A/N: I know, this is a short story. I haven't quite gotten an idea for a longer one. Yet... Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock! If I did, we would have a new season by now and another one on the way! ;)

The day started out typical. He woke up to the smell of burning flesh.

"Sherlock!"

He groaned. After the morning toiletries he found Sherlock holding a blowtorch to some body part, which he did not care to examine.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Sherlock stopped and placed tool and test case on the table. He pushed his goggles up onto his head and tapped his fingers together.

"I'm working on what the purpose of Sterno Snatiation is an-"

"What is Sterno Snation?"

"Sterno SnaTIAtion, in more crude terms is but-"

Watson cut him off again and held up his hand. "Forget it, I don't want to know."

Sherlock scrunched his eyebrows, "Than why'd you ask me than?"

"Touché."

"You speak French?"

John sighed and sat down with a huff. Sherlock went back to burning whatever he was burning. The paper had a distressingly low amount of activity, no criminals for his clearly bored flatmate.

"There's nothing there, I checked."

"Hmm?"

"I said there are no cases. I checked."

John looked up from browsing the papers. "Did you check the website?"

"No, I didn't do the obvious thing. Of course I did, John!"

Sherlock clicked off the blowtorch and started putting his experiment in the fridge. You couldn't really call it cleaning up, just putting it in a sealed bag.

"Unplug it, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped turned back and unplugged the blowtorch. "I was going to do that." He sat down with a huff.

"Sure you were, last time you said that, you almost burned down the apartment. Mrs. Hudson is still going on about it."

John flipped through the papers not even looking up from browsing when he said this.

"That wasn't my fault. It was... Not my fault."

Sherlock sat in his chair hugged his knees. Five minutes later he burst out, "I need a case, John!"

"Shush."

Sherlock grumbled and rested his chin on his knees. He closed his eyes. Not a minute later he opened one and glared at John. John was holding a piece of the paper and staring at it intently.

"John?"

"Shut up." He snapped. Than went back to reading.

Sherlock fidgeted. His hands on the arms off the chair, his bare feet keeping rhythm on the floor.

"Ha!"

Sherlock leapt up. "Have you found something?"

"Yes. Murder at the theatre. It wasn't in the front page though. Located down by the... Obituaries! Fine print, too."

Sherlock glanced down. "Hiding something obviously. Who wrote the article?"

"Doesn't say."

"Dead end there." Huffed Sherlock.

"A man was murdered. Johan Marksburg. Shot in the head. No one else was there. He was the only security guard and... The address is 240 Broadway Wimbledon, London."

"Yes! The game is on!"

Sherlock swept dramatically out the door. John didn't move.

"Sherlock?" He shouted.

"Yes?" Sherlock poked his head back in breathless from running back up the stairs.

"Aren't you coming?" Sherlock asked.

John pointed to Sherlocks blue house coat and pyjamas. "Dress?" "Yes, right." Sherlock shot into his bedroom.