Only John
It was pathetic. In less than a year he let this dull, not especially smart man influence him so much – to the point where he can't even think the words dull and unintelligent and relate them to him; John. It just wasn't true, and it was maddening to think he used to use them as a way to describe his friend.
Well, he was Sherlock's only and best friend – a rare thing indeed.
But over the months, John had proved that – although he wasn't a master at deduction like Sherlock [not even close] – he was fairly intelligent. And his medical knowledge wasn't useless at all either. To the contrary; with his various experiments he couldn't avoidgetting injured and John was always there to help.
It was also nice not to be so lonely (though no one would ever catch him actually saying that out loud).
It was still so unlike him to be so sentimental. He was still an arsehole and presumptuous, but he wasn't as phlegmatic a man as he used to be. Bloody John was making him politer. Not polite per se, just imperceptibly politer to people in general – this is excluding Anderson and Donovan, of course.
The day he acts (dare he think it) courteously with those two out of all people would be a strange day – to say the least. That same day; the skies will turn fuchsia and the earth would implode.
But enough about that; he didn't want to think any longer about the dastardly duo [nickname courtesy of John – he himself wouldn't waste his time thinking up inane nicknames for people. He certainly did not secretly nickname John... something] than he had to. It hurt his head just to think their names.
A loud whistling caught Sherlock's attention, and he reached for his mobile phone. Sending a quick text ('Need milk.') to John, he went to disable the whistling toaster – with a hammer and brute force, but that fact is inconsequential. John would get slightly pissed, but they had another toaster somewhere.
Just as Sherlock got rid of the remaining parts the front door open, and he hid a grin as John stomped up the stairs carrying plastic bags from Tesco's. "What did you do?" His friend asked, slightly horrified as he stared at the table. "You know what, I don't want to know," he corrected himself as Sherlock began to explain. "Please let there be space for some food in the fridge."
Sherlock walked back to the living room, sitting on the sofa, and he let himself a contented small smile as he heard his flatmate's shouts of disgust as he inevitable found the dissected squid on the middle shelf. They couldn't be better suited for each other; no one else could stand him like that, nor could he stand anyone else.
Set sometime before TGG, although not too far back.
I haven't really written Sherlock ever before, so I hope I didn't butcher his characterisation too badly.
Words: 458
Posted: 19th June 2013