A/N;; My girlfriend recently got me into Sherlock. So obviously I'm Johnlocked now. ._. Blame her. JSDSDG. Anyways, this is my first attempt at anything Sherlock related. Constructive criticism is always welcome. Especially if you'd like to tell me how to write the characters better. For now this is just a mini one-shot but I am planning on adding more to it. Consider this..an intro. MIGHTPOSSIBLYTURNINTOSMUTEVE NTUALLYBECAUSEICAN'THELPIT.
"What are you doing?" John demanded; really he didn't even know why he bothered with that question anymore. It was pointless, living with Sherlock. Pointless trying to figure out what was going on in that psychotic brain of his.
Sherlock was lounging on the couch at the far side of the room. Without a word and with a flick of his wrist he sent something metal - and very, very pointy - shooting across the room towards a target on the wall.
And he used the word 'target' loosely. Somehow Sherlock had managed to get an enlarged picture of Anderson's face. Said picture was tacked to the wall, sharpened metal spears (Which might have resembled darts at one time, how Sherlock got them to sail straight without their tails, John would never know) protruding from the pictures forehead, left ear, and chin. The newly released projectile had buried itself directly in the center of the picture's forehead.
Holmes let out a satisfied little grunt, taking aim again.
"Will you stop that?" John did the best he could to sound sincere; at least it wasn't bullet holes? But either way Mrs. Hudson was going to have a fit when she saw what Sherlock had done to her wall this time. John pinched the bridge of his nose, unable to work up the energy to even seem irritated. It was six-thirty in the morning and this was - or would have been - his first night of proper rest in...He couldn't even remember now. "Fine. Whatever. Just...I'm not paying for that." Sherlock was obviously in one of his moods, and things had a tendency to get broken, blown up, set on fire, or dropped from a seventh story window when those moods struck.
"I'm thinking." Came the somewhat bored, mono-toned reply. John froze in the doorway; was this bait? Was Sherlock baiting him?
There was a slight twitch at the corners of the taller male's mouth. "Don't you want to know what I'm thinking about?" John shook his head without hesitation. "No. No I do not, thank you very much. I'm going back to bed. You…be careful with that wall." John pointed at the other male as though that would emphasize his words before taking a step back the way he'd come. He'd only had his back to Sherlock for about two seconds when something went whizzing by his face, narrowly missing his ear by a fraction of an inch. He jumped, hand lifting to his cheek to check the damage. Nothing. He turned an accusatory gaze to Sherlock, eyes narrowing. "You are an infant." He shot, to which Sherlock replied with a slight tilt of his head. "Whoops."