DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC adaptation belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
Ok, here we go:
"Bored."
The single word echoed around the walls of 221b Baker Street. The perpetrator of the noise was lounged face down on the settee, limbs dangling from the sides. A few seconds passed, although it felt more like half an hour.
"BORED!" came the sound again, only louder, more frustrated. Having once again elicited no response, Sherlock Holmes lifted his head up and glanced around the room in confusion. Empty. John must have gone out. Dull. With a heavy sigh, Sherlock lifted himself up and wandered over to the mantelpiece. He picked up his skull and turned it over a few times absently, the weight familiar in his hand. A few more seconds passed; an absolute eternity. Sherlock gritted his teeth and wished John would hurry up and come home. It was really very selfish of him to go out on a day when Sherlock was bored, even if they did need milk. Sherlock set the skull down in John's usual chair and sat down in the seat opposite it, pressing his hands together and raising his fingertips to his lips as if in deep thought.
The light outside gradually dimmed time wore on, with Sherlock still occupied in what appeared to be a staring contest with the skull. Suddenly he leapt up and grabbed his violin and plucked at the strings carelessly, advancing to the window. Looking outside at all the ordinary people hurrying home, trapped in their mundane lives, Sherlock began to feel reckless. It must be so boring being ordinary. He rapped rhythmically and relentlessly on the window with his violin-free hand and wondered when John was coming home, scanning all the faces below.
The sound of the front door closing reached his ears. "John!" he called automatically, hearing footsteps on the stairs.
"Sorry, just me, dear," came the sympathetic voice of Mrs Hudson, who entered the room with her arms full. "I collected your clothes from the dry cleaners, Sherlock, but just this once, mind; I am your landlady not your housekeeper – what a mess you've made in this room!" Sherlock sighed, almost snarled, audibly as Mrs Hudson flitted around the room, depositing the dry cleaning on a chair and putting the skull back in its rightful place. He closed his eyes tightly in annoyance as the light was flicked on, having adjusted to the semi-darkness.
"Mrs Hudson," he began in a dangerously low voice, "would you kindly leave me alone!" Sherlock was seething and still staring out of the window. Mrs Hudson, used to such treatment by now, sighed and turned to exit the room. "Oh, and on your way out," came Sherlock's calm voice, "could you -"Mrs Hudson turned off the light before he could finish the request and Sherlock allowed himself a satisfied smile.
The smile soon wore off his face and he threw himself back onto the settee in desperation. His fine mind was surely going to waste in this state. Where was John, anyway? Sherlock moaned into the cushions in order to relieve some of the all-consuming tension. He droned out a muffled "bored…" from that position and tried not to think about cigarettes. Finally the front door opened and shut once again. Sherlock opened his eyes but gave no other response. He heard John's familiar footsteps ascend the 17 steps and the tell-tale rustling of a plastic bag which indicated he had indeed been to the supermarket. The last few seconds before John entered the room were torturous.
"Sherlock?" questioned John in his innocent voice, "why are you sitting up here in the dark?" he switched on the light revealing Sherlock lying in what looked like a stupor, having not reacted at all to the light this time. "What's the matter with you?" John looked concerned but strode into the kitchen to unload the shopping.
"Bored!" shouted Sherlock, bounding up and shaking John with some force. "Bored!" he reiterated, "I've been bored all day! Where have you been all this time? The supermarket can't have taken you more than an hour, round trip…" Sherlock was talking in his usual frantic manner, eyes wide and looking quite out of his mind with boredom.
"What are you talking about?" replied John lightly, pushing past him to put the milk in the fridge. "I've only been gone for 45 minutes! Relax, Sherlock. Nice to know that you missed me though… What do you want for dinner?"
"I didn't miss you," sneered Sherlock, but with no real conviction. "Dinner? Dinner's boring."
John just shook his head and smiled over at Sherlock, rolling his eyes slightly. Next time he'd make sure Sherlock came with him to the supermarket.
A/N: Hope you liked it! I wanted it to be longer but it came to a natural end there. I would consider doing more chapters depending on the response, so please review! Also any suggestions for future chapters would be welcome, as thinking of ideas tends to be my main problem when writing! Thanks for reading :-)