John always adored listening to Sherlock's virtuosic violin playing; it was relaxing and beautiful. But today it was almost painful. Each note was short, tight, tetchy and ringing with boredom; Sherlock's fingers flew across the strings as the notes became shorter and shorter; the phrases ran together and staccatos bit the air, and all the while the melodies become more erratic, more frantic, going up and down, round and round in circles, faster and faster…

John flicked his newspaper. Sherlock's bow paused, and the consulting detective spun around on the spot, his blue velvet dressing gown billowing out with him. Placing the violin and bow on the windowsill he started striding around the living room, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. It made John dizzy watching.

Bringing his attention back to the newspaper, he started reading, still hearing the pacing footsteps in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn't pay attention to government funding of high schools with that going on next to him. John prayed fervently that Lestrade would bounce through the doorway and announce a case for Sherlock to solve.

"John," Sherlock snapped for the umpteenth time that day.

"Yes Sherlock?" the ever-suffering tone answered him.

"I'm bored! I need something to do! The last case was ten days ago – this is completely ridiculous!"

Sherlock's words were uttered at the speed of light.

"Find something to do. Amuse yourself," John told him, not looking up. Sherlock rattled around the room for a while longer.

"John! I – need – something – to – do!"

"Well what do you usually do when you don't have a case?"

"I've already spent days and days on experiments, and now I'm out of the necessary equipment. I'm bored of playing my violin because I've spent days doing that as well. Mrs Hudson took my skull, so I can't talk to that. And now I'm sick of deducing the people walking by the window, I've been doing it for too long," as if to illustrate a point, Sherlock marched to the window.

"Two bankers hurrying towards the city, judging by their suits, briefcase size, the pattern of the stress lines on their forehead – lines caused by the typical look of a banker – and rather bland but obviously bank-looking choice in ties, you see that hideous design all over the banks. One of them is carrying a telltale teller's book as well.

"One teacher walking in the opposite direction to them. She carries herself with an authoritarian but motherly air – young primary school I suppose. She's carrying an umbrella that has a school crest on it and looks concentrated, as if she's planning today's lesson, with an armful of what looks like school books in her arm.

"One airline pilot walking out of that house and into the cab. The size of the bag he's carrying is overnight. He has sunglasses on top of his head for when he's in the air above the clouds – in London today it's steely grey and raining. His left hand is automatically clenched in the way it holds the controls for eight or more hours during a plane flight. And he's having an affair with the woman whose house he just exited – very interesting."

He spun around away from the window, where rain began to patter lightly. "Even genius becomes tiresome after a while. What do you expect me to do?"

"Maybe you could go and make some tea?"

Sherlock glared daggers at John, the blue eyes turning to ice. He pranced into the kitchen and began fiddling with the pot and kettle. John was finally satisfied that he'd occupied Sherlock for at least a few minutes.

"John! We're out of milk!"

John mentally slapped himself before replying in the nicest possible tone that he could muster: "Why don't you get some more then?"

"Ugh! Boring! And it's raining."

"Well maybe you could ask Mrs Hudson for some milk."

"Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed. "Mrs Hudson!"

"Go downstairs," John ordered firmly.

For a genius, he doesn't find it too easy to find more milk. John heard Sherlock run down the stairs shouting their landlady's name. He appeared at the doorway again with milk in hand. After setting the tea on the coffee table he sat, hands steepled and looking as if in prayer. John tried to imagine Sherlock sitting quietly in a church during a priest's sermon. The thought made him smile.

Every now and then Sherlock took a hurried sip of his tea, and seemed to be containing something of a volcanic explosion with every sip. Once the cup was empty John waited for it. Sherlock began to shake, and with a cry leapt up again.

"Oh – existing is so boring and dull when one has a mind too clever for the world's good!"

He was pacing again, and John sighed. It was a long shot, but he'd try it. He had a gut feeling.

"All right Sherlock, sit here."

"Why? What are you doing? John?"

Followed by Sherlock's narrowed and suspicious gaze, John led him to the couch and sat him down, before striding over to the shelf and rifling around. With a satisfied smile he extracted the disc he was looking for, and inserted it into the DVD player.

"What are you doing John? I don't want to watch some moronic movie! It kills your brain cells with idiotic people portrayed by even more idiotic people who can't get a proper job so they have to pretend to be people with proper jobs. What's more, they never get the subtleties right – I saw a film once that had the main character wearing a watch that was supposed to have been of great sentimental value to her because it was her father's previously, but anyone would be able to tell the watch was no more than five years old! And it was dirty. Very poor attention to detail."

"Sherlock, just watch."

John watched his flatmate's face harden and then turn to one of disgust as the opening titles came on. Monty Python and the Holy Grail kicked dramatically into action with its regal opening titles. John chuckled as the "wrong movie" about the dentist played, and looking over he saw with great satisfaction that Sherlock had cracked a smile. Watson: 1. Holmes: 0, he kept a mental tally. Sherlock noticed him looking, and steeled his face again. John almost found that funnier than the actual movie.

"They've gone far overboard with the smoke machine! They're mixing up 900s countryside England with the Great Smog of '52 in London," Sherlock scowled scathingly, and muttered about fake coconuts for a while. But, to John's immense satisfaction, after five minutes Sherlock quietened down and stopped interjecting criticisms every few seconds. He took this as a good sign that Sherlock was enjoying the film.

He gave himself ten points on the tally when Sherlock chuckled, and knew that his undivided attention was now completely on the movie. I've got him, John thought with satisfaction. Of course, it was Monty Python; John knew he couldn't have gone wrong there. John then decided he needed 100 points when Sherlock started laughing out loud frequently.

The credits rolled, and John turned to Sherlock expectedly, who looked back, quite calm.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

John tried not to roll his eyes: "What did you think? I saw you laughing!"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a few moments.

"It – wasn't terrible."

"You liked it."

"I wouldn't say…"

"You did. Sherlock Holmes, you thoroughly enjoyed it!"

He was met with a thoughtful silence. Laughing, John offered Sherlock tea. John had promised to go over to Harry's for lunch, and after Sherlock declined the offer to join him he left the detective in the house alone and went over to his sister's. It was hours later before he returned, and coming up the stairs to the living area of 221B, he paused. He could hear a tinny voice coming from a computer and Sherlock chortling.

"– certainly uncontaminated by cheese!" the computer muttered.

John was deadly still. Sherlock was the only one in that room. It must be Sherlock watching that.

"You haven't asked me about –"

John interrupted the computer by sauntering into the room, making Sherlock swipe at the keyboard to close the Internet window.

"Hi Sherlock."

"Hello," Sherlock muttered, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. Sherlock was a good actor, but John wasn't buying it. He smiled and shook his head knowingly, to which Sherlock raised his head haughtily and continued reading off his computer screen.

Several days later John came in from the chilly, breezy night and trudged up the stairs to 221B after a long day at the clinic, stomach rumbling and desperate for tea. He could smell something gorgeous wafting through the house from Mrs. Hudson's flat. Glorious Mrs Hudson, he thought. He wondered if her tenants were getting any of that cooking. Hanging up his coat, he heard a strange clatter from behind the closed door of 221B, and wondered what on earth Sherlock was up to. He entered the living room, curiosity piqued, to find his flatmate sitting in his chair engrossed in a book, looking for the world as though he'd been there moments ago.

"I was wondering when you'd finally be home," Sherlock muttered as John reached the door. "I wanted a cup of tea."

"Couldn't make it yourself then," John sighed. "What were you doing just now?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied innocently, still not glancing up from his book. "Though incidentally John, there's no need to check the bathroom. Everything's fine."

John paused at that, and frowned. He had half a mind to check the loo, but was so tired from the day's work and decided against it. Nothing could have been seriously wrong if Sherlock wasn't telling him outright. His flatmate would usually tell him if something had happened that was more than a bit not good, and he'd tell him almost smugly. So he shrugged off the comment and went to put on that pot of tea. John had had enough stomach aches and screaming children who definitely did not want that injection for a lifetime. He flung himself unceremoniously onto his chair, and huffed. Sherlock checked his watch.

"Still nothing to worry about then," he muttered, almost to himself, but intentionally just loud enough to catch John's attention.

"What?"

"I said there's still nothing to worry about."

"But…why would I…"

John was beginning to feel slightly uneasy in his mind. When the kettle whistled he almost didn't get up he was so tired, but the thought of a nice cuppa was incentive enough. He was pouring the water into the pot when Sherlock sprung up, walked into the bathroom, only to come out again seconds later and resume reading his book.

"Yes, all fine still! Don't fret John. You don't need to check the bathroom," Sherlock paused for a moment, settling back into his chair. "Just remember the fire hydrant is on the landing."

John felt something drop in his stomach, and strode over to the loo, angrily starting: "Sherlock – what have you –"

But John was surprised to find himself standing in their extremely normal-looking bathroom. His eyes swept over the room again, looking carefully for anything wrong. But there actually wasn't anything to worry about. Oh Lord, John realised, it's the aeroplane sketch. John thought he should definitely, definitely be presented with the Idiot of the Year Award. How could he overlook the fact that there was a series of Monty Python sketches entitled "How To Irritate People"?

John remembered that Lestrade was coming over for dinner the next night. He sincerely hoped Sherlock hadn't yet seen How To Irritate People: Visitors. As John was wearily making his way back to his armchair, he came in to see Sherlock plumping up his UK flag cushion. As he came in his flatmate gave him a broad grin, and gestured to the seat with plumped-up pillows.

"Sit down John, sit down!"

He sat, puzzled as Sherlock began to adjust the cushions and the chair for him over and over. Sherlock then sat himself in his seat, and stared in his flatmate's eyes.

"Comfortable John?"

"Er…yes…"

"Good. Are you sure?" Sherlock as sharply, looking at him seriously. "Because you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Why would I?"

"Oh no, that would never do! You must tell me. I couldn't have you uncomfortable! Happy John? Good," he smiled and nodded. "Oh – you took off your coat! Are you cold? Do you need the heater as well?"

"No, no, I'm fine Sherlock, I'm not too cold."

Then John realised with a sigh.

"Good. You're not too hot are you?"

"Sherlock," John tried to use his stern voice.

"Oh dear. Oh no, you're angry at me, aren't you?"

"What? No I'm not angry –"

"I've been fussing you too much, haven't I?"

"No, no, it's fine. Just – you can just be normal now."

"Oh dear, I have been fussing you too much," Sherlock's voice sounded devastated.

"No it's really fine –"

"Is it? Excellent! Well, you'd tell me, wouldn't you? Yes," he paused momentarily. "Is your tea hot enough? Strong enough? Do you need another?"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock grinned like the Cheshire cat who had learnt a clever trick. John sat back in his chair. He had thought he couldn't have gone wrong with Monty Python. John's eyes followed tiredly as Sherlock walked to the kitchen – well, he said walked. Sherlock's strides were a metre-long each and low right to the ground; every three paces he moved four inches to the right and his left leg jerked upwards every alternate step.

"It's almost like Mycroft, isn't it?" Sherlock chortled. "I just need an umbrella."

John chuckled, silently not saying a word. It was actually quite amusing. There was never a dull moment here, he reflected, as Sherlock did a twirl to open the fridge. He rounded on John, moving his feet up and down on the spot daintily, like a ballerina. He sidled around the bench as he talked; bending and spinning gracefully like a dancer.

At least this would while away his boredom for a while. Any entertainment when life was boring for Sherlock was a blessing.

"I find myself in quite a difficult situation John. I had seated myself on the settee skimming through 'Rouge Herries' by Horace Walpole, when coming over rather esurient I curtailed my Walpolling activities and sallied forth to the place where aliments are to be found stored in the appropriate hypothermic conditions to seek out some cheesy comestibles. However, I find our stores have been depleted. Would you care to foray to and infiltrate the place of aliment purveyance to negotiate the purchase of some supplements?"

John had created a monster.

A/N: Hello! Thanks for reading! So I've wanted to do a Sherlock watches Monty Python fic for ages, and last night while re-watching the Holy Grail I was compelled to do it, so here it is!

Also, Sherlock's last speech paragraph is taken partly from the Cheese Shop sketch (which I highly recommend), and partly made-up in the hardest words I could find using my thesaurus.