The stairs creaked underneath John as he approached 221B, shifting the groceries into one arm as he fumbled for the key to the flat. He was trying his best not to spill everything as he unlocked the door and pushed it open with his hip, shutting it quietly behind him and dumping the groceries on the kitchen table. With an exhausted sigh, he moved a couple of cloth-wrapped extremities out of the way and put the kettle on, running a hand through his bristly hair and waiting for the tea to be ready.

Minutes later, having made what he thought to be a just-right cup of tea, he began making his way towards the sitting room—and stopped halfway.

There were some very odd noises sounding from the television set. But what on earth…

Having stepped out of the kitchen, a very bizarre sight met his eyes. Sherlock was sitting ramrod-straight and alert in his armchair, but his arms were thrashing very violently and unpredictably in spite of his stoic expression. John then took note of the movements on the television—paralleling Sherlock's arm movements—and cracked a grin.

"Are you playing video games?" he questioned incredulously, sitting on the sofa and snickering as the character on the screen got thrown off by what was presumably an alien attack. When Sherlock didn't answer, John took a step forward, grabbing a sleek golden case sitting on the dresser and admiring it.

"The Legend of Zelda," he read off. "Harry and I used to play the old one as kids!" he remarked, and turned to Sherlock, who was still staring blankly at the screen. It looked like his head had been screwed onto entirely the wrong body.

"Well, then," said John, who feared that his composure would soon break in the presence of such a scene, "well, I'll leave you to it. Erm, Sherlock…" he turned and gazed at the screen as the character once again received a blow to the side. "Er, I think you're meant to hit the eye. Of the monster, I mean. It's the weak spot."

"Obviously," Sherlock spat, having spoken for the first time that evening. John winced as the character on screen was struck mid-swing by the opponent, but Sherlock remained as still as ever. In amusement, John took a long sip of tea and sat back down, watching as Sherlock's arms wind-milled about an otherwise dry and impassive face.

"Master, your hearts are nearly depleted…" a sprite voiced, having appeared on the screen.

"OBVIOUSLY!" Sherlock yelled as the character received yet another blow to the side. "As if I couldn't tell by that dreadful and incessant beeping, by the urgency of the music, or perhaps the rapidly diminishing life bar and YES I KNOW MY BATTERIES ARE RUNNING LOW-"

His rage was cut short as the character was struck a final time and the screen lamented a game over.

And then John nearly spat his drink everywhere as Sherlock retrieved a pistol and shot the television set, triggering a small explosion that sparked and emitted a hissing stream of smoke.

Without moving a muscle, Sherlock stated very calmly, "John, please call Lestrade and let him know that the bet is off."

And understanding none of this, John gladly complied, and then made the authoritative decision that there were to be no more video games at 221B Baker Street.

This one's dedicated to ~Icearrows1200, who shares my passion for Zelda and the BBC. She requested that I write a fic... sorry that it was so short! I hope that she- as well as everyone else- enjoyed regardless of the brevity.

-C