base of the staircase.
“I’m going to get dressed. Then I’m going to come down and make tea. Do either of you want anything?”
Mycroft looked like a ruffled bird. He grandly smoothed himself into a typical waxy mask of composure. Ever the man of order, he muttered, “Thank you Doctor, tea would be-"
“Well make it yourself, you both have arms!”
And with that John strode up the staircase and purposefully shut his bedroom door.