The day didn't start well for John, his alarm clock hadn't been set the night before, the shower drainage was plugged and had caused a mini-flood in the tub, and just minutes after he went out of the Underground, he realized he had left his lunch at home. To make matters worse, his last patient of the day happened to be a starchy, old man who needed a full body examination and wouldn't shut up while he was working. Sarah still wasn't talking to him after that kidnapping fiasco, really, it wasn't his fault Sherlock had arranged their date as some sort of bait for the smuggling ring, and he had to walk the five blocks from the subway to 221B because some idiot had managed to create a blockage. And if that wasn't enough, it started raining by the time he was three blocks away. John was irritated, tired and what he wanted most of all was to get a cup of tea, take a hot bath and sleep until morning. He was cranky and sore, so he disappeared right into the kitchen the moment he arrived, eyes bleary and drooping.
"Sherlock, I made te- WHY IS THERE A TIGER IN THE LIVING ROOM?" he yelled, thankful for his military training that he hadn't dropped the two cups of tea. The detective merely raised his head, mindful that his flatmate was pissed, and said, "It's an experiment, John." Sherlock was covered in dried blood and was cleaning his harpoon, the carcass of the dead tiger pitifully arranged on the floor like a stuffed toy on display at Tesco's. Pinching the bridge of his nose, John breathed through gritted teeth. "Throw that away. Out! And go have a bath. You smell like a rotten corpse, Sherlock Holmes!" Knowing he was fighting a lost battle, Sherlock pouted and put his harpoon back in the coat closet, crossing his arms over his chest. "Not good?" A cry of rage was the only thing he got in answer as John slammed the cups on the table and marched into the bathroom.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, slipping in behind John, his fingers massaging the doctor's knotted muscles. The man sighed in relief at the loss of tension, leaning against Sherlock and allowing him to proceed. "Just... don't let me come home to dead animals in our living room next time." His five-year old flatmate had won again, and John had forgiven him easily, brain too weary to stay angry.