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“I should’ve known you’d take it as a challenge,” John chuckled affectionately.
When he’d left that morning, their flat had been perfectly normal. Well, ‘normal’ by Baker Street standards, at least... which admittedly could mean almost anything.
Almost.
But not this. Their armchairs were shoved to opposite sides of the living room, facing the walls like naughty children. The sofa was turned on its end and precisely centered (and John had no doubt it would be precise, down to the centimeter) between the two chairs. Two floor lamps stood sentinel between the chairs and the sofa, and the sofa cushions perched on their edges in between each piece of furniture, connecting it all like a tidy garden hedge.
And draped across it all were two white bedsheets, one of which had once been worn to Buckingham Palace. Both were pinned neatly to the curtain rod above the window, then draped across the chairs, lamps, and sofa, leaving only a narrow vertical slit between the sheets at the sofa’s edge to serve as a door into the secret lair.
“You did say you missed spending the weekends in your pillow fort as a kid.”
John’s heart swelled. Sure, normal flatmates might just go to the pub after a tough week, but who needed normal? Their ridiculous, brilliant life together was infinitely better.