A oneshot, possibly more- depending on feedback. A day in the life of everyone's favorite idiot.
-oOo-
The office was quieter than usual, occupied only by the small team of staff that regularly worked on Sundays, fed up looking workers doing overtime, and the type of people that lived more at their desks than at home. The muted clack of a choir of keyboards and the occasional cry of a phone were the only sounds.
Lestrade, Donavon, Anderson and another consultant sat toward one side of the room, all looking like they would rather be somewhere else- though admittedly Anderson did this in a more absent, contemplating way. Sherlock was sat a few desks away, huffing and puffing and filling out a statement, shooting death glares at the small group. A few minutes passed, in which the only notable events were Watson returning from the toilet, and Anderson stealthily creaking his chair to cover a burp.
A while longer, and the forensics expert was fidgeting in his seat, contemplating the pros and cons of cracking out his e-reader. Eventually, he did: with much rummaging around in his rucksack, he carefully pulled out a pink case, which he unstrapped- and after he had apologised quietly to the group for his noise, and discreetly unattached the Velcro from his trouser leg- he slid the machine into his lap and settled down to read.
Five minutes passed, the only noise the electronic approximation of a page turning, before Anderson looked up, to find Watson staring at him, a confused and slightly disgusted look on his face. The Doctor coughed.
"Good book?" he covered, his face suggesting he couldn't quite believe he was asking. Anderson scowled, as custom, and adjusted the hot pink case in his lap. "It's the wife's." he said, by way of explanation.
John slowly nodded.
Everyone looked vaguely confused.
Sherlock huffed. "Even for you, Anderson, surely processing a question is not impossible?" he snorted. "Stating that your luridly coloured reading device belongs to your spouse is by no means answering John's question. So, Anderson, as apparently you're still struggling to comprehend: are you finding the light BDSM you are currently studying an informative read?" Sherlock questioned, distain and sarcasm coating his words like grease.
Everyone just sat there for a second, before Sally gave a loud snort, and Lestrade, with a kind of disgusted curiosity (the kind that's normally only found in a class of children learning about puberty) leaned over a flustered Anderson's shoulder, and scanned the title. He leaned back, as Anderson finally acted, spluttering and trying to force the device back into its case.
"Anderson, why are you reading 50 shades of grey?"
If looks could kill, Sherlock would probably have to visit some kind of clinic right now. Anderson, with his small eyes still focused on Sherlock, muttered bitterly, "It's the wife's."
They all made it to 10 seconds averting their gaze awkwardly away from Anderson and his Kindle, before Lestrade stood up, Sally following suit. They both walked out without a backward glance. Anderson shot a look to Sherlock, before realizing the both him and John had also disappeared.
Anderson sighed, glared at a potted plant, and stood. He needed to get home anyway, he supposed. If his wife realized he'd been downloading new books, she would shoot him dead.