Disclaimer: Don't own.
Author's Note: Another fill! I need to stop looking though these... But anyway, enjoy. =D
Why couldn't I have found a flatmate who was willing to do the shopping? John thought as he wondered into the store. He had woken up this morning with his head feeling like it had a jack hammer included and a throat that was so very sore. He could barely breathe, and wanted nothing more then to make a cup of nice warm tea, a bowl of chicken noodle soup and to go back to bed. Unfortunately, once he had looked in his cupboards and fridge he have found his plans thawed.
Sherlock had used all the milk, the tea had been poisoned (for a case, of course) and the chicken noodle soup was no where to be found. Taking one look at his very lazy flatmate, who was torturing his violin, John had realised if he wanted any of those things he was going to have to go get them himself.
So he had found his warmest jumper, pinched Sherlock's scarf and headed out into the cold November air.
Shivering, he grabbed a basket and headed for the first aisle, to begin his search. It was then that all hell broke loose.
Three gunshots rang out through the air, causing people to scream and drop to the ground. John dropped his basket, hit the floor and rolled away from the noise, feeling for a second like he was back in Afghanistan. He quickly began to survey the situation.
There, by the bread was a man waving a gun. He was clearly upset, ranting and raving about something. Slowly, John crept closer, trying to hear what he was saying.
'…off. Your bread is always hard and stiff and has crusts and I don't like it. I want my bread soft and cheap. And my groceries, I want them cheaper… you say that this place is so much cheaper but it's not and I don't like liars and if you don't reduce your prices now I'm going to shot, I swear, I'm going to shot!' he pointed the gun suddenly at a little girl, cowering behind her mother.
By now John was standing at the other end of the aisle, behind the gunman. The man cocked the gun and began to aim in earnest. Eyes wide, John searched for a distraction.
The gunman was beginning to squeeze the trigger, when suddenly a loaf of bread hit him in the back of the head. Startled, he turned in time to be rugby tackled by John. They hit the ground together, with John managing to wrestle the gun out of his hands. As soon as it was free, John rolled off. In a millisecond he was on his feet, pointing the gun at the man still on the ground.
'Don't move.' He looked at one of the shop's employees. 'Police been called?'
She nodded, but the sounds of sirens behind made her action redundant. And John sighed again as the adrenaline left his system and his head cold returned, beginning a new level of pain with it.
I better add pain killers to my list, he thought.
Two hours, six interviews and a bag of free groceries later, John finally arrived home. Dumping the bags on the kitchen table (except the milk which went into the fridge and the pain killers which went into his pocket), he collapsed on the sofa across from Sherlock who was still exactly where John had left him.
'That took awhile. So either you got sidetracked, of you met someone shopping you had to spend an hour talking to.' Sherlock observed.
John just moaned in reply, and went after the medicine in his pocket.
Sherlock's phone beeped then, distracting the detective. John just sank lower into the sofa and buried himself under the (bright orange) blanket.
John used bread to stop hold-up earlier. Please explain purpose of bread. MH
'John! What does Mycroft mean by you using bread to stop a hold-up?'
John just rolled over, and dug even further into the sofa.