5 Times Sherlock Chose Work Over John, and the 1 Time He Didn't

Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13?
Disclaimer: Is the baby-creation of Moffat, Gatiss, BBC, and others. Those fantastic trollers that we all know and love!


221b Baker Street, London.

2:46 PM

Directly after A Study in Pink

Sherlock is a busy man. Even when he's not technically "working", he's busy. It's how he keeps himself sane, really. And John disrupting his method isn't exactly helping.

"…never get the stains off the walls."

Oh, had John been talking to him? What had he been saying?

Sherlock ran through the contents of his frontal lobe and located the previous conversation without much trouble. Ah, so he was concerned with the experiment?

"Experiment, John."

He heard an exasperated sigh. It was so John in every way, from the huff of breath to the petulant line Sherlock knew John's lips were setting in that Sherlock couldn't help but smile.

Until John opened his mouth again.

"Either that goes – " Here John motioned to the scattered remains of what had once been Procyon Lotor – or in layman's terms, a raccoon. He supposed it could also be accurately termed road kill, by this point.

But John didn't seem to know any of that. So Sherlock threw out a small correction, being careful to relay it in layman's terms, seeing as John didn't appreciate scientific names. He'd learned that the hard way from the pigeon.

"Raccoon."

"Right, raccoon then." John shook his head in a Sherlock-it-really-doesn't-matter sort of way. He could be very eloquent with his head shakes. Sherlock believed it could be a recognized sort of talent. He would have to look it up later.

"You aren't even listening to me, are you." John sounded almost grimly amused.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you haven't even looked up once from whatever you're doing," he put out a hand out before Sherlock could open his mouth. "No, stop, I really don't want to know. Really. But since I don't much fancy living in the same room as that – raccoon – I want you to take it out, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't even deign to dignify that with a reaction. The raccoon was an extremely important part of his experiment concerning the pressure needed for flesh to attain the exact amount of density in a compact area. One never knew when they might need such information next.

Plus it was keeping him away from the gun. Really, when he got his hands on that gun, he had no control over himself. Sometimes it was the wall, other times it was the door, and once it had been himself. No, the density of a certain Procyon Lotor was doing him rather a lot of good.

John huffed. "Well, either that can leave, or I will. It bloody stinks in here, Sherlock!"

"I hear the bar two blocks from here has a happy hour that begins in fourteen minutes." Sherlock answered.

John threw his hands up into the air and went stomping out of the room, muttering things like "insensitive bastard" and "goddamn nightmare" all the way down the stairs. Sherlock counted down from five…

And by the time he hit one, John shouted from downstairs, "Flat better be clean when I come back!" Then he was gone, although judging from the volume in his door slam he had taken his jacket, phone, enough quids for a couple pints and would be back in approximately four hours.

So not too angry then.

Sherlock turned his attention back to more important things, like the dead raccoon he was so carefully stamping with different metal weights.