Author's Note:
I'm not satisfied with this. Not at all. I thought I'd post it anyway, though, to get some feedback on how I can improve it. It is but a oneshot, so don't worry about the loose ends.
Be warned of the language, though it is mild.
If it's awful, tell me. I'll do what I can to fix it.
"Sherlock, that's not how it works," John pleaded.
"Of course it is. Don't be ridiculous."
"But you can't—"
"Can't what, John? And why the devil should I care, anyway?" Sherlock's tone was sharp, daring John to oppose him.
John was desperate by now. "Because you might just—"
"If it doesn't concern me or my work, then it is does not exist."
"But Sherlock—"
"Worthless."
"Sherlock—"
"Dull."
"Sherlock—!" John shouted.
"My God, would you come off—"
Sherlock doubled over in pain as his shin crashed into the coffee table with a tremendous bang.
"Gaah! What the bloody—!" He began to jump up and down, one hand clutching his blasted shin, the other waving around trying to find the sofa.
John rushed to him, resting a hand on his back, trying to steady his friend. He reached for Sherlock's blue scarf, which he had earlier tied around his head in a properly idiotic show of proving a point. Sherlock swatted at him, shouting, "No, no, I'm fine! Just go over there; let me sit down. Where the devil is the sofa? Now, John, leave me!"
John was determined to deflate Sherlock's ego. "Sherlock, you can't pace around the flat like that with a blindfold on for the sake of your pride!"
"Oh, of course I can!" Sherlock roared, struggling onto the sofa, still gripping his shin in pain.
"Look at you, you helpless bastard! I hope you're happy." John hid a laugh as well as he was able.
"Don't you laugh at me, John Watson. You brought this on! If it wasn't for—"
"I brought this on? You did this to yourself, sir; I had nothing to do with it. You're on that stupid case and can't get that blasted brain of yours out of it."
"Oh, John, damn it all! You've known me long enough, you should be able to prevent this sort of thing by now. You're a doctor, for God's sake."
"Sherlock, I'm a war surgeon, not a lion tamer."
"Same thing."
"That doesn't even make sense!"
"Yeah, well you're not the one that walked all around this flat for the last one-hundred-and-ninety minutes completely blind," Sherlock spit.
John sighed. "Neither does that, Sherlock."
"Alright, John. Whatever. I'm not accusing you of anything, but I just want to say that I was perfectly fine marching around alone until you got back from the store. That's when things went bad. And what's more, this has given me new insight on the case. So there."
"Oh, has it now? Do tell."
Sherlock's triumphant smile was visible beneath the wide scarf tied around his eyes. "The blind woman did it."
"What, old Mrs. Miller?"
"She got him from above."
"You're not making sense again."
"I'm making perfect sense, you're just not following."
"Alright, let's see, then. You say that a legally blind eighty-seven year old woman fell from the sky with a knife in her hand, landed on Mayor Howard, and stabbed him three times in the esophagus? Is that right, Sherlock? Am I following you correctly?"
Finally, in a fit of fury, Sherlock tore the scarf from his eyes, tossing it aside. "Yes! Obviously!" He began to mutter to himself, "And it was glorious, too, her timing must have been impeccable. And her hiding place, or maybe she used a disguise… I wish I could have seen it." He got a far-off look in his eye, obviously fantasising about the murder of the Mayor.
"You're sick."
"Ah, yes, delightfully so! And isn't it delicious?" He proclaimed.
Disgusted, John got up from the armchair, turning to the kitchen.
"You did bring back groceries, didn't you?"
"Of course I did, you idiot. I was gone for more than three hours running errands. Meanwhile, you sit around at home finding new ways to injure yourself."
Sherlock ignored the quip. "... Three hours? It wasn't three hours. You did get grahams, didn't you? The crackers?"
"Of course I did. You texted me eight times," John called back from the kitchen.
"Excellent. Leave them out, would you?"
"Fine, Sherlock."
Sherlock laid back on the couch, satisfied, his head on the armrest, a scowl on his face, thinking. He stared at the ceiling intently and steepled his fingertips beneath his chin.
He laid there for a time. John was nearly finished with putting the groceries away when he heard the front door open and slam shut in a display of pettiness. He turned to the living room, prepared to shout at Sherlock to go see who was here, but it was then that he noticed the disappearance of the grahams he had brought home from the store. They were no longer on the table, nor anywhere in sight.
He sighed and shook his head. He opened the cupboard, reaching up to out a box of cereal away, but a plastic bag full of what appeared to be scraggly black hair trimmings fell out. Written on the bag with black marker was, "The Scientific Property of Sherlock Holmes."
Oh, Sherlock. Always keeping his flatmate on his toes.
How John had survived this long with that man, he would never know.