Another fluffy prompt I did as a result of a Tumblr prompt. This one: Sherlock brings home a hedgehog. Bit of language, but you guys can handle it, right? ;)
"John!"
The shout rings through the apartment; it's three in the fucking morning, and John would rather be doing some many more things rather than be jerked violently awake by a shouting Sherlock. And he was having such a good dream, too...he isn't sure now what it was about, but he knows that it was a good one and that it did not involve being rudely awoken, nor the sounds akin to gunshots that Sherlock's feet make as they pound the floor outside his bedroom.
"Sherlock, what the bloody—" John doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence before his door is mercilessly flung open (he thinks the hinges shake a bit, dangerously) and a wild-haired consulting detective bursts in.
"John, this is brilliant! We can keep, it, yes? Of course we can!"
John's vision is blurry. What can one expect? But the hazy shape that is Sherlock moves to the end of his bed anyway, holding in his cupped hands...something.
"Sherlock..." he groans again.
"John, get up, you're slow, my God. Get up." And then Sherlock Holmes, grown man wearing a grown-up suit with a definitely grown-up voice, uses one hand and throws a pillow at his flatmate's face.
"I'm up!" John cries in protest. "I'm up, I'm up!" He holds up his hands in surrender, for fear of getting another face full of feathers. "Now what on earth do you want?"
"Nothing," Sherlock says, his casual demeanor returning in an instant. "I found something, look."
John rubs the sleep out of his eyes, feels grit under his lashes. He checks the clock. Yes, seven past three. There are still stars out, for fuck's sake. "Hold on, give me a minute." He turns on the lamp, shielding his eyes momentarily against the brightness. "Go on, then, what have you found?"
The devious smile on Sherlock's face could almost be counted as answer enough, but then he uncups his hands to reveal...
"Sherlock bloody Holmes, will you please inform me what you are doing with a hedgehog?"
"I found it," Sherlock says again, grinning, "and we're keeping it, yes? I've named it Spike."
"Spike," John says dubiously, studying the hedgehog. "Creative name."
"Easy to remember."
"Why are we keeping a hedgehog?"
"Because, John." Sherlock's tone is long-suffering, as though the reason for keeping the balled-up mammal in his hand should be painfully obvious to the doctor. "It is a hedgehog."
"And?"
"They're interesting!"
"Interesting, yeah." John is too tired to argue any more. "Sherlock, keep your bloody hedgehog, okay, but let me go back to sleep?"
"Surely. Spike and I will have fun elsewhere."
"Thank you." And John turns the lamp back out, plonking onto the pillow with a thud and exhaling. But he doesn't hear Sherlock leave; he knows that he's still standing by the bed. The tiniest of snuffling sounds can be heard. He assumes they come from Spike.
I'll ignore him, John thinks. I'll just ignore him until he goes away.
But he doesn't. He stands there, and John realizes that he's waiting for something.
"Sherlock, if you put that hedgehog—"
"Spike."
"Fine, Spike...if you put Spike on my pillow, I will end you."
A sigh, a huff, another throw pillow bombed at John's head, and Sherlock and Spike depart, leaving John wondering, yet again, why he continues to live with this adorable madman.
Whee! Tell me what you think!