Sherlock Holmes is a very . . . interesting human being to live with . . . ack, forget the deplomacy, that man is darn right impossible, plain and simple. Cooking for him (if you can call it that) is a piece of cake (pun intended.) Just give him a cup of tea—pineapple when bored, chai or green on a case—and the detective will be "good" for a week.
Other than that, life with Sherlock usually settles between a cold war and ground zero. Somewhere under that crusty exterior, bargain-bin coat, and shabby scarf, lay an even crustier interior. But, (although thick with gunk of the past and slow with the rust of misuse) Sherlock Holmes had a heart . . . though it has yet to rear its (albeit sleepy) head.
. . .
These are the things that swim through John Watson's head as makes a quick escape to the surgery. Quite honestly, he was in a panic that morning.
Sherlock was bored.
"Alright, I've got all the firearms stashed away in a safe with so many locks attacked it'd take even that smart Alec a month to open it . . . Gave all the poison to Mrs. Hudson, and told her to put that idiot under 24 hour guard until I get back home. . . Please, God in heaven, let me have a home to get back to, just this once." John mumbles to himself wildly while his cabby shrugs his shoulders, knowing better than to get involved.
. . .
John practically flies home, hoping against hope all the way. He's relieved to find at least Baker Street is standing, though he shudders at his next task.
It was now time to see if room 221B, and Sherlock, were still in one piece. (Alright, so Sherlock being alive wasn't on his top priority list. Just so long as he had something to kick if most of their flat was burnt to a cinder.)
. . .
Everything's perfect. Too good to be true, actually. Sherlock's just lying on the couch, resembling something of a dejected puppy, but doing nothing potentially destructive. It's incredible . . . literally. The docter doesn't buy this, and starts snooping around the house, trying to see if his detective friend made an atom bomb while he was away.
. . .
John eventually spots a small puddle of water on the floor, and his eyes travel to the kitchen table.
A small caliber pistol rests atop it, looking rather innocent.
"You didn't . . ." John trails off, walking along the trail of water. It ends at the bathroom door, which is closed.
John Watson, knowing he's going to regret this, opens the door.
"Sheeeeerrrloooock! You hit the plumbing AGAIN?!"
"What? I was bored. And Mrs. Hudson had to go get groceries . . ." (Of course she'd done this saying she was just repaying a favor, and was in no way their maid.)
. . .
Some days later, John contemplates he should just take something—one of the guns he's continually locking away or the arsenic his friend loves to experiment with—and just get it over with.
Because, really? If Watson ever did kill Holmes, he'd be solving quite a few problems for quite a few people.
. . .
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you, and goodbye.