"Sherlock. Don't move."
The detective forced his body to be still—his feet, his legs, his arms, his neck—everything was to be very still. He focused on his breathing and on slowing his heart rate. It was pounding pretty fast; the adrenaline was getting to him.
John watched Sherlock willfully still his body. He grinned, perversely enjoying himself. The gun was cool and heavy in his hands as he aimed. His stance was perfect, his grip was steady. Now all he had to do was fire the weapon at his best friend's head.
8 minutes earlier…
John was on the sofa, pecking at his blog. A loud bang from the kitchen made him jump. He glanced over, unable to see Sherlock or what had made the sound. Silence. John turned back to his blog.
Bang!
John startled and scowled at the kitchen doorway.
Bang!
John pushed the laptop aside and got up, poking his head into the room. Sherlock was sitting on the floor by the cabinet, his bottom lip out in a pout and his knees drawn up to his chest. When he saw John, he opened the closed cabinet he was sitting next to and slammed it shut. Bang!
"Why?!" John growled. His hands curled into fists.
"Bored." Sherlock mumbled.
"So you're slamming the cabinet?"
Sherlock opened the door again—
"—No!" John pointed at him and had the sudden sensation of scolding a dog chewing up a shoe. He frowned. Sherlock smirked at him and slammed the door. BANG.
"How about I shoot an apple off your head?" John blurted. He thought the threat implicit. If Sherlock didn't stop banging the damned cabinet, he was going to get his gun and shoot him dead. Easy enough. Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, it wasn't nearly so simple.
The detective's eyes lit up.
"Yes!" He growled. He jumped to his feet.
"No—no, I didn't mean for real." John watched with a sinking stomach as Sherlock whirled around and opened the refrigerator.
"Do we have apples, John?" He sounded so excited as he pawed through the drawers and peered at shelves.
"I don—"
A box of fingernails was tossed in the trash. John watched, silent, as a jar of decaying toes labeled "2010" followed. Sherlock opened a wad of foil, grunted at the contents, and threw that in the trash as well. John was speechless. Sherlock was cleaning his experiments out of the fridge. Dumbstruck, John quickly filed this information away: Threatening to kill Sherlock may result in him cleaning the fridge. Moldy tongues, three ears and a finger found a new home in the trash.
Now that the fridge was pleasingly clean, John spoke up. "First drawer. In the back." A rustling noise, then Sherlock pulled out of the fridge triumphantly holding a ruby red apple. He tossed it up and caught it. The smile never left his face.
"You're way too happy about this." John said.
"Anything to not be bored John. Shoo—go get your gun so you can shoot it at me."
There's something you don't hear every day. John went upstairs and retrieved his pistol, and when he came back down Sherlock was pacing with excitement. John checked to see if the weapon was loaded.
Sherlock stood in front of the sofa and placed the apple on top of his head. He lowered his arm slowly and took a deep breath.
"That's it." John encouraged, checking the gun. "Breathe deep. Calm down." Satisfied with the gun, John went to the fireplace and turned around, aiming at his best friend. Sherlock's implicit trust was humbling and amusing. There were live rounds in the chamber and they both knew it. It was scary how far Sherlock would go to stave off boredom. His fingers were twitching.
"Sherlock. Don't move."
The detective forced his body to be still—his feet, his legs, his arms, his neck—everything was to be very still. He focused on his breathing and on slowing his heart rate. It was pounding pretty fast, the adrenaline getting to him.
John watched Sherlock willfully still his body. He grinned to himself, perversely enjoying this. The gun was cool and heavy in his hands as he aimed it at the deep red apple set on Sherlock's head. His stance was perfect, his grip was steady.
John licked his lips and raised the gun, his world zeroing in on the red target nested in Sherlock's curls.
The detective shifted minutely.
"Sherlock." John said firmly, looking into his eyes. "Don't move."
Sherlock went statue-still. He even stopped breathing. John smirked, closed one eye, and pulled the trigger. A different sounding bang ripped the air and the apple exploded, raining seeds and peel down Sherlock's shoulders. The detective sank to the sofa and John put the safety on the weapon before setting it on the table and coming to Sherlock's side.
"You okay?"
"Fine, fine. I'm fine."
"Still bored?"
"At the moment, no."
John could still see evidence of the adrenaline in his friend's body. His hands were trembling, his heart was pounding and he was breathing faster. John put two fingers on Sherlock's neck and felt his pulse. Quick, but slowing.
"John!" Sherlock gasped suddenly. His eyes lit up again.
"Hm?"
"Do we have any grapes?"
End.
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