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“Sherlock, at least take your shoes off before you lay on the couch.”, John complained as Sherlock flung himself face-down onto the sofa.
“My couch, my rules.”, Sherlock mumbled into the cushions.
“What?”
“My couch, my rules!” Sherlock flattened his face against the upholstery once more, “We ran out of milk.”
“Then why don’t you go out and get some yourself.”, John said a little too full of attitude, “Last time you made me rock, scissors, cardboard with you, you punched me in the shoulder.”
“There was a fly.”
“I don’t care. Either way you would have lost. But no. Let’s punch poor little John in the shoulder to make him angry and send him out for the fourth time in a row. Let’s have him get take-away too, but it’s okay because I’m paying for it. I’m surprised I still put up with this. Remember that time you made Mrs. Hudson get the milk?”
“John, I really don’t-”
“Shut up. It’s your turn, get up and get it yourself. The first time we met when you said that you were lazy when it came to doing things for yourself, I thought you were trying to be funny.”
Sherlock looked at John with a quizzical look on his face. He only rants when he’s tired. He’ll get a good night’s rest and get the milk in the morning. Good old John. Always there when I need him.
John stalked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, “Do we ever have food? You know, sometimes I wonder what you did before I came around. How are you still alive? You never eat when you’re on cases and when you don’t have a case you’re scavenging for one. You fall into theses trances, sometimes for days and you never notice when I leave. Or you just don’t care. You pickpocket Lestrade and loads of people hate you, but you just proceed with life as if you were the only person on earth. Why are you looking at me like that?”
During John’s long list of complaints Sherlock had gotten up off the sofa and was standing in the doorway, holding out his scarf acting as a flimsy sword, “Don’t. Move.”, He had a look of pure concentration etched into his face. He edged forward like a warrior prepared to duel, his eyes cast up to the top of the cupboards. John looked to where Sherlock was staring and chuckled to himself. There at the top of the opened door perched a small robin. It cocked its head toward Sherlock who froze, a look of terror shot through his features. John turned his head to look at Sherlock more closely.
He was rigid, wide eyes locked on the bird. John could see a slight quiver in his posture. His pupils were dilated and his cheekbones became more pronounced. Sherlock was afraid. Not just surprised fear, he was terrified.
“Sherlock, are you afraid of birds?”
“No.”, the corner of his mouth twitched into a half, fake smile, “Th-That’s silly.”, he blinked hard and shifted his feet. He ducked behind his scarf with a higher than usual “Oh” and cowered on the floor. The bird had only preened its wing feathers.
John burst into laughter.
“John? John, what are you doing? This thing is going to murder us and you are laughing your last few minutes away?”, Sherlock squeaked from the floor, “We are going to die, John. We might as well go down fighting.”, he finished as he cowered again.
“We may go down but we won’t be fighting.”, John collapsed on the floor, laughing at his own joke.
“Phone Animal Control. No, better yet, get Lestrade down here. He can shoot the hostile creature. We may have a chance, John.”
John was too busy laughing to be able to say much to Lestrade:
“Lestrade,*muted laughter* come to Baker Stre-hee-heet. *more laughter* Sherlock *laughter* I’m dying!”
“Erm... John, are you really dying or is this just another failed prank?”
*Sherlock cried out in fear as the bird flew to perch on the refrigerator. John’s laughter commenced.
Lestrade sighed, “I’ll be there in a minute.”, he ended the call, “Anderson, Donovan. You’re in charge until I get back.” Lestrade called to his employees, “Sherlock’s in a pickle.”
“A ‘pickle’?”, Donovan mocked, “What did he do, stub his toe?” Anderson gave her a high-five.
“I can fire you, Donovan. And I will.”, Lestrade called as he shut the door, “Someday.”
Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock had darted just around the corner and was peeking out at John, who was rolling on the floor in laughter with the phone still in his hand.
“John, this is no laughing matter. First, it will go for the eyes. If we cannot see, we cannot aim. Next, it will go for the hands. Damaged weapons are useless. Then , it will go for the face, arms, any exposed areas and devour us alive. John, are you even listening to me?”
Just then, Lestrade burst through the door, gun at the ready. Sherlock screamed and scampered to the other edge of the doorway, cowering when he got there. Once he noticed it was just the Detective Inspector, he relaxed so much he fell over and lay sprawled on the ground. John’s laughter was renewed.
“Sherlock, you never told me you were afraid of John’s laughter. If I knew that I would have bought a joke book.”, Greg slipped his gun in its holster.
“It’s the bird, Lestrade, the bird. It’s come back for me.”, Sherlock whimpered.
“What’d you do, scare it with your stone-cold death stare?”, Lestrade smirked, “I’d come back for revenge too.”
“Humor is not needed here. John has already had enough.”, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Are you okay? Are you going to pass out? I can phone Anderson to help with the situation.”
“NO!”, Sherlock shouted a little too loudly. The bird fluttered a bit and rested on the cupboard door once more.
Sherlock made a panicked noise, “It’s just a bird. Lestrade will shoot it. Just a puny little bird. Nothing more.”, Sherlock muttered to himself as he braced against the bookshelf, “Just a bird. You can take it. IT MUST DIE!”
Sherlock whirled the corner to face the bird with a gun in his grip. He started to shoot at it not knowing exactly where it had perched.
“Woah. Woah. Woah. Woah. Stop Sherlock! STOP. PUT THE GUN DOWN!”, Lestrade tried to stop him but only hit in the side of the head.
John stumbled into the wall furthest from the bird as not to get a bullet from the fear-driven Consulting Detective. He continued to attempt to blast the bird to smithereens as Lestrade tackled him from the side. The gun skittered across the floor out of Sherlock’s reach Greg tried to pin him down but he punched him and gave him a bloody nose. Lestrade rolled off of Sherlock and began to search for some tissues.
John got over the shock of the sudden gun blasts and slid to the floor like a heap of laundry. He noticed the bird laying dead on the floor, its head blown clean and the legs hanging on by a few nerves. Sherlock was relieved at the sight of the dead creature and straightened up, smoothing his purple button-down shirt, “Would anyone care for some tea?”