1. Nothing is mine, beta-read or Brit-picked.
2. For Random-Nexus on the occasion of her birthday.
3. Sorry for the Borrowing of Titles
John was going to fucking kill Sherlock. Damn Mycroft. Damn Mummy Holmes. Damn Greg. Damn Molly. Damn Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock Fucking Holmes was going to die tonight at John Watson's hands.
Another ruined evening. Another ruined date. Another pair of ruined trousers. Seriously, he was going to need a whole other wardrobe if Sherlock insisted on dragging him through the seedy, sloppy underbelly of London. And the cost alone would force John to have to get an additional two jobs on top of his apparently full time care of one, Sherlock Fucking Holmes.
John gritted his teeth again. He could almost feel the scrawny git's neck in his hands as he squeezed. Crime of passion, indeed, John thought as he neared 221b Baker Street. I wonder how much of a head start I would need before Mycroft took me down. After Sherlock interrupted his date with the lovely Shirley - beautiful thing, nice legs, nice rack, wouldn't be talking to him again - leading him through the sewers in the pursuit of the suspected murderer - which they caught by the way, with no help from Lestrade and the police and only a few bullets aimed at them, Sherlock had the gall to leave him at the scene with not a word. After giving Lestrade his promise to drag the World's Only Whiniest Consulting Detective down to NSY in the morning to give their statement, John left them in pursuit of his mad flatmate and clean clothing.
He made it halfway home when he received a text message from said Consulting Detective:
Bring bananas, milk and fishing twine. - SH
What in the bloody blue blazes do you need fishing twine for? - JW
Science. - SH
I hate you. - JW
No, you don't. - SH
It was at this precise text that John Watson's evening just got worse. A sleek black car pulled up beside John and stopped. John wanted to throw daggers and gouge the sleek shiny finish. The door opened and Mycroft Holmes exited the car, full of grace and ego. Much like Sherlock, John thought warily, squaring his shoulders.
"Mycroft," John said through gritted teeth.
"John," Mycroft said and adjusted his already straightened tie. He briefly took note of John's attire before picking a piece of non-existent lint from his shoulders.
"What do you need?" John's spine snapped into place.
"Just a friendly bit of advice, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, fixing his cufflinks.
"Yes and?" John desperately wanted his unused cane to beat Mycroft with around the neck and shoulders.
"If you hurt my brother I will make sure they will never find the pieces," Mycroft said giving John a steely look.
"When I choke your brother to death, I will make sure the world knows," John shot back. "Front page news. Six o'clock news. The whole bit."
Mycroft merely raised his eyebrow. "Good evening, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said and slid back into his car.
John refrained from giving him a rude gesture as the car drove away.
And as the car was driving away that the rest of the Universe completed its conspiracy against the ex-Army doctor and released the torrents of rain upon John's head, soaking him to the bone.
"I'm going to fucking kill him, revive him and then kill him again," John muttered and marched double-time back to Baker Street. By the time he made it inside, John was sure that pneumonia was the easiest death the Universe could manage for him. When he actually made it into the flat,John was sure the Universe wasn't finished punishing him for something that he did in a previous life.
There, in their kitchen, stood Sherlock Holmes, standing in his pants and experimenting on who knows what.
"Ah, John, you've made it home. Did you bring the fishing twine that I asked for?" Sherlock said barely glancing at him concentrating on the mixture in front of him.
"Why are you naked?" John said, his jaw clamping down. Any harder, John might have broken his jaw.
"I am not naked. I am wearing my pants. Besides, I did not want to ruin my clothing," Sherlock said, his hand held out for the fishing twine.
"Sherlock," John said his voice low and dangerous.
"John," Sherlock said sighing and finally looking at his flatmate.
"Sherlock," John said.
"John," Sherlock said.
"Get some bloody clothes on," John said barely keeping his temper in check.
"Why? I already told you that I did not want to ruin my clothing," Sherlock said and then added. "Why are you dripping all over the floor?"
"Because it is raining and you left me at the scene - again, I might add - before your brother had a nice little chat with me telling me not to hurt you or else no one would find my body. Oh, and I haven't added the fact that you interrupted my date - "
"She was boring, John!"
"I don't care if she was boring! I wanted to get laid!"
Sherlock was shocked into silence.
John was turning red from his outburst. He straightened up, began peeling his soaking wet clothes off and leaving them on the kitchen floor. By the time he was in his own pants, John was shivering uncontrollably. John looked Sherlock square in the eye. "I am going to take a nice long hot shower, have a wank and then I am going straight to bed. If I hear one peep out of you tonight I will come back downstairs, sneeze all over your precious experiments and then throw you out of the flat for Mrs. Hudson to find in the morning. Have I made myself clear?"
Sherlock nodded, unable to look anywhere else but John. John's furious mind took note of the fact that Sherlock was as red as a beet and with a quick nod, John marched past Sherlock and up to his room.
Outside, the storm raged on.
Thank you for reading.