John Watson had had a very, very bad day. First, he woke up three hours before he usually did because Sherlock seemed to think that 4:00 in the morning was a good time to practice his violin. John continued to lie in his bed, trying to go back to sleep. Eventually he dosed off and woke up again, only to find that he was by then late for work. When he got there, he was chewed out by his supervisor for being late. His first patient of the day chose to spend their appointment telling John their life story. By the end of that appointment, John was already an hour behind schedule. All the patients he had at his practice that day were nagging and groaning from "Pain" every chance they could get whether the pain existed or not. They wanted John to treat injuries and illnesses that simply weren't there. Then, when John told them this, they insisted that something was, in fact, the matter, and that he must be blind not to see it. He had to skip lunch to get back up to schedule. By the end of the day, he was ready to collapse into bed and take a few hours' nap. No such luck. When he opened the door to the flat, he saw that the place was in utter disarray. Books were strewn everywhere, body parts sitting on the couch, the chairs, the counters, the shelves, the table, every where. Beakers containing who knows what hazardous chemical were spilled on the carpet. Then he saw Sherlock, standing in front of the window playing his violin. John felt his blood boiling. Rage built up in his chest, causing enough pressure that the had to let it out on the nearest thing. That happened to be Sherlock.
"Sherlock!" John said. "What in the world is all this mess about?!"
"I got bored." Sherlock sighed. "The criminals these days are so boring…" John ignored the latter half.
"You got bored." John nodded, his voice short and clipped. "So you did this here, huh?"
"Ye-p." Sherlock held out the Y and popped the P. Something about that infuriated John even more than he already was. John tried to remain calm, he really did. But he failed. John exploded.
"Humans don't do this when they're bored, Sherlock!" John yelled, his face twisting with anger. "They don't leave chemicals all over the floor, they don't leave books all over the furniture, they don't leave body parts in the blender, toast, oven, freezer, or refrigerator, and they certainly don't stand in the middle of the mess and act as if they see nothing wrong with it! High functioning sociopath, yeah right! You're low if I've ever seen it! Want me to add narcissism to that list?! What in the world is wrong with you Sherlock?! Why do you have to be such a know-it-all!? You can identify 246 different types of tobacco ash, but you can't keep the flat clean for just one day!? Can't you do anything for yourself?! Gosh! You can't even remember to feed yourself, can you!? Talk about infantile! You need a babysitter 27-7 just to make sure you eat, drink, and sleep enough that you won't get yourself killed! I leave for just a few hours, and I come back to you and your worthless 'transport' standing in front of the window, while your stupid little mind focuses on writing that screeching music that I'm forced to listen to, instead of considering that maybe, just maybe, you could clean up the flat a bit before I got back from working so that you could have a place to live!"
John's rant left him breathless, and he stared at Sherlock as he regained it.
"Well, now that you've gotten that out, I've found a private case that could possibly be worth our time. Coming?" Sherlock asked. John paused and stared at Sherlock, his anger rising once again, but with disbelief and exasperation joining it.
"That didn't even affect you, did it?" John asked. "You don't care about anything I just said? Not even the tiniest bit?" Sherlock didn't respond, instead kneeling down to tie his shoes. "Maybe Sally and Anderson were right." John said. "Maybe you are just some crazy freak!" John was about to say more, but was cut off by the text alert on Sherlock's phone.
"Saved by a text. How typical." John said, anger and hatred still seeping through his words like blood in a steak. Sherlock picked up his phone and opened it. It was a moment before he spoke. "Lestrade has a case." Sherlock said, in a strange monotone voice that contradicted his usual excitement when confronted with a new case. Sherlock grabbed his coat and walked out the front door.
John sighed and put the kettle to boil. After making himself a cup of tea, he walked over to his chair and sat, only then noticing that it was the only clean thing in the entire living room. Everything else was covered in clutter from Sherlock's many experiments, but John's chair remained untouched.
A/N: John's a bit OOC right now, but he's just exhausted and angry. He'll get back to normal soon, so don't worry. ;) Did you like my touch with the chair being untouched? Give me reviews!