The door to the flat slammed loudly, making John jump. Sherlock stormed past him without so much as a glance, and a second later, John heard another door open and slam shut, loud as a gunshot.

"Stupid Donovan!" There was bang, and suddenly John realized that was a gunshot.

"Stupid Lestrade!" Bang!

John leaped off the couch and ran to Sherlock's room, throwing open the door. There was Sherlock, firing his revolver into the ceiling. "And stupid Anderson!" Bang! Bang!

"Sherlock, what the heck are you doing?" John grabbed the gun and wrestled it out of Sherlock's hands. Not the wisest thing to do, he noted later.

"I'm picking daises, John, what does it look like I'm doing?!" Sherlock was out of it.

"Sherlock, there are people that live in the flat above us! You could have killed someone!"

"Do I look stupid? Their car isn't parked; they're not in right now!"

"What did Lestrade and Anderson do this time?" John carefully put the safety on, then emptied the bullet chamber.

"What do they ever do? They didn't think, they didn't listen!" Then, just like that, he flopped back onto his bed and threw and arm over his face, as if to say, 'discussion closed.'

"Okay, I think you need some alone time. I'm putting your gun away." John was out the door before Sherlock could say anything, and he carefully put the gun in a briefcase that he hid under his bed. Yes, Sherlock would undoubtedly be able to figure out the number code, but hopefully by that time, he'd be calmed down enough that he wouldn't shoot anything else.

Suddenly, he heard the flat door open and Mrs. Hudson's voice screeching, "What are you doing to my walls this time?"

Oh boy…

"Um, nothing, Mrs. Hudson! Look around. Do you see anything wrong?" He shoved the briefcase under the bed and went out to the sitting room. "Yes, everything looks perfectly fine to me!"

"I heard him firing his revolver again!"

"I have his revolver locked up-"

Suddenly Sherlock entered the room. "Ah, hello, Mrs. Hudson. When are you going out? I need a few things from the store."

"I'm not going out today, and I'm not your-"

"Wonderful! Be back within the hour." Sherlock shoved a piece of paper into her hands and turned her towards the door, pushing her out.

"Sherlock Holmes, I have things to do! I can't go running around all of creation to get you…" she peered at the list. "Ping-pong balls, aluminium foil, and pen ink?"

"Yes, they make lovely smoke bombs. Now, chop-chop, go-to, I haven't got all day."

"Why on earth do you need smoke bombs?"

"To give Lestrade a scare, why else?"

"Oh dear; what's he done this time?"

"He was being Lestrade! Do I need a better reason?"

"Sherlock, dear, I think you need a day off."

"A day off? What would I do with myself?"

"I don't know. Play Scrabble with Mycroft, or-"

"Oh, yes! Let's play Scrabble with Mycroft!" Sherlock was dangerously sarcastic. "Because that turned out so well last time! I know! Why don't we invite all his MI5 agents too!" His face was red, and he was getting loud. "And why not bring in Scotland Yard! Yes, that sounds perfectly marvellous! We can all have a big Scrabble party!" He threw himself back onto the couch.

John looked warily at Sherlock. "Yeah. You definitely need a day off."

"Good gracious, dear, are you coming down with a fever?" Mrs. Hudson asked Sherlock. She could practically see the heat waves coming off of him. "I'll make you some tea. And tomorrow, you're taking the day off." She left.

"No, I'm not!" Sherlock yelled after her.

"Yes, you are, dear!" Her voice floated up the stairs, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"John, where's my revolver?"

"Why?"

"I want to shoot something. Just let me shoot that potted plant over there and I'll be happy."

"I don't think so."

"Why not? War made you all tense, is that it? Can't stand a little gunfire anymore?"

Sherlock was getting on John's nerves. John stood up and walked back to Sherlock' room.

"I don't like having my room snooped in, John!"

John came back out in a minute holding Redbeard. "Stand up."

"No."

John used his army voice. "Stand up, Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock gave a loud, annoyed sigh and got on his feet.

"Now pet the dog."

"What?"

"Pet the dog."

"Why should I?"

"Because it's scientifically proven that petting an animal calms you down, now pet the dog!"

Sherlock had his jaw set and was pointedly looking away from John. He was silent.

"For my sake, Sherlock. So my last nerves don't snap. So I don't end up punching you in the nose, pet the dog."

Sherlock stood there for a second longer, muttering under his breath that he was calmed down, and didn't need some dumb doctor to tell him what to do, but finally reached out and quickly brushed Redbeard's fur with his fingertips, then jammed his hand into his pocket.

"Wonderful," John said, rolling his eyes. "Here." He shoved Redbeard into Sherlock's arms. "I've got things to do."

He went to his room to grab his gloves and shoes, and when he emerged a few minutes later, he saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, a pouty look on his face, holding Redbeard and rapidly stroking his fur, as if trying to make his bad mood fly away with the fur that was flying everywhere.

John hid a smile as he headed out the door, grabbing Sherlock's list from Mrs. Hudson on the way out.