Disclaimer: The only thing I own is the story idea and only some of the witty remarks. I own so little; so please don't steal.
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[=]
John Watson maintains still that he is a difficult man to room with, but he thinks Sherlock can give him a run for his money. To live with Sherlock Holmes, one must exercise great patience and resilience. John has been through enough so words can't really hurt him (he mentally blocks out all the jabs in passing aimed at his supposed 'lack of intellect') but some idiosyncrasies of his flatmate cannot be so easily ignored. Once, when he sets down a saucer with his tea and shifts a book or two to make room on the cluttered table, Sherlock makes a noise typical of a wounded walrus.
"What?" John asks in alarm, fearing he may have just sat in one of the many miscellaneous body parts Sherlock keeps around.
"You moved my books," Sherlock manages to choke out in his epileptic shock. He points an accusing finger at John and shoves the books back in place; the good doctor barely has time to catch his tea. "How can I find anything if you insist on moving my things?"
"I was going to put it back!" John insists, and Sherlock broods at him before settling to do whatever it is geniuses do. But John does not get off so easily.
"Where's my toothbrush?" he asks one morning. "It was sitting in the cup when I went to bed last night and now it's gone."
"Astute observation, Dr. Watson," Sherlock says, reading. "I…may have moved it around when I was using the loo this morning."
John bites back a comment and returns back to the bathroom. He comes out after a few moments. "It isn't anywhere in the bathroom," he says.
"I haven't gone outside today," Sherlock says easily, flipping the page to his book. "It must be somewhere in this flat."
John finds his toothbrush slipped into a dusty vase Sherlock keeps on top of the fridge. This is after he looks in all the natural places like the sink or even the desk. He cleans the dustbunnies off the bristles and wonders for a split second why on earth his toothbrush has ended in such a strange location; it doesn't have legs.
"You put my toothbrush in there," John deducts, coming back to the sitting room. Sherlock doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.
"I only wanted to show you how it is to move other's things," Sherlock says, as if it's all so obvious.
"This isn't even the same!" John shouts, but decides it isn't worth the argument. Yelling will do no good, as Sherlock hardly gets riled up over the same things and then Mrs. Hudson might come up and ask why are they having a row so early in the morning and really, he couldn't be bothered. So he just turns and heads back to the bathroom. It is only when he thoroughly rinses his toothbrush out, he realizes the toothpaste is also missing.
[=]
To call Sherlock finicky is an understatement. John doesn't think there's a word in the English language that can adequately describe Sherlock. Though some have called him mad and he himself has considered him brilliant, they don't do the real thing much justice.
First, he has his silence rule. It's an unspoken rule, really, and it irritates Sherlock to vocalize it. It put them at odds with each other for the first few days of cohabitation, but by now, John has learned the sort of expression Sherlock has when he's thinking. It's sort of a mix between I'm really smart and therefore use my brain unlike mere mortals and I'm not quite sure if I need to use the loo, let me think about it. During these times, John finds it prudent to tiptoe around him and let him be, but more often than not, Sherlock can even hear the sound of his cells splitting.
Second, there's his massive intellect. It's the kind of brain that makes him jump from point A to point Z without the need to stop at the letters in between. It makes it hard for conversation, sometimes, much less the cases themselves. "May as well take your coat and your wallet along," he says as John heaves the hamper under one arm on his way to the laundry room downstairs.
"Sorry?"
"It's cold outside."
"I'm not going outside," John says helpfully, wondering if Sherlock believes they do laundry the old way, as in riverside with a washboard. "I'm going downstairs. To do the laundry."
"You're going to need to go out and buy detergent," Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes as he types away at his laptop. When John stares at him incredulously at the doorway, he offers only a tepid glance and explains, "The last time you did laundry I could smell you didn't use as much detergent as you could have, because you've got a heavy hand in that department, leading me to believe that we were probably running out of detergent and you were trying to use less to make it last longer. Mrs. Hudson did her laundry yesterday and therefore must have used up the rest of the detergent, so you'd have to go out and buy some today." With a flourish and a period, he adds, "And you might have figured all this out yourself if you noticed the detergent container in the back with the rest of the rubbish."
Third, he has a sense of entitlement, or at least, the belief that he is above most things. This is why John usually does all the laundry and the shopping and the paying of the rent and bills. Making money is irrelevant in Sherlock Holmes's world, so John must go and do that too. John has a nagging suspicion that Sherlock thinks that his everyday things like his cell phone and his computer work because he needs them to work for him. He's not sure how to carefully introduce these concepts to Sherlock without receiving a blank look in return so until then, John dutifully (and grumbling) does Sherlock's bidding.
[=]
Sherlock is not like most roommates. Most roommates will go about their daily business, which often includes an eight-hour workday and a beer afterwards, and come home to watch a game on the telly before eating dinner and going to sleep. Most roommates, or at least the normal ones that John has had since university, when they hear that there is a serial killer on the loose, will lock and bolt their doors and shut their windows at night; Sherlock will throw open the windows and keep the doors open and is two steps short of sticking his head out and saying, "Hello, killer! There are two lives ripe for the taking; three if you count the landlady!"
They send him home from the war to save his life, and civilian life only makes him risk it even more.
If Sherlock's seemingly suicidal tendencies to get involved in situations where he makes enemies that wish to kill him aren't enough, he gets bored relatively often. This has culminated not only in the discovery of a severed head in the fridge, but a leg wrapped in newspaper in John's drawers, strange smelling chemicals in bottles littered about the sitting room, and once, an ungodly amount of bleach in the bathroom. John wants desperately to stay out of things like this, but when you're flatmates with the only consulting detective in the world, trouble doesn't mind taking you along.
Thing is, once you live with someone, you begin to become associated with them. Somehow Mycroft has gotten the idea that John is also Sherlock's personal secretary. How the elder Holmes sibling has gotten his number is beyond him, but occasionally he will get mail like tell Sherlock to call me, I've already left twenty messages on his mobile or remind my brother to call our mum; it's her birthday.
Lestrade thinks John is Sherlock's keeper. "Where's Sherlock?" he demands, rushing into the flat at four in the morning as John is getting a glass of water. It's probably a case and someone's been murdered by the way Lestrade is behaving, but frankly John could not care less.
"Probably in his room," John says, taking a sip and Lestrade is back before the water can enter his esophagus.
"He isn't there," Lestrade announces, and gives John a meaningful look as if the doctor has been hiding him on purpose. "It's important," he adds, as if John doesn't know. Then he waits as if John can either 1) conjure Sherlock out of thin air or 2) howl into the night and send Sherlock running. John takes another sip of water before realizing this is exactly what Lestrade expects him to do.
"I don't know where he is."
Lestrade groans in frustration, shooting him one last look of disbelief before disappearing on a wild goose chase (he finds Sherlock at the morgue, the detective already expecting the late night visit and surpassing the trivial pleasantries).
[=]
"John," Sherlock says conversationally during one dull evening. "Copulation. I haven't tried it myself; is it any good?"
It is then that John stops blogging in mid-word and attempts to explain exactly what a man and a woman do when they love each other very much. "I know that," Sherlock frowns, when John is about to break out a metaphor. "I've never had time for that, but tonight's a boring night. Is it fun? It must be. Everyone likes to do it."
If John knows this is how an evening starts, he would have never agreed to share a flat. When Sherlock wants to do something, he goes ahead and does it regardless of whatever anyone tells him. So this is how he finds himself naked in a bedroom with Sherlock, who is equally as naked, and looks completely comfortable. In his defense, it does not happen without a protest from John; but women are "not in his area" and Sherlock seems to expect John to take notes for him through the entire thing. Sarah, John thinks feebly.
"So is this it?" Sherlock asks, looking a little disappointed. "Hardly stimulating, wouldn't you think?"
"Well…" He can't believe he's actually doing this.
"Oh, this is curious. What's this called?"
"Um." He really doesn't want to say it. "Cowgirl. Because of my knee."
"It's purely psychosomatic, you know."
[=]
Mrs. Hudson comes upstairs to check the heater and doesn't say anything to the sullen form of John drinking cold coffee, glowering outside at the dreary England weather in only his underwear. She does not ask questions, which strikes him as unusual since she usually sees him dressed and cordial in the morning. John turns to look at her as she shuffles around.
"Morning, dear," she chirps.
"Good morning," he grumbles.
She beams at him instead. "How are you feeling? All right? If you'd like, I've got a heating pad downstairs…it works wonders on my sore joints."
It takes him a couple seconds to realize what Mrs. Hudson is trying to say. "No!" he yells, at which she starts and twitters nervously. "I mean. No. It's not like that. Why would you think I would need it?"
"Oh." She covers her mouth modestly, looking uncertain but amused. "I only thought…Sherlock is certainly the energetic fellow…"
"Please get out of the flat, Mrs. Hudson."