Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock, don't own the game mentioned. Also, I'm not entirely sure where exactly that Mycroft joke originated, but it sure wasn't me.
This idea jumped on me and I wrote it down fast. It's kind of sloppy- I'M SORRY!
"Booored!" Sherlock whined.
"Then find something to do," John grumbled, irate, slowly typing with one finger.
"There is nothing to do!" the consulting detective moaned then shot an annoyed look at his flat mate, "And learn to type properly!" he berated, glaring at John's aggravatingly slow typing speed.
John ignored him. That's what he often did when Sherlock was in-between cases and in one of these moods. But, then again, Sherlock's complaining and irritability was only the milder side of it. Soon enough, John was sure, Sherlock would be retrieving his gun to wreak havoc on the walls. John made a mental note to put the padlock on the drawer he kept the gun in- not that Sherlock wouldn't be able to guess the combination. He'd had before, after all.
"BOOOOORED!"
John pinched the bridge of his nose. He could not wait until the next case came along.
But it was a week passed- an entire, slow, painful week for the both of them- and still nothing had come up.
They were out of milk, again (Lord, how did they always go through it so fast?), and it was up to John to retrieve more, because Sherlock sure wasn't going to do it.
As he put his coat on, John went to check up on Sherlock.
Well, thought John to himself, viewing the scene, at least he's not shooting the walls.
Miraculously, Sherlock had gotten up off the couch he always kept on so religiously. Considerably less impressive was the fact that he was now lying on the floor opposite the couch, still complaining and pouting like an overgrown child.
"My brain… is rotting!" he cried in an over-dramatized tone.
John rolled his eyes, "Stop being so dramatic and get a hobby! Meanwhile, I'm going to get milk, so-"
"Hobbies are boring!" Sherlock whined (him and his whining, honestly!), "And fine, fine, run off to get your groceries and go on with your dull, monotonous, thoroughly unexciting life while I-"
Sherlock was cut short as John set his laptop down onto his chest. Sherlock looked up at John, all his dramatic exaggeration dissipated, replaced with something akin to confusion… or perhaps annoyance. It was hard to tell.
"Now, what do you expect me to do with that?" Sherlock spat, jabbing an offending finger at the piece of technology.
"Surf the web, play some games, join a nice chat room," John went on, moving towards the door, "So long as its legal and the computer is intact and functioning by the time I get back, do whatever you want."
The door shut. Sherlock turned his gaze toward the laptop and glowered viciously at it. Then, grudgingly, out of the threat of mind-numbing boredom, he hit the power button and waited for the laptop to load.
Well, on the one hand, John was quite grateful that the gun remained untouched and the walls remained intact. On the other, this situation was beginning to get quite worrisome.
He'd handed his laptop over to Sherlock several days ago. John hadn't seen a glimpse of either since.
He came back from the store with the milk and some shopping to find that Sherlock had locked himself up in his room, presumably with the computer, as John couldn't find it anywhere else. Initially, he had been torn between being satisfied that Sherlock had found a way of amusing himself until the next case and worried for the life of that piece of technology. Now, four days later, he was definitely worried.
Finally, making up his mind, John trooped across the flat and halted right in front of the door to Sherlock's current barricade- er, room…
"Sherlock?" John said. The man in question didn't make any reply, but a furious tapping could be heard.
After fifteen minutes and several more sets of this, John rolled his eyes and forced himself through the door.
Sherlock didn't look up at the intrusion or make any acknowledgement of John's presence. His slightly reddened ice-blue eyes remained locked in a frenzied concentration on the glowing screen in front of him. His hands were flying across the keyboard in swift, forcible movements. The computer was making sounds of explosions, swords clanking, and… spells casting?
"Sherlock, what are you-"
"Not now, John! Can't you see I'm in the middle of something important?" Sherlock snapped in a dry, slightly hoarse voice.
Cautiously, John approached the man crouching over the computer on the bed and peered over his shoulder. It looked like a forest, with the screen constantly centered on what looked like a zombie- or something undead- that Sherlock was clearly controlling. Currently, it looked to be madly waving a knife at a blue-ish elf. Another undead thing passed by the screen, right past Sherlock's avatar, with "Hexora" floating above it in blue lettering.
John's eyebrows raised high upon his brow, "It looks like you're playing a game to me."
"A massive multi-player online role-playing game- mmorpg, as it's better known among this lot," Sherlock explained in a hiss, never peeling his fixed eyes away from the computer, "As per your suggestion, I browsed the internet and came across an ad for this game- been on it since, I'm currently using the 10 day free trial."
John gaped at him, "You've been playing this game for four straight days?"
"Has it been four days?" Sherlock murmured, seeming fairly unperturbed by the news, "Very deceptive, this game. Makes you feel very productive, even when you're doing nothing of any- DIE YOU ACCURSED NIGHT ELF!" he shouted suddenly.
John was startled into silence and spent the next few moments just watching the crazed man in front of him practically beat the keys to death while muttering furiously under his breath, "Why don't you leave your computer to address that unfortunate case of carpal tunnel in your right hand? I know you have it- you normally favor use of the keys involving that hand, but have just now been exhibiting delayed reactions with them and consistent typos with the letters on the right side of the keyboard!"
"You're deducing people through the internet now?" John exasperated.
Sherlock made no reaction at it. That didn't surprise John, as he seemed so absorbed in that bloody game.
There was a soft 'ding!'- not from the laptop but from Sherlock's mobile, sitting lonely and abandoned on the dresser opposite the room. John crossed the room- almost tripping on a power cord- and checked the mobile. There were six unopened messages, all from Lestrade, concerning cases for Sherlock that, frankly, sounded morbid and strange enough to interest the man.
"Sherlock, Lestrade has some new cases for us," John told Sherlock, heading for the door, fully-expecting that Sherlock would follow right after him.
But he didn't. Instead, Sherlock just sat, remaining glued to the computer like he hadn't even heard John.
John wondered…
"Are you ignoring me on purpose, or can I just say anything and you won't even notice?" John asked him.
Still no response. Interesting.
"Sherlock, if you make any acknowledgment of what I'm saying at all, I will give you my gun and you can shoot the walls to your heart's content," John baited.
And still, nothing but angered mumbling and furious tapping.
"I think you're a childish prat with a creepy-as-hell brother," John tried again.
"Seeing Mycroft and his umbrella always reminds me of Mary Poppings."
"I am going to throw away, right now, all of your experiments!"
"…including the one with the severed feet in the bathtub!"
"Mrs. Hudson keeps pulling me aside to give me advice on how to make you interested in me!"
"…in a romantic way!"
"I will paint your skull hot pink and stick a bunch of flowers through its eye sockets!"
"I will make you sit through every movie containing references I have made jokes about that you didn't get!"
"I've had a bit of a crush on you…"
That one wasn't a lie, but Sherlock couldn't hear him, so it didn't matter, did it?
All through that, Sherlock hadn't made a single move away from that game.
Oh blast it, he'd rather have childish Sherlock than this!
"You've had quite enough time on that, Sherlock- you really should take a break from it," and John tried to get the laptop out of Sherlock's grasp.
Sherlock kept a tight grip on the computer, trying desperately to win the battle John was trying to take away from him.
"Wait, John! No no no NO NO NO NO!" Sherlock shouted, trying to wrestle the laptop back into his possession.
There was a shout from the zombie-thing on the computer and Sherlock let out a defeated groan.
"And I died- thank you, John, it's going to take me so much valuable time to get to the nearest graveyard, and he'll be long gone by then!"
"Sherlock, you are done with this game, and I'm taking back my laptop, thank you very much!" and John managed to get a hold of the laptop, and he made his way to the door.
Sherlock pursued him, "Wait, John, no! I have to-"
They were wrestling for the computer, when they tripped over that one pesky power cord. They toppled to the ground, body's intertwined. The laptop fell open a couple of feet away.
John looked up at Sherlock, who had him pinned to the ground in a less-than-entirely-dignified position. Their faces- their lips, he noticed most- were millimeters apart.
There was a glint in Sherlock's ice-blue eyes, now focused, with a fixed intent, squarely on John.
"So you've had a 'crush' on me, John?" he murmured in a husky, seductive voice.
He closed the gap between their lips.
On the fallen laptop neither of them cared about for the moment, a blip of triumphant music played and a message popped up-
Achievement Earned:
Make Love, Not Warcraft
Why, yes, the game Sherlock was playing is World of Warcraft. Yes, the achievement would have been for the night elf, not his character. (If you have no idea what I'm talking about, just think of it as a typical online game, you should still probably get the basic idea!