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Life with Sherlock Holmes could rarely be considered ordinary. And John Watson knew that better than anybody. From the eyeballs in the microwave to a severed head in the fridge, John had to put up with a lot living with Sherlock. Not to mention the sleepless nights, chasing after criminals for miles around London. It could take a lot out of a man. Good thing John didn’t mind. Well, not as much as he could have.
John Watson had the patience of a saint, accumulated from his days as an army doctor, having to deal with some not so pleasant patients. Or maybe he got it from having to deal with his sister Harry. God knows how annoying siblings can get.
However, there were some very, very rare moments of peace at 221B Baker street which, whenever they happened to pop up, John took full advantage of.
He read crime novels.
A bit ironic, maybe. Reading crime novels as a part of a reprieve from actually solving the crimes themselves, but hey. At least he was consistent.
John happened to be in the middle of a particularly interesting one at the moment. Something to do with secret gangs in the government. It made him chuckle, thinking of gang members working under Mycroft’s nose. Then again, Mycroft would most likely be aware if that sort of thing was happening. He was probably their leader.
It took John about a minute of giggling to get the image of Sherlock’s brother stroking a fluffy, white persian out of his head.
After a particularly stressful case, involving the kidnapping of a little girl, that rare moment of peace cropped up. Sherlock, who had been on high alert and awake for around 48 hours, walked straight into the flat and plopped onto the sofa. John smiled at his flatmate and retired to his own chair. He was about 10 pages from the next chapter when the silence broke.
“John?”
Sigh. “Yes Sherlock?”
“Bored.”
“Bored? Sherlock, how the hell can you be bored already?”
Sherlock gave John a look that had obvious written all over it. “My brain is like a well oiled machine, John. One that needs to be kept moving in order to function properly. It needs stimulation.”
“It needs rest.”
“Dull.”
Damn, why did Sherlock always have to annoy the crap out him?
John pinched the bridge of his nose and gave Sherlock his most patient voice. The one he usually reserved for the kids at the clinic. “Sherlock. You just solved a case. You haven’t slept in two days. You need a break, doctor’s orders.”
Sherlock flipped himself over so his back was now facing towards John. “But it’s so boring! How do you stand it?”
“I have my ways, now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to them,” John said and then went back to reading his novel.
10 minutes later.
“John... John?” Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
John didn’t answer, fearing that if he did, he would only become more agitated. And a row with Sherlock was not what he intended to do for the rest of the evening. He intended to read his book.
“John?”
John ignored him.
“John... I’ll tell you how the book ends,” Sherlock said devilishly.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
“Oh come on. It’s obvious really. It was the g-”
“Sherlock!” John yelled firmly. “I swear if you say one more bloody thing about this book- or say anything for that matter- before I finish it, I’ll have Molly come and take all of the body parts in the fridge!”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Trust me Sherlock, I would. Now do kindly SHUT UP!”
Sherlock stared at John, mouth slightly agape in surprise, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he slouched back into the sofa.
Peace at last, John thought.
Pfft!
What the hell?
Pfft!
John looked up to see what was making the noise. He saw two crumpled pieces of paper- two of the thousands Sherlock had scattered about the flat- lying at his feet. He looked over to where Sherlock was on the sofa. He hadn’t moved.
John shook his head and went back to his book.
Pfft!
The wad of paper hit John squarely between the eyes.
John again looked over at Sherlock. This time, the consulting detective was sitting up and facing John.
John tried to give him his best annoyed face, but it only sent the genius into a fit of giggles.
John glared. “Fine. If that’s how you want it to be.” He took a sheet of paper from the side table- an old analysis of some poison or other from a few cases ago- crumpled it up, and threw it at Sherlock. It hit him square in the face.
Sherlock stopped giggling. In fact, he looked shocked. John grinned at that.
When Sherlock recovered he smirked, “Oh, John. That really wasn’t the smartest idea.”
But John only smiled wider. “What are you going to do about it?” He picked up another sheet of paper and threw it at Sherlock. Bullseye.
As an answer, Sherlock grabbed a stack of papers and began to crinkle them, pausing every once and awhile to pelt John with them.
Oh no you don’t thought John. Vaulting out of the chair, he climbed behind it to use as shelter. Grabbing a stack of his own, John began to nail Sherlock with the little paper wads.
John had the military advantage, but Sherlock was fast. And less of a target. (John made a mental note to make sure Sherlock ate something later.) Using the flat as their battlefield, John and Sherlock ran around trying to win the War of the Paper Wads.
So much for John’s book.
______________________________________________________________________
Later in the evening, Mrs. Hudson returned home from having tea at Mrs. Turners. She set the leftover biscuits on her dining table and then went to put away some of her groceries from earlier. When she finished, she got the milk from the fridge and went to take it up to the boys.
She didn’t have to, of course. John usually got the milk now so long as he didn’t have a row with the chip-and-pin machine. However, she was used to doing it for Sherlock before John came along, and she didn’t mind. They were her boys after all.
Slowly, she walked up the steps to 221B. Her hips had been giving her trouble again.
“Hello? Sherlock? John?” she called out as she knocked on the door and let herself in.
The scene which displayed itself out in front of Mrs. Hudson was very... well... interesting. Strewn across the floor were wads, and wads, and wads of various papers ranging from previous experiment notes to old case files. John, usually the calmer, more reserved of the two, was standing on Sherlock’s chair, leaning over the back.
Upon seeing his landlady enter the room, John was rendered almost speechless with embarrassment.
“Oh, um... Mrs. Hudson... I can... I can explain-” John was cut off when Sherlock popped out from under the giant pile of paper wads at the foot of the chair where John was perched.
“Oh good. You’ve brought milk.” Sherlock said, not at all flustered by Mrs. Hudson’s unexpected appearance.
John turned around to look at Sherlock and all but dissolved in giggles.
“What?” Now Mrs. Hudson was laughing with John. Sherlock huffed, standing up. “What’s so funny?”
John pointed to the mirror above the fireplace. Sherlock turned, looked, and joined John and Mrs. Hudson, laughing at himself.
Three of the paper wads were stuck in Sherlock’s wild, black curls.
So, maybe it wasn’t peaceful. But at least it was never boring.