"John, what are you doing?"
Sherlock Holmes was referring to the bags and boxes interspersed throughout the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, in which doorway he stood, and in the middle of which sat John Watson. The doctor seemed to be sorting through a stack of old case files.
"I'm sorting through this stack of old case files," he stated matter-of-factly, folding the top down on a box labeled 'JAN 03-DEC 05 KEEP,' and reached for the packing tape before Sherlock could protest. He didn't.
"No, John. What are you doing?" the taller man asked again, this time waving his arms about in agitation to indicate the whole room. John glanced up at his him before returning his attention to the ill-behaving tape.
"just a bit of spring cleaning," he explained. "Thought it'd be obvious." He finally willed the tape into submission, allowing him to seal up the box, then sat back on his heels to regard his flatmate. "Care to give me a hand?"
"Why?"
"Because there's a bloody lot of junk and it'll take me all year by myself."
"No!" Sherlock was quickly growing tired of repeating himself. "I mean, why are you doing this?"
"What do you mean, 'why?' Spring cleaning, it's…" John stumbled with his words, frustrated that he had no ready explanation for the ritual. Instead he decided on direct logic. "Well, it's impossible to find anything in this mess, anyway."
"Nonsense, John!" Sherlock retorted, insulted. "Everything was exactly in its place before you decided to meddle."
"Oh yeah?" The shorter man smirked. "Where's your nicotine patches, then?"
He watched in amusement as Sherlock ran first to check under the kitchen sink, then behind a pile of books atop the bookcase (both places they had never been), before rounding on John.
"What have you done with them?" he demanded. John had planned on dragging the search out a bit longer to prove his point, but something in his colleague's tone rendered it inadvisable. He got up and fished around behind the tele, tossing the box to him when he landed on it, triumph taking over his face.
"Right where you left them."
Sherlock would have fallen into a defeated pout had he not had a secret weapon.
"Right, well I'd just come to fetch you for a lovely little case of fraud Lestrade's stuck on," he offered, shrugging and turning back to the stairs, "but you're clearly busy, so I'll just leave you to it."
"Don't think for a minute that I believe a simple fraud caught your eye. It's not going to work."
"What's not going to work?" Sherlock turned back, looking for all the world like a perfect angel. "This isn't 'simple fraud,' as I'm certain it's a lead-up to something far more sinister. Just thought you'd like to know. For your blog." He could see the piqued curiosity wash over John, followed by resignation. He sighed heavily and stood, fetching his mobile from the bookcase.
"C'mon, I'd like to grab a sandwich on our way out." He made a point of not seeing the broad smirk replacing the angelic expression.
"And leave the litter as it is? Your tidiness—"
"First the case and then we clean," John cut him off. "You can't dodge it forever." He made an even greater point of ignoring Sherlock's faint reply of "Can't I?" as he stepped onto the street to hail a cab.