AN: Such a pile of crack. Forgive if its irksome. Enjoy if you like :)
He had the perfect vantage point. Sitting in John's chair, Sherlock could survey all that was unfolding. And what a spectacle it was.
He had warned him. He had told John to say no, say they were unavailable, say they had contracted Bubonic plague and were under quarantine – anything other than, "Certainly, Mrs. Hudson, we can watch Miss Turner's niece. No trouble at all."
At least he'll never make that mistake again, Sherlock thought as a sharp squeal sounded behind him. He closed his eyes against the piercing noise.
"No, Annabelle! Annabelle! The fire poker is very dangerous, put it down! Down!"
John sounded on the verge of tears or perhaps homicide, it was hard to tell. He plugged his ears as the offensive little creature let loose another ear-splitting shriek. Sherlock idly checked to ensure the window panes were still intact. John reeled around on him, seeking assistance. Sherlock only looked back as if nothing was amiss, his amusement quite plain.
"Jump in at any time, really," the doctor said, glaring at his so-called friend. Sherlock lifted his chin and laughed, long and hard, like John had just told him the worlds funniest joke. Then in the blink of an eye he was silent and unsmiling, all to convey that he was wearied by John's thickness.
"She's about to break that hideous ceramic duck of yours," he said dully.
John cursed under his breath, spinning around in time to watch Annabelle drop the duck so it shattered on the ground. Sherlock smiled as she ran off to the kitchen to wreak more havoc. John threw his arms helplessly in the air, collapsing onto the couch, then focusing again on Sherlock. The younger man was settled back in his chair, legs crossed, fingers steepled at his mouth where he had that hint of a grin.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" John accused him.
Sherlock schooled his expression into something that John reckoned was meant to deny the accusation but the effect was spoiled by the latent enjoyment behind it.
Annabelle returned to the room and spotted Sherlock's Stradivarius leaning in a corner beside the fireplace. John paled when he realized her intention, standing to put a stop to her wicked plans though he was too far to do any good. Sherlock saw him stand, then followed his terrified gaze to the hellion picking up his prized possession. His features hardened, making John gulp.
Annabelle didn't notice the tension at all, a toothy countenance of mischief on her face as she moved to take off again. She didn't get far. She made to run past Sherlock's seat but he immediately stuck his long leg out in front of him, blocking her path. Barely avoiding falling, she looked at him, seemingly unsure what to make of his solemn stare. He gave a slow and menacing shake of his head and her eyes widened. Sherlock held out his hand and she carefully turned the violin over to him. After gently placing it on the ground beside him, he lowered his leg and gave a jerk of his head. Annabelle grinned once more and continued on her way with another delighted screech.
John was incredulous and opened his mouth to say something but a pillow hit his ear with a whump! and Sherlock could practically hear the man's teeth grind to dust.
"ANNABELLE!" John shouted, advancing on her.
Straight away he regretted losing his temper. The small girl jumped at his harsh tone and her bottom lip quivered. He saw tears forming and lifted a placating hand.
"Annabelle, sweetheart, it's all right, I shouldn't have shouted, please."
But it was too late. Annabelle began wailing and sobbing, then ran away in the direction of John's room.
"Wait!" He called after her. Sherlock snorted when she slammed the door behind her.
John made a defeated noise, walking over to the couch and flopping down. Sherlock watched him a moment before sitting straight.
"Well, far be it for me to say I told you so..."
He faltered on the last bit, John having pointed a finger at him and glowering with such venom that even Sherlock was a tad ruffled.
"Not one. Sodding. Word." John spoke, his voice deadly.
Sherlock nodded his surrender. John dropped his finger, groaning as he leaned back and placed an arm across his eyes.
Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it saying,
"You keep your gun in there, no?"
"Aw bloody hell, ANNABELLE!"
John shot up and dashed to his bedroom. Sherlock leaned back contentedly, linking his fingers behind his head.