(I OWN ONLY PLOT)
A/n: This is dedicated to my friends, who are totally addicted to Sherlock... And this is the first story I've written for this fandom... So yeah. Anyway, shout out to you!
THUD! The door to apartment 221b Baker Street flew open with a bang as Sherlock Holmes stormed in. "Why is it whenever I go out, nobody's dead?" He yelled, in place of a greeting to John Watson, who was reading that morning's paper.
"Bad day, Sherlock?" John asked dryly, folding the paper to listen to his friend.
"Bad day? Two weeks and not one murder to solve! I need a case!" Sherlock shouted, frustrated with the lack of action.
John sighed, knowing his friend loved it when people were murdered. The worse and more brutal, the better it was for Sherlock, who loved that sort of thing. Personally, John thought he needed a new hobby. "You just solved a case, Sherlock. Even geniuses need a break."
"I've had two weeks, John! I'm getting bored! How hard is it for someone to lash out with a knife or a gun? How hard can it be to kill someone? I just wish someone would hurry up and die!" Sherlock yelled, storming around the flat.
John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, please. Think about this. You're actually wishing that someone would murder someone who hasn't done anything to you or anyone else."
"Then what about Moriarty? Someone could off him! Or he could off someone else! I don't care any more, John! I need a case!" Sherlock was almost screaming with the frustration.
John groaned at his friend. "Listen, Sherlock, nobody is offing anyone! You really need a new hobby!" He had picked his paper up to distract him from his friend's rant.
Sherlock snapped "Like you do? Sit at home all day and read the paper? Boring!"
"You could take up needlepoint." John told him sarcastically, rolling his eyes at Sherlock's behaviour. He was well-accustomed to Sherlock's sociopathic need for deaths, blood spillage and gore.
"Boring!" Sherlock told him, with a wave of his hand, before adding "My mother made Mycroft and I needlepoint her cushions together when we were younger."
"Why would she do that?" John asked, looking up from his paper at last to look at his friend, who was restlessly pacing.
"Ah, we were having a disagreement." Sherlock casually waved it away, not liking to dwell on his childhood, which had been filled with Mycroft and endless times of being forced into "bonding times."
John sighed again, knowing what it was like with Sherlock and Mycroft. They often clashed over the most trivial things. He gave his friend a look of annoyance, before saying "Well, we could get you into a creative writing group."
"No, thank you. Creativity is no fun unless I'm using it to solve an even more creative and complex murder case."
Getting frustrated at Sherlock's inability to be consoled, John looked back at his paper. "Join the army. Teach young detectives to tap dance! Go and play in a science lab and work out how bananas are healthy and why people eat them in the gym! Go create a new species of bird and release it into the wild!" He exclaimed, firing out sarcastic ideas for a new hobby.
"No. Look where the army got you. I hate young detectives, they're so obnoxious. I already know how bananas work. And I don't really like birds, so why would I want another species of them?" Sherlock shot down John's sarcastic ideas like a hunter shot their prey.
John's curiosity was sparked again and he couldn't help asking "How do bananas work?"
"Their health benefits include stimulation for the muscles, nerves and brain cells, reduce blood pressure and the risks of a stroke. Most new mothers feed their babies banana when teaching them to eat solid foods." Sherlock replied to his friend with a tone of complete boredom.
"So how much potassium is in the average banana?" John asked, obviously intrigued.
"Point four hundred and forty two grams." Sherlock responded with an incredibly flat tone, like he was reporting the colour of the pavement outside.
John, sensing that Sherlock was bored, looked at him. He noticed the way his hair curled over his forehead, the way his face looked in profile and the way his grey eyes shot around, as if searching the room for something new. John realised he'd never noticed how intensely dark Sherlock's hair was. He shook himself slightly and looked back at his paper, muttering "John, you like Mary. Remember that."
Another fortnight had passed and Sherlock had taken to shooting bullets through a dartboard at all hours of the day and night when Sherlock was called. He answered the phone right in front of John, who looked up in interest. John noticed his best friend's face as he lit up with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning. He watched those thoughtful grey eyes light up and felt a shiver down his spine at the sight. Sherlock, for the first time in his life, had not noticed John's shiver at all, or the fact that he was staring intently at him. He put the phone down, alight with intense excitement. "John Watson, put that paper down! We've got a case! Man, shot dead in his car! Come on, man, hurry up!"
They hurried out, accidentally brushing poor Mrs Hudson into the wall. John called "Sorry!"
They left her muttering "There they go again. Just when I thought we were finally getting some peace."
At the crime scene, they were met by Detective Inspector Lestrade. "So, where's the body?" Sherlock asked, excited to see the crime itself, not really caring about anything else, moving quickly, reminding John of a squirrel that had seen a giant acorn.
"Just in the grey car over there. How are you-" Sherlock had shot off before he could finish. "-Sherlock? Oh, well. And how are you, John?"
"I'm okay, yeah. Grateful that Sherlock finally has something to do." John smiled, then added "He's almost obliterated his dartboard."
Meanwhile, Sherlock was talking quickly and quietly to Sergeant Donovan. "Marks on the body show that he was beaten up a bit. Finger marks here look slender, quite delicate, I'd guess at a female. Long nail marks here... Either a woman or a man who takes particular pride in his nails."
It was shocking to John how much he found himself watching Sherlock's every move. It wasn't until they got back that he decided that he ought to do something about it. He looked at Sherlock and bluntly asked "Do you ever look in the mirror and think that you're just the most gorgeous man alive?"
Sherlock, absorbed in his thoughts, absent-mindedly shrugged and said "No, there's always the image of you in that category."
John almost choked on air. "Did you just call me the most gorgeous man alive, Sherlock?"
Sherlock, still too absorbed in his thoughts to register what John was saying, nodded and said "I did." He then proceeded to add "Problem?"
"No, no. I just thought that you might think that you were the most gorgeous man alive." John tried to save himself.
"Not while you're alive, John." Sherlock told him, getting up. He walked past John's chair, making him settle down, believing that he was safe. That was when someone kissed the top of his head. "Goodnight, John."
John sat up and turned in his chair, watching Sherlock smile his way out of the room. Stunned, John pinched his arm to see if he was dreaming. "Ouch!" He muttered, then called "Goodnight, Sherlock."
He fell asleep in his armchair that night, images of Sherlock on his mind.
Hope that was okay. That was fun... Anyway! Hope you enjoyed. :) BlackCat46 OUT! xx