Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Jim Moriarty would have mysteriously "disappeared" when brought under the prisons of Mycroft Holmes, tamed and set into the wild under the name Bob Simmons, where he would marry a newly-transvestite Sebastia Moran and everyone would live happily ever after. Basically I would make it more gay.
Sherlock had resorted to playing with a paddle and counting each consecutive time the ball hit the board. John was quietly reading nearby. The detective had just gotten to five million six hundred eighty three when his flatmate suddenly said, "Sherlock, you'd be a cat."
This in turn caused Sherlock to miss. "Bother." He then looked at John in bemusement, feeling a little dizzy. Oh. He had forgotten that he was hanging upside down on the couch... "Is that so? I think I'd be an otter."
John nearly choked on his tea, "An otter? Why on Earth would you be an otter? A cat makes more sense. Cats are smart, fiercely independent, and can act cuddly one moment and claw you the next." Sherlock's next comment was most likely influenced by the blood rushing to his head, but he retaliated with:
"Otters are just underwater cats."
They both began to laugh before Sherlock tried to sit up. He ended up just collapsing back down, too dizzy from hanging upside down for too long. He lazily waved an arm in the air. "John, it seems I can't get up."
"Maybe you're really a turtle." John mused to himself before getting up and helping his flatmate sit up, head tipped back against the couch instead of his feet.
"You know John, with that fluffy jumper, you'd be a hedgehog."