OF RUBBER CHICKENS AND SPIKED TEA

As John Watson walked out of the grocery store, he glanced back over his shoulder to give the check machine one last hate-filled glare. It deserved it! Technically, it deserved to have someone—possibly with a military background and blond hair—come in with a sledgehammer and remove it from existence. As much as that thought gave him great pleasure, John knew that he could never get away with something like that. Lord knows he doesn't want to have to rely on Sherlock to get him out of jail. It would probably take Sherlock days to even recognize the absence of his flatmate. John rolled his eyes at the thought and hailed a cab. The cabbie helped him load the groceries in the back and they were off.

When John reached 221 Baker Street, he frowned. The door wasn't locked. He pushed the door open with caution, but let out a breath when dear Mrs. Hudson came up to him.

"John, good you're back. I was just about to make a cup of tea. I'll bring some up to you boys."

He smiled at her. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Uh, has anyone been in while I was out?"

She thought for a moment. "Let me see. Well, there were those gentlemen. Nice sort. Didn't make a ruckus. Sherlock's been quiet too. I think he fell asleep."

John's eyes widened. He dropped the groceries and took the stairs two-at-a-time.

"Sherlock? Is everything okay?"

John opened the door and stopped. His jaw may or may not have come unhinged. There stood Sherlock, staring at the happy face spray-painted on the wall, with a mad grin on his face. The weird part was that Sherlock was stripped down to his pants...and had another pair on his head.

"Do I even want to know what happened?"

Sherlock whirled around, with that stupid grin still plastered to his face. "Ah, John. You're back! Did you leave the groceries at the store again?"

"Uh, no. They're downstairs. I came up in a hurry. Did...did you take something?" He cast a weary glare Sherlock's way.

Sherlock looked affronted. "Of course not! Although...one of the men DID give me spiked tea. I HAD to drink it if I wanted them to tell me anything."

John face-palmed. "Lovely! That's just great!"

Sherlock grinned again. "I thought so too!"

John sighed out a long, deep breath. "Do you think you can take the pants off your head and put some actual clothes on?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft said that once. Worst family reunion ever. Did you get the rubber chicken?"

"Sorry, what?"

"From the STORE, John. I asked you to get a rubber chicken."

"I didn't, no. When did you ask me for a rubber chicken?"

"Almost an hour ago."

"SHERLOCK, I was AT THE STORE then," John said exasperatedly.

"Oh John! How many times do I have to tell you: It's not MY fault when you're not listening."

John sighed again and rubbed his face. "I can't deal with this right now." He turned and started to walk out the door.

"Where are you going?"

"OUT!"

"But you just came in!"

"Oh? Did I? Well, I forgot the bloody RUBBER CHICKEN! Put some clothes on while I'm out!"

The door slammed shut. Sherlock turned back to the smiley face with a drug-laden pout. "'Put some clothes on while I'm out,'" he mimicked with a whine. "Yes, MUMMY!"

OF EXPERIMENTAL MILK AND BALOGNA

"So," John said. "The wife was the killer all along?"

Sherlock and John were seated comfortably in their respective chairs at Baker Street, having just wrapped up a case John labeled—much to Sherlock's irritation—"The Escapades of the Finger Bandit".

"Obviously."

"Yeah, sorry. Not so obvious. I thought you said it was the maid?"

"No no no. Do keep up. I accused the maid so she would tell me what she was hiding, which happened to be something as mundane as the fact that she's a HE."

"You thought that case was MUNDANE?"

"It's about a six. Anyone with a brain in their heads could see that the wife was guilty."

John rolled his eyes. "I'm going to make some tea. You want some?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John always made enough tea for two anyway, so why BOTHER wasting the breath on being polite?

John walked into the kitchen and Sherlock smirked, counting off in his head: "7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—"

"SHERLOCK? Why THE HELL are there HUMAN EYES in the MILK?"

"Don't touch those! I'm running an experiment on how lactose affects iris color." Sherlock was still smirking, but he didn't allow his amusement to enter his voice. There really was not point in telling John that it was a PSYCHOLOGICAL experiment on John's reaction, was there?

"Don't worry," John called out. "Touching them never crossed my mind."

"Good. Their important!"

"Of course, Sherlock. Because the ONE TIME we actually have milk and it's actually not expired, you go and put eyes in it!"

"Problem?"

John stalked back into the room. "NO! Of COURSE not!"

Sherlock frowned at him in confusion. "Sarcasm?"

John sighed. "YES, Sherlock. Sarcasm."

"Oh...not good?"

"The eyes thing? Yeah, a bit not good."

"So, tea?"

"THERE ARE HUMAN EYES IN THE MILK, SHERLOCK. NO, I CAN'T MAKE TEA!"

"Why not? The milk's perfectly good."

"It's got EYES in it."

"Well, obviously don't put the eyes in the TEA."

"I'm going down to the store to get milk. I'll be back in a bit."

"Fine. Oh, and you never actually bought that rubber chicken last time."

John stomped out of the room and the door slammed behind him.

"Note to self:" Sherlock thought, "John seems fine with body parts in the fridge, but avoid actually putting them in the food. Oh! I need to throw out the toe-nail balogna..."

OF ADLER AND HOLMES

John breathed a sigh as he stalked up the stairs to 221B. He had just finished off a grueling weekend with Harry. It always hurt to see her that way. She said that she was sober for good this time, but John didn't get his hopes up. She'd be back hitting the bottle soon. She always did. He knew that he'd go back to her again when she called him. He always did.

But he was back home. Home, with cases, running, and Sherlock. John hoped that this next case didn't involve women. He had had enough of women for a while. He opened the door to 221B and stopped.

Sherlock was comfortably seated in his chair, shirtless. The shocking thing was that a supposedly-deceased Ms. Irene Adler perched comfortably on top of him. She, unlike Sherlock, was missing significantly more clothes than a shirt.

When John walked in, Sherlock was in the middle of pressing a kiss to the Woman's neck. He stopped and looked up at John, who stood gaping in the open doorway.

"Oh, hello John. You're early. I didn't expect you back for a few hours."

Irene only looked up at John and mumbled, "We're busy."

John blinked, looked between Sherlock and Irene, and blinked again. He turned back and closed the door behind him. John then stumbled back down the stairs, cursing the earth's female population.

OF THIEVERY AND BABIES

"Hey, Sherlock," John called with a chuckle into the flat as he walked in. "Lestrade called me today. Apparently a witness implicated you in a kidnapping. Of course I told him that they had the wrong..."

John stopped. He was greeted by the sight of Sherlock leaning over a baby in a baby carrier. "...man," he finished. Sherlock was holding out the baby's arm and measuring it with a stick. Said baby was looking at Sherlock with curiosity. Sherlock opened its mouth and shined a light inside.

"Because you obviously would not be DENSE ENOUGH to kidnap a baby! Sherlock, what is that?"

Sherlock looked up and raised his eyebrows condescendingly. "REALLY, John? Obviously a baby. And don't shout. I won't be able to get it to do anything if you make it cry."

"SHERLOCK!" John sighed, calming down a little. "Why is there a baby in our living room? Better yet: why do YOU have a baby in our living room?"

"I need its measurements."

"For what?"

Sherlock scoffed. "A case. Obviously."

John rolled his eyes. "Obviously," he mimicked. "Hold on. No. Not obvious. Because you can't go KIDNAPPING BABIES!"

"Don't shout. I'll return it after I'm done with it."

"Sherlock, it's a BABY. You can't just BORROW it. My god. Its mother must be panicking. Sherlock, we need to take it to Scottland Yard. Someone's out looking for it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Not till tomorrow. The mother was innebriated from downing three shots just before going to the park where she shamelessly flirted with a man with the intent of following him home for a night of sexual activity. She won't remember her son until approximately 10:00 tomorrow when she wakes up with a hangover."

"Okay, but just because you CAN doesn't mean you SHOULD."

Sherlock flashed a rare smile up at John. "Oh, I know. But it doesn't seem to be much of a bother."

"Sherlock, I...Hold on. You said he was a boy. Why did you just call him an it?"

"Less work."

"Sherlock, you—"

At that moment the little boy started crying. John almost believed that the frustration of the moment was worth it when he saw a look of sheer terror flash quickly across Sherlock's features.

"You made it cry," Sherlock declared.

"What? No. I didn't make it—HIM cry."

"Yes you did. Now make it stop." Sherlock stood up.

"Why are you telling ME to? You make him stop."

"I...I don't know how. YOU'RE the doctor. Fix it."

John sighed. "He's not broken."

"It is as long as long as it makes that awful noise. Now shut it up!"

John leaned back and grinned, his perfect moment slightly spoiled by the wailing in the background. "You REALLY have no idea what to do, do you?"

Sherlock shifted the weight on his feet uncomfortably. "Yes, that's what I said. Now could you please—"

"No. Hold on. Let me savor the moment. Sherlock Holmes, the great Consulting Detective is clueless. Not only that, but he begging for help—"

"—I'M NOT BEGGING!"

"—When confronted with a baby. A priceless moment." John was shaking his head and grinning.

"Yes. Congratulations," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Now make it stop."

John knelt down and made some dehumanizing noises in front of the baby, who promptly ceased its wailing, opting to stare hard at him instead.

"Sherlock, where did you find him in the park?"

"By the fountain. Why—"

"And I suppose you deduced where his mother lives."

Sherlock sighed like a kid who had his newest toy taken away. "476 East Harrison Road."

"Thank you. I'll take the kid back and say I found him by the fountain. Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Just because I'm covering for you does not mean I'm not furious with you."

"Of course, John," Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"And when I get back, I'm probably going to hit you," John said while hefting the baby carrier."

"Of course, John."

"You're not going to be here when I get back, are you?"

"Of course not, John." John closed the door behind him.

OF HEROINE AND ADDICTS

"Yeah, Charlene. That's great," John said into his phone as he opened the door to 221B Baker St. He beamed. "Hey, I just got home. I need to talk to you later. See you Thursday?...Yeah. Bye." He hung up as he stepped inside.

Immeadiatly, John was greeted by the putrid smell of human bile and feces. It permeated the whole of the flats, but was luckily very weak.

As he cautiously crept up the stairs to the flat, the smell, unfortunately, grew stronger. Visions of Sherlock lying dead taunted John into abandoning caution as he ran up the stairs and threw open the door. "SHERLOCK," he called frantically.

"Yes, John," Sherlock calmly replied from his relaxed position on the sofa.

John took in the sight of his, very-much alive, friend and sighed. His next breath reminded him why he was so panicked in the first place. "WHAT IS THAT AWEFUL SMELL?"

"Oh THAT. That's Jerry."

"Sherlock," John sighed, "what are you talking about?"

"Jerry is a source. BUT he needs to be clean to tell me what happened to his mother."

John frowned. "What's he on?"

"Currently: nothing. Hence the smell of withdrawals. Previously it was heroine."

"Okay. Brilliant. Just brilliant. You let an heroine addict going through withdrawals stay in the flat—"

Sherlock opened his mouth with a puzzled expression.

"—It's sarcasm, Sherlock."

"Oh, well I—"

"—Where's JERRY staying?"

"He has taken up residence in your room. He says he prefers your bed to mine."

"SHERLOCK! You can't just let him have MY ROOM!"

At that moment, a sickly looking man stumbled out of John's bedroom. He must have been about fifty years old and had a jaunty look about him. John looked at the wretched soul and felt his anger blow away, to be replaced with sympathy. But then the man spoke.

"Oh. Hello, mate. You must be that Watson bloke. Oh, and by the way: I used your rasor."

John grimaced. He felt the sympathy slip BACK away to be replaced by indignation. THAT was a very expensive rasor. Unfortunately, Jerry thought of something else to say.

"And might I offer a suggestion?"

"No," John grumbled.

"Your room, mate, is a bit drab. Maybe, after you get it cleaned up, you should paint the walls a different color. I suggest chartreuse. OR, you could put in some curtains. Or..."

"ENOUGH! You don't get a vote! It's my room you got your sick all over and it's my rasor you ruined!"

"Alright. Alright. It was just a suggestion."

"Go suggest it to someone who DOES'NT want to punch you in the face right now!"

"Oi! That's just rude!" Jerry turned to Sherlock. "Is he always like this?" He gestured to John with a wave of his hand.

A thoroughly-amused Sherlock glanced up and shrugged. "More-or-less."

Jerry raised both eyebrows at Sherlock. "I don't know how you put up with him," he said.

Sherlock was about to respond when John piped up. "HIM? Put up with ME? Oh no! No no no no NO! HE doesn't put up with ME! I put up with HIM! Sherlock and all his experiments and loud noises in the middle of the night and shooting the wall and getting drugged and demanding rubber chickens and human eyes in the milk and toe nails in the balogna—DON'T THINK I DIDN'T NOTICE THAT— and Irene Adler coming back to life to snog you senseless and finding out that you KIDNAPPED A BABY and are now letting out MY ROOM to homeless interior decorators going through withdrawals! I HAVE HAD IT UP TO HERE," he gestured wildly above his head. "YOU'VE BEEN WARNED," he said emphatically, poking Sherlock menacingly in the chest.

John then turned, stormed out of the flat, and slammed the door behind him so loudly that it echoed back off the walls. A wide-eyed Sherlock gazed after him and gulped.

"Wow," mumbled Jerry. "What was THAT supposed to mean?"

Sherlock gulped again. "It means that John will get his revenge. And when John gets revenge, all hell breaks loose."

Meanwhile, John briskly walked down the side walk. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial, then held it up to his ear. He waited a moment. "Hello, Mycroft?...Yeah, it's John...Listen, I need a favor...

OF JOHN AND REVENGE AGAINST RUBBER CHICKENS, HUMAN EYES, UNWANTED ADLERS, STOLEN CHILDREN, AND HEROINE ADDICTS

John was smirking. He knew he shouldn't have been, on the off chance Sherlock would see him, but he couldn't help it. Today was THE day. He'd waited months for this day. This was he day he would finally get his revenge on Sherlock.

The man in question had seemed to relax more-and-more in the weeks following John's threat, when it had still yet to be carried out at the end of the day. John knew that Sherlock had written him off as just bluffing, and John was rather glad for that. He didn't want Sherlock to see it coming until it hit the Consulting Detective between the eyes. He chuckled and sent off a text on his phone:

OPERATION VENGENCE IS A GO —JW

John chuckled and slid his phone back into his jumper pocket. Yes, today was a good day...

Later that day, Sherlock alighted from a cab that had pulled up in front of 221B Baker St. He paid the cabbie and quickly opened the door and mounted the steps. Finally, he unlocked the flat and stepped inside.

Sherlock stiffened. Something was wrong. The room was very stuffy. The drapes were drawn and the lights were off, making the flat surprisingly dark.

"John? Why are the—"

Suddenly, the lights all turned on. "SURPRISE!" Out jumped Sherlock's WORST NIGHTMARE: a happy gathering of friends and family. In the center of said atrocity stood a very smug-looking Dr. John Watson.

Off in one corner, Mycroft Holmes sat smirking. He and John were probably the only two in the room who had caught the look of shock and horror on Sherlock's face. His dear little brother had quickly masked it with indifference, but that little moment of shock was priceless. Mycroft was beyond pleased to be a crucial part of the operation that put it there. Surprisingly, Doctor Watson had had the idea, but Mycroft had been the one to point out all the evidence that would have given their little endeavor away to Sherlock. Especially with what happened next.

Sherlock quickly wipped around and forcefully tried the door. It was locked. Ignoring the states, he frantically rushed down the hall and tried his bedroom door. It, too, had betrayed him. He sighed and turned back to the nightmare that awaited him, cursing John silently.

The next few hours were a blur of idle chatter (boring and tedious), his mother (and a few great aunts he was rather certain weren't ACTUALLY related to him) pinching his cheeks (humiliatingly), and someone breaking spontaneously into, "Happy Birthday," (which everyone else, sans himself, felt obligated to happily join in on, of course). To make a long story short: Sherlock was miserable. At some point in time, he was rather certain that an obnoxiously chuckling Mycroft had snapped a picture of him being forced to wear one of those ridiculous party hats (when asked later, he vehemently denied that he was pouting while the picture was being taken) and sent copies of it to John and Lestrade, who also started chuckling—bloody idiots, the lot of them.

Probably the worst part of the whole affair was that, whenever Sherlock would go to cheer himself up with a deduction, John would seemingly materialize from nowhere and smack him alongside the back of the head. Originally, Sherlock had attempted to fend off the cruel and vicious blows, deduce something so quickly that John didn't have time to react, or do so when John was not in the vicinity, but John had a skill for recognizing if Sherlock was going to be rude. It was as if John had a sixth sense, or possibly a deduction detection radar dish on the top of his head, because, sure enough, any time Sherlock would open his mouth, John would be standing behind him like a lion waiting to pounce upon its innocent prey. Eventually, Sherlock gave up on voicing his deductions.

Out of seemingly nowhere, the suggestion of presents brought the room to a hush. All eyes turned to a (NOT AT ALL) pouty Sherlock as one of his (alleged) aunts (Bertha or Mildred) scooted a bag—that was CLEARLY purposed for Christmas—in his general direction. As if the gift was a peace offering to a Roman god, the woman backed away quickly and quietly before taking a seat.

Glancing up at John in horror and disbelief to see if he REALLY had to do this, Sherlock reached for the festive gift, attempting to ignore the red and green Christmas tree letters that spelled out, "Happy Holidays" blatantly printed on the side. First slipping the card (which also featured Chrustmas trees) from the gift bag, Sherlock read aloud, "Dear...Sherlock, Happy Birthday. Love," (it took all his strength to keep from grimacing at that), "Aunt Mildred." He had needed to pause after reading, "Dear," because the original writing featured, "Mildred" with a bunch of "Xs" and "Os", but had been crossed out.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and reached into the gift bag, pulling out a...a oh, dear LORD, no...PLEASE NO...a deerstalker. He glanced at his (DEFINITELY NOT) aunt, who ACTUALLY seemed to be PLEASED with herself. John chuckled, hiding it with a cough.

"Sh...*cough*...Sherlock...*snort*, what do you...*chuckle*...say?"

To his credit, Sherlock turned, plastered the kindest smile he could possibly muster on his face, and took a breath.

In hindsight, calling his DEAR Great Aunt Mildred an idiot in front of all those who considered themselves close to him and were featured regularly in his life (and could, therefore, make it miserable if they so chose) wasn't the most brilliant of his ideas.

The rest of Sherlock's wretched surprise party trudged by without further incidence and, none too soon, the front door had mysteriously become unlocked and all the human pests wandered out, leaving Sherlock in the company of only John and Mycroft. The latter of the two sauntered up to Sherlock in all of his "British Government" sophistication.

"Well, dearest little brother, I hope you have learned your lesson. Doctor Watson is not a man to be trifled with."

Sherlock frowned in confusion. "This wasn't your work, Mycroft? You're loosing your touch."

Ignoring his comment, Mycroft smirked. "Hardly. Although, I MAY have helped slightly."

"Oh, I'm sure," Sherlock replied dryly, sending a glare in John's direction.

Mycroft just continued smiling that INCORRIGIBLE smile of his. "Good night, baby brother, and happy birthday." FINALLY deciding to grace someplace else with his presence, Mycroft stepped out of the flat.

Immeadiatly, Sherlock turned his glare upon an impassive John Watson. "You did this," he declared.

John yawned and stretched out his arms. "Blimey, I'm tired. Are you tired?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "John," he ground out, managing to make the name sound like a threat.

In response, John only smirked, picked up a blue rectangle-shaped gift box from the mantle, and tossed it to Sherlock, who caught it deftly. "Well, goodnight," the doctor mumbled before heading to his bedroom.

The top of the box had a small white piece of paper attached that was folded. Unfolding it, he read:

To: Sherlock

From: John

Revenge is sweet.

Cocking his head in puzzlement, Sherlock opened the lid to his gift. Seeing what was inside, he couldn't help but chuckle.

Sitting on top of the cream paper, in Sherlock's present, was a rubber chicken.

So, this was my first try at a story that's a series of one-shots, my first humorous story, AND my first Sherlock fanfic. That's a lot of firsts. This story takes place in my mind between the episodes, "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Richenbach Fall". Please tell me what you think by reviewing, following, or favoriting. Thank you!

-De Bre Layn