Authors Note: My first fic, so please tell me what you think! Written for a prompt: Books. Johnlock!
Disclamer: If I owned Sherlock, then Johnlock would be cannon. Is it cannon? No. So do I own Sherlock? You got it! No.
Sherlock laid lazily on the couch, looking across the room at the smiley face he had painted on earlier that evening. He hadn't had a case for nearly a day and John was on a date with some girl. Linda? Lindsey? No… Lucy, that was it, Lucy. Pretty little blonde girl, smart but not exceptionally clever. A bit dull, really, Sherlock thought in disgust. Why on Earth John wanted to go out with her… The detective nearly growled. Ignore Lucy, ignore John, and ignore everything. God he was bored. The smiley face smirked at him. Ha-ha poor freak! Freaks aren't good enough for John Watson! Never in a million years would he look at his pathetic little freak flat mate! Stupid Sherlock, stupid Sherlock, stupid Sherlock! Go cry to Mycroft, freak! Everyone knows it! Ha-ha, Stupid Sherlock, slow Sherlock!
Sherlock snarled at the wall. "FUCK YOU!" He pulled out a handgun from underneath his pillow and shot two rounds into the wall. "Sherlock! Why did you shoot the wall?" He could almost hear John's voice scolding him. "Wall had it coming," he muttered tiredly. "Stupid wall." The abysmally happy face told him the truth though. Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective? Don't make me laugh! If you are so smart, tell me why you want to shoot me! Why? Why why why? Because you are jealous! The great Sherlock Holmes is jealous of a girl! Tell me, Mr. Holmes, do you hate that little blonde girl? Lucy Yana, do you hate Lucy Yana?
The detective scowled at the wall. "You know what? I know exactly how to shut you up." The long-legged man sprang from the couch and walked over to the book shelf before selecting a small book on herbs. "Here we go. Now John, I never want you to touch this book or you might get hurt, alright?" The self-proclaimed sociopath looked around the flat in the hopes that the ex-soldier had sneaked into the flat without alerting Sherlock in the past minute or so. No such luck. Sherlock walked over to his chair and carefully opened the book, revealing a set of three throwing knives. Sherlock selected the first knife, a butterfly knife with a stainless steel blade and curved handle and threw it at the wall, hitting the smiley face in the eye with remarkable accuracy. Smiling slightly, Sherlock selected the second, a boot knife with a steel blade and a rubber handle and threw it at the wall again, hitting the second eye with amazing precision. Smiling a bit wider, Sherlock picked up the final knife, a Vintage Puma Boot Knife with a stainless steel integral blade with the handle made of genuine stag. He threw it at the wall, hitting the mouth of the smiley face with a resonating thwack. Smirking grandly now, Sherlock walked over to the face and plucked each of the blades from the wall. Ha, he thought who's laughing now, wall? Then he carefully walked over to his seat and began putting away the knives one by one.
Puma knife? Check. The other boot knife? Done. He began to put away the butterfly knife when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. "Sherlock? I brought you some food; I thought you might be hungry." Damnit! Sherlock cursed inside his head as the knife slipped and gave him a rather large cut in the middle of his palm. He was going to have a hard time explaining that to John. "Just a moment, Mrs. Hudson! I have no need for tea or whatever you have cooked this time. I need to do something!" He snapped, fully aware that he was being unreasonable. He waited a moment before hearing the landlady walk down the steps before putting away the book with the knives and reaching for his BlackBerry. Clearly, he couldn't text without bloodying up his phone. And besides, he thought a bit childishly, I don't care for that Yana girl. She shouldn't even be on a date with my blogger. As he dialed though, he wondered if John would even pick up. On the second ring though, the doctor came through.
"Sherlock? Why are you calling me? What's wrong?" It briefly occurred to Sherlock that he probably shouldn't be so happy to hear the worry and a touch of confusion in the ex-soldier's voice. " Hello John. I need you to look at my hand, it has a large cut in the middle of the palm, and it seems to be bleeding quite a bit." Muttered apologies, and excuses were heard on the other side of the line but, Sherlock noticed gleefully, no promises. "Sherlock! How did you manage to do that?" The World's Only Consulting Detective looked disdainfully at the wall before offering one sentence before hanging up.
"Books can be dangerous."