It was just another average day on Baker Street. A few cars passed by, clouds scuttled across the sky, and for the moment, all was peaceful.
Only, an "average day" at Baker Street didn't quite fit the normal parameters of "average".
"BORED!" The long, loud shout reverberated out the slightly open window of 221B into the street, and a few birds resting on the sill were startled into immediately leaping away and flying off with cries of shock. The curtains to the selfsame window were shoved open by the tall, lean figure in his dressing gown. In an instant, Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective, had flopped upon his stomach and was pulling the floor-length window up. His long arm reached over and grabbed something out of sight.
Less than a minute later, the birds on the building opposite were abandoning their posts.
It had been a long, stressful day for John Watson. Everyone in London seemed to be sick today, and the office had been crammed full with impatient patients – funny, that, impatient patients, and a bit ironic – and it seemed that every time he had greeted, diagnosed, prescribed, and said goodbye to one patient, another would take their place. He longed for his armchair at 221B, and told himself that the first thing he would do when he got back would be to sink into it and close his eyes, just relaxing. Then he would make tea, and let the hot drink wash away all the day's tension and stress. Then perhaps he would read, and then go to bed.
He should have known that it wouldn't work out that way.
He had just paid the cabbie and was climbing out of the cab when he felt something was wrong. He tensed up suddenly, and right on cue, he heard the sound of a gun firing, proving that his instincts as a solider were still intact. Something about that gunshot didn't sound right, though. The shot was much quieter and had more echo to it than that of the average handgun, and a millisecond later he heard a quiet splat. Still, though, the soldier in him was taking over, and he was darting under the slight shelter at 221B's door, aware that the sound was coming from directly above. In an instant he had his keys out and, upon unlocking the door, was dashing up the stairs, past the living area and upwards, up to his bedroom to retrieve his handgun. It was in its usual place, in the drawer of his bedside table. It was the matter of a few seconds to pull the drawer open, grab his already-loaded gun, turn the safety off, and dash back down the stairs as he heard another shot. What was that, a dart gun? He didn't want to think that Sherlock could be lying in there with a poison dart sticking out of his neck, but he couldn't keep the mental imagery away. The living room door was open a crack, making it easy for John to charge his way through, his gun brandished, his eyes running over every space in the living room, ready to fire at any moment.
He found no deadly assassin waiting for him. Instead, the only occupant of the room was on his stomach by the window, his chest and arms propped up on the Union Jack pillow that normally decorated John's chair, holding a…paintball gun?
"Oh, hello John," Sherlock said calmly, without turning around. There were stacks and stacks of unopened cartridge boxes next to him on the left, and open, empty boxes scattered to his right.
John still had his gun brandished, unable to speak, his mouth opening and closing. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John, and couldn't help the grin that snaked its way across his sharp face.
"That's very touching of you to come to my rescue, John, though as you can see, there is no immediate danger. I'm flattered though, really I am."
All John could do was look up, out the window, at the building opposite 221B. The sun had set long ago, but the street lamps provided enough light to see that the brick wall was decorated with bright yellow paint. The words "BORED" and "221B" and "HOLMES WAS HERE" covered the wall's surface in large, bold letters. There were also smiley faces, skulls, and an unfinished stick figure hanging from a gallows.
"Don't worry about the legal technicalities. Mycroft'll take care of that," Sherlock said coolly as John stared, his mouth open in astonishment. He knew how bored Sherlock could get when he wasn't on a case, but he'd never imagined that his friend would take it this far. Sherlock continued speaking as though they were having a calm, normal conversation over tea.
"He wouldn't want to see his little brother tied up in silly legal disputes when he needs me to do all his legwork. That's the advantage of having an older brother who is the British Government, yet is too lazy to do anything he could shove off onto me. It's both an annoyance and an advantage. Oh, yes, and before you ask, Mrs. Hudson is off visiting...someone. Extended family, I think. Couldn't have her interfering."
Sherlock then turned back to his original post, aimed through the ornate grating outside the window, and continued shooting. In moments, the stick figure had a smiley face.
John was still speechless, though he had lowered his gun. He tried speaking, but nothing would come out other than squeaky, strangled noises.
Sherlock put the paintball gun down, sat up, and turned around fully to look at John with such a look of questioning innocence that John wondered if he'd lost his mind. Was it really such a normal thing for Sherlock Holmes to vandalize buildings that readily and easily? And how had he not noticed all of those bloody boxes before now? And the paintball gun? Had Sherlock just been collecting them, letting them stack and stack up in his bedroom until he couldn't resist the temptation anymore? It was one thing to shoot the living room wall, and another thing to do…this.
All he could really think about, though, was how he'd thought Sherlock was in danger and had charged in, ready to help his best friend out, and now, his shock was being replaced by fury, enabling him to speak.
"You dickhead."
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock's eyes widened a bit and he tipped his head slightly to the side, his expression clearly saying, Who, me?, which only served to enrage John further.
"You bloody heard me! I thought you were in danger! You could have been dying for all I knew and-"
"Wait, John," Sherlock cut in, alarm finally seeping its way into his expression. "Do let me explain."
"Explain WHAT? What is there to explain? No, wait, actually, do explain! I want to hear you try to explain this! Go on then!"
There was silence for a moment as Sherlock rearranged his face to show cool indifference. John wasn't fooled.
"I was bored," he said, finally, shifting his weight uncomfortably where he sat on his haunches.
"YOU WERE BORED! YOU WERE BORED!" John roared. "THANKS, SHERLOCK, I NEVER WOULD'VE FIGURED THAT OUT! THANK GOD I COULD BE ENLIGHTENED-"
"John, calm down," Sherlock said, alarm making its way back into his face. "Please. I told you, Mycroft will take care of any legal-"
"I don't care about that!" John exclaimed, lowering his voice for the sake of the poor neighbors, who had had to put up with this longer than he had. He put his gun down and stormed over to the window, which he promptly slammed shut.
"John!" Sherlock protested. "I wasn't done yet."
"Yes you are. You are completely done with that," John said, reaching down, snatching the paintball gun up, and quickly moving out of reach. "No more of this. No more."
"You aren't my mother," Sherlock said, and if John hadn't known the great detective better, he'd have said the man was pouting.
"No. I'm worse," agreed John, before turning and storming out of the room, with the firm resolution of disposing of the paintball gun, or at least confiscating it so that Sherlock couldn't get at it again. After that, he was going to take a bath. A long, long bath.
He certainly deserved it.
A/N: Hello, lovely readers! I was inspired to write this after seeing a great fanart of Sherlock painting the word "BORED" onto a building, with John just standing there and looking on. Then my brain just sort of...came up with this. By the way, this takes place pre-TRF, well, rather obviously since John's still living at Baker Street...Anyways, hope you enjoyed.