Bubbles

by katydidit

John and Mrs. Hudson have gone away for the week, leaving Sherlock all alone. Certainly a man of his intellect would have no trouble getting along on his own, right? 221b drabble.

Oh, for the love...

He was smart. Very smart. Possibly the smartest man in the world. Definitely the smartest man in London. He was the world's first and only consulting detective. The police could count on him to make them look good, bring in their suspects and close their cases often in a matter of days.

So why couldn't he figure out this washing machine?

The blame rested squarely upon John and Mrs. Hudson, of course. If they hadn't left for so long, Sherlock might still have had clean pants, and therefore he wouldn't be standing downstairs having a battle of wills with a hunk of metal. It was actually getting to the point where he was tired of sitting around naked. So here he was, doing the wash. It was so mundane, so...boring. With a growl of triumph, Sherlock dumped a rather liberal helping of soap into the machine and slammed it shut, hitting the buttons in just the right order to coax it into life. He had bested the washing beast. He had survived.

A few hours later, John unlocked the door to the flat, looked around, and immediately rushed up the stairs. "Sherlock?" He shouted, looking for his flatmate. "Why have you filled the downstairs with bubbles?"