Author's note: This isn't the best thing in the world (it won't be - I've written it). And I know there isn't much to this little fic, there isn't supposed to be, I just had this scene playing about in my head before I fell asleep so wrote it down.
"That's it!" cried out an exasperated Sherlock Holmes. He threw his hands wildly in the air in an act of frustration.
He had had enough now. Enough of John. Enough of Mrs Hudson. Of the lack of milk. Of everything.
"I'm leaving" he announced.
The news had hardly come as a surprise for John, who was eating a bowl of cereal at the table, or for Mrs Hudson who was sorting out the fridge into sections: edible, drink, human.
Sherlock had been acting in a peculiar manner since his return – and John's tash wasn't the reason why. Both Mrs Hudson and John had ideas as to why Sherlock had been acting the way he was: sleep deprivation; starvation or just a lack of ability to cope back to 'normal' life as neither of them knew where he had been for the past three years since 'The Fall'.
"But Sherlock…" Mrs. Hudson started to protest but didn't get any further, it was no use and everyone knew it.
"SHERLOCK" John shouted, a trick that had worked once, but never again. Like Mrs. Hudson's attempt, it was no use. Sherlock, as always, was on a mission, and when on a mission, more or less nothing could pose as an obstacle.
Their failed attempt at calling back Sherlock ended with him running downstairs whilst he put on his black scarf around his neck, and then adjusted his upturned, high collared coat.
Although both were expecting another 'signature' move from Sherlock – the jump from the penultimate stair to the floor- Mrs Hudson jumped at the thud Sherlock made when his feet landed on solid ground. Only slightly had she accustomed herself to his banging, knowing it was 'safe' but her memories haunted her, for obvious reasons. After another slight pause was another bang – that of the wooden door of 221B slamming shut, and the knocker rat-a-ta-tatting on the door as it took the brunt of Sherlock's force as he stormed out carelessly.
'I see that's him going again then. Any bets when he'll be back?' John was trying to make it easier on Mrs Hudson. Any small talk to stop her from thinking. Any talk, on nearly any subject would be fine just to break the tension that had been created.
'Oh John' addressed Mrs Hudson. 'What can I do with that poor boy? I feed him, look after him. I'm his landlady for goodness sake! I shouldn't be doing that for him!'
'I know, and I'm sorry. But he, and I both appreciate it, we really do'
Months prior to this, before his disappearance, one couldn't have hoped for a nicer Sherlock. However, Mrs Hudson had noticed a slight increase in Sherlock's flat rent money. He said he was sorry, and she could only infer that that sorry was for his stormings off, tantrums, as well as being fed.