Milk

It's your turn to get the milk. –JW

Noted. SH

You won't get it, will you? –JW

Probably not. SH

John sighed deeply, pocketing his phone as he locked the door to the surgery behind him. He was going to have to stop somewhere before he returned home, and he had really hoped that- for once- he could get straight back. But when Sherlock said "probably not", it not only meant that he had no intention of doing it, but also that the entire possibility had already been erased from his mind.

He buttoned his khaki coat against the unseasonably cold autumn wind, and then reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone once more.

Are you in the flat? –JW

Yes. SH

Are you breaking things? –JW

Breaking can also mean burning, drowning or dousing in chemicals. –JW

Not at the moment. SH

John smiled to himself, rolling his eyes- briefly looking up to cross the road, and then turning his gaze back to the glare of his phone's screen.

Never thought I'd see the day. –JW

Technically, you are not seeing it. SH

Although your insistence on looking for reasons to complain would suggest that it would be a good idea not to tell you anything at the moment. SH

The doctor chewed on his lip as he entered the supermarket, preoccupied enough that he forgot to pick up a basket and had to awkwardly about-turn to grab one. After a moment's pause, he replied.

Why not? Is something wrong? –JW

Nothing is wrong. I am avoiding conflict and dull conversations. SH

John snorted to himself at that, but felt a twinge of mild worry at Sherlock's tone. His bad moods were a constant, but John sensed a hint of passive-aggression that wasn't entirely like him and wondered if something had happened in his absence.

You don't usually avoid conflict. –JW

And then, after a pause, he added-

You can't work out everything internally, you know. Not even you. I don't mind if you want to talk about something that you deem sentimental. Or "dull", as you would no doubt put it. –JW

But I don't. Obviously. SH

Don't forget the milk. SH

John shifted the carrier bag to his right hand before replying- unsure if Sherlock was in denial, or if he really was fine. He decided to give up that line of questioning; it wasn't worth the days of silence he would be treated to if he annoyed the detective enough.

Got it. Won't be long. –JW

As an afterthought-

I'm sorry. I guess I overreacted. You've just been sensitive lately. I'm concerned. –JW

I'm fine. SH

A bit bored, I suppose. But I can fix that. SH

Don't fix it through drugs, experimentation on dead people on our kitchen table, or stealing my Sig and shooting the wall. Please. That aside, feel free to fix it. –JW

Ugh. How utterly pedestrian. SH

That's the third time you've called me pedestrian this week. –JW

I didn't call you pedestrian, but your suggestions. SH

Well, someone has to stay grounded. You know- clean, earn money, do the shopping, make the tea. How did you live without me? –JW

In reality, John already had an idea how Sherlock had lived without him, and he suspected that the answer was Not Very Well. He wondered exactly how well it was possible for a borderline-psychopathic drug addict to live without the help of someone to remind him to eat, or bathe, or sleep.

I had other flatmates. Sometimes. SH

Not for very long, granted. SH

Now John really was surprised- in his whole time knowing Sherlock, he had barely met one other person who could stand him for more than five minutes. He was amazing, that was true, but not everybody could stand being constantly reminded of their own inadequacies.

Did you? I can't imagine that. -JW

Can't you? Despite the fact that you are one of those flatmates? SH

John supposed that Sherlock was right- he couldn't be the only person in the world whose curiosity regarding The Great Detective overtook any apprehension or irritation. But it still seemed strange, to him- the idea of another person, in another flat, with another Sherlock. A different time altogether.

But you and I match. I can't imagine you living with someone else. –JW

I can't even imagine you as a child, growing up in a house with other people. It's as though you've always just been an independent little entity, floating around on your own. –JW

John stared at his outgoing text, realising how bizarre that observation sounded. He decided to clarify-

Don't worry, I know that can't be true. Sometimes when I'm annoyed I think of what it must have been like for you and Mycroft to live together. It amuses me no end. -JW

That's an image you can keep. Apart from the floating, maybe. SH

Damn. He knew that had come out weird. His phone lit up again, unexpectedly.

And I can assure you; there is nothing amusing about living with Mycroft. SH

You really must be bored if you bothered to reply to a text about Mycroft. –JW

I spoke the truth when I assured you that nothing is burning, drowning, or exploding. SH

John raised an eyebrow; surprised- perhaps he had been right when he had thought that something was wrong with Sherlock earlier. They weren't on a case, which usually meant that he would return home to eyeballs in the microwave and the stench of formaldehyde permeating the entire flat.

It's concerning. What's got into you? -JW

Nothing at all. I think you're simply projecting your issues onto me. SH

I don't have any issues, Sherlock! –JW

Are you sure? SH

He couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes was accusing him of having issues- Sherlock, who had been gifted with more professional mental health diagnoses that he had hot dinners. He was about to send an indignant reply when he actually began to consider his flatmate's words. Okay, Sherlock. Good point. You win.

I have PTSD, I carry a gun illegally and I get off on the danger of death. The day after I met you, I shot a man in the head to save your life. No issues at all. –JW

Point taken. SH

And then, after a moment-

But he wasn't a very nice man. SH

John smiled at that, but didn't bother to reply- he was just rounding the corner onto Baker Street, and would be at the flat in a moment. As he approached the door, he reached for the handle- but found it locked. Shaking his head, he reached into his pocket for his keys, but found –much to his chagrin- only the smaller key to the surgery, and not his own. "Shit," he muttered, checking every other pocket on his person before getting his phone out again, defeated.

Open the bloody door. –JW

You have a key. SH

I left it at the surgery, apparently- and some bloody plonker has locked the door from the inside. –JW

I mean you. –JW

Safety precautions. SH

Not you forgetting your key, to clarify. That's just you failing to get the basics right. Then again, you barely manage to operate a chip and pin machine. I don't know how you've survived thus far. SH

They're confusing- JW

No, they really are not. SH

John let his head fall against the black lacquered surface of the door to 221B, groaning in frustration. He looked around for another option- eyes falling on the bright window of the café, which was the main light source in the mid-evening gloom of the street.

I'm in Speedy's getting a coffee. I got bored of waiting for you to open the door. –JW

Yes, I was already wondering. SH

John sat down at one of the cold metal tables outside the shop front, watching the darkness descend upon the street. He could hear the mournful opening notes of Bach's Chaconne floating on the wind- it was one of Sherlock's favourites, and he recognised it with little hesitation. The realisation frustrated him no end.

I can hear your violin from here. I like how you have enough hands to play, but not enough to open the bloody door for me. –JW

It isn't my violin. SH

John laughed bitterly, distractedly dumping a little more sugar than necessary into his coffee.

Who the hell else plays Bach on Baker Street at 9pm? Do we have an interesting new neighbour? Or perhaps you're being serenaded by someone from the Royal Philharmonic? –JW

John, as much as I'm flattered by your belief that I can do literally anything, I cannot play the violin and text simultaneously. I am sadly limited by my possession of only two arms and ten fingers. SH

You might have been taking breaks. You do that sometimes, when you compose. The only time you didn't was when you composed that song for Irene. –JW

John took a sip of his overly sweet coffee, considering his text. Perhaps he should have steered away from that particular subject- he considered Irene Adler to be Sherlock's weakness, and he was half-sure that the detective held the same opinion.

I did not compose a song for her. I composed a song whilst we were on that case. SH

You composed a song for Irene. You've never composed a song for me. –JW

Did you love her? –JW

There was a long pause in which John finished his coffee, assuming that he had indeed touched a nerve. He didn't trouble himself with it too much- after all; there wasn't much he could do whilst he was still locked out of his own home.

Where is that coming from? SH

Sherlock's eventual reply sharpened John's awareness of his surroundings, and he could only assume that the detective was referring to the violin music which had latterly increased in volume to the point where it was now obvious that it wasn't coming from their flat.

Why don't you go and investigate it, "consulting detective"? –JW

You do know that quotation marks are usually used in that context to invalidate the content in-between? SH

John smirked- he could practically feel Sherlock's outrage from down on the street. He twisted round, determined to find the source of the music that was now loud enough to be incongruous with the quiet near-darkness of the street.

Never mind, I've found it. Car, parked halfway down the street. Tinted windows, as far as I can see. Something to do with you, perhaps? –JW

Possibly. SH

Is there something you aren't telling me, Sherlock? –JW

There are a lot of things, actually. SH

John bit his lip, draining the last of his latte from the nondescript white mug in his hands.

That's worrying, and yet not hugely surprising. Anything that you're keeping from me that could get me killed imminently? –JW

You are not getting killed. SH

That's reassuring. –JW

There was another long wait- John nibbled at a slightly stale pastry and watched a tiny moth flit around the fuzzy glow of his phone screen.

Where's your gun? SH

If John hadn't been worried before, he was now.

Top desk drawer, right hand side. How worried should I be that you're asking this? –JW

Precautions, John. I have no intention of missing. SH

Oh for Christ's sake. Do you need me up there? –JW

The reply did not come quick enough for his liking, and he urgently added-

I'm coming up. –JW

Sherlock replied quickly this time, with a frantic-

No! SH

John jumped to his feet and jogged to his front door, rattling the unyielding handle. This was Not Good.

If you don't open the door, I'm coming up the back stairs. –JW

Just stay at Speedy's. I can handle it. SH

I'm texting Lestrade. –JW

He said that, but he made his way over to his original table and sat back down, impatiently tapping the fingertips of one hand on the grubby metal surface.

John, please stop overreacting. You'll only make it worse. SH

The doctor looked at the screen of his phone in disbelief. "Overreacting?" he muttered to himself, outraged.

Sherlock, you're about to shoot someone. With my gun. –JW

It's a precaution. I may not need it. SH

Are you about to get yourself killed? –JW

No. SH

Are you sure? –JW

Well, that would be the worst-case scenario. SH

Unsurprisingly, this little revelation did not succeed in making John feel any better about the situation. He had to fight the urge to kick the door down and rush upstairs with every muscle in his well-disciplined body. His phone lit up again, but this time it wasn't his flatmate. He glanced at the text, and then replied to Sherlock by way of a warning.

Lestrade said he doesn't have time to chase after you when you're being an idiot. So you're on your own. –JW

That doesn't worry me in the slightest. I fail to see what his utterly inept team could bring to this situation. I have some enemies- this is simply one of them paying a visit. SH

We could have done with the milk, though. I can't even offer tea. SH

John glanced at the plastic grocery bag at his feet, horrified.

They're IN OUR FLAT? –JW

SHERLOCK. –JW

Calm down. SH

John was seething as he read Sherlock's words, utterly dripping with condescension. He wondered how the detective could fail to see how this was at least mildly worrying to him.

Well, you don't always entertain the people who are trying to kill you, you know. –JW

Or do you? And I just don't know about it. –JW

Well, who else would be worth the effort? SH

John shook his head, but he couldn't say that he was shocked by Sherlock's response. He liked a puzzle- anything that could occupy his mind and take him away from the dull monotony of everyday life for more than a moment. John rarely offered that to him, and that was why he never offered John tea.

What do your criminals think of the phone glued to your ear? They must be insulted. –JW

Oh, she doesn't mind. SH

She? Well, that's unexpected, somehow. –JW

Ah yes. That slipped. SH

John doubted that very much. He could count on one hand the amount of times that he had heard Sherlock say something accidentally- his words were often wrongly interpreted by others, but this was different. What other way was there to interpret "she"?

Irene? –JW

What are the chances of a dead woman climbing in the window? SH

He had forgotten that Sherlock knew about that. He was right- it was impossible. Nevertheless, the idea kept pressing at the back of his mind.

Well, she's the only woman you know. Except Molly. Is she a criminal mastermind? –JW

Funny. SH

Just curious. –JW

She did fake her death once before, if you remember. –JW

I am aware. You have quite the obsession with Miss Adler, you know. SH

John bristled at the accusation and rapidly texted back.

No I don't, but you liked her. She's the only woman you've ever shown an interest in. The only person, actually. –JW

Moriarty? SH

Was he really that obvlivious?

In a romantic way, Sherlock. –JW

Ah, yes. Nothing more romantic than needing a gun for protection every time you meet. SH

Not romance, then. Desire. The first time I met you she was straddling your lap with no clothes on. It leaves an impression. –JW

That, I presume, was the point. SH

John snorted, before shoving the last of his pastry into his mouth and chewing contemplatively. Sherlock was right; he supposed- everything that The Woman had done had been engineered to make an impression. Otherwise, it wouldn't have been worth doing at all.

Yes, she was clever. –JW

I suppose. SH

Not clever enough in the end. SH

It was sad, Irene's fate- but it almost made John laugh to see how quickly Sherlock would jump to defend his genius status. Nobody else was allowed to match him, or it would invalidate everything he strived for- individuality, praise, recognition. He struggled with the huge weight of his huge mind on a daily basis, and to Sherlock, "clever" was very much a status that had to be earned.

So if it isn't Irene or evil Molly, who is in our sitting room with you? –JW

Why do you think I locked the door, John? SH

With hindsight, I'm guessing it was to keep me out and not them. –JW

Exactly. So kindly stop bothering me with questions that you know you won't get an answer to. SH

John was getting impatient now. This was his flat, too, and he was paying half the rent, and it was his stuff in the little upstairs bedroom- so he couldn't believe he was being patched in favour of a bloody criminal.

Any idea when your criminal plans to vacate? I'm on call tomorrow morning and the café shuts in half an hour. –JW

I can't say. It isn't exactly my choice. SH

John slammed his hand onto the table top in frustration, startling the only remaining customer on the other side of the window. He smiled apologetically and raised a hand at them, turning back to his phone and angrily punching another message into the keys.

I'm going to Harry's, so you can sod your milk. –JW

Try not to get killed. There are extra rounds in the skull, if you haven't stolen them already. –JW

The doctor stood abruptly, making his way over to the till to pay. This was ridiculous- he was going to have to suffer Harry's alcoholic ranting and hung-over grouching because Sherlock was having too much fun to let him into his own home. Jesus Christ- the thought of it made him cringe. Maybe he would just check into a hotel for the night.

I'll make it half an hour, alright. Get another coffee. SH

And with that, John's anger dissipated and he smiled idiotically at the phone in his hand. He liked to be reminded that Sherlock could have feelings; sometimes- it let him know that he wasn't crazy for liking the man so much. He bought another coffee and sat down again, eyeing the clock on the wall. Eventually, he decided to reply.

Thank you, Sherlock. –JW

And with that, he settled down to wait.

A/N

Holy Mary, this was longer than I expected. This is my first ficced RP, hence the texting in this chapter and the reason it is so definitely in John's POV. It does turn to full prose in subsequent chapters for anyone who dislikes reading the texts!

Full credit for Sherlock's actions/responses go to the lovely other half of this RP, who wishes to remain anon. They provided the ideas regarding Sherlock- I just rearranged them a bit.

Warnings:

-I don't have a beta-reader so there may be small mistakes- but I do welcome con-crit and the correction of any typos that I may have missed.
-If you're going to fic a role-play, make sure you get the express permission of the other half. It's their intellectual property as well as yours!