Hey there yo wassup howzit goin' itsa me Mario!

I've never written a Sherlock fic before so...also this is a strange pairing, like it's sort of taboo and I love it I will go down with this ship. R+R pl0x.

Passing Notes

Chapter One: Go Away, John.

221b was silent. Not that there wasn't anyone home, of course there was. In fact, both of the men who lived in the tiny apartment were home. It's just that one of them had lost his voice, and had in place the rule that when Sherlock loses his voice, no one is allowed to speak to him. This was a regular occurrence, it didn't phase John Watson at all, however what did phase him was the fact that his curly-haired flatmate had taken to his room, locked the door, and hadn't come out in over 24 hours.

Sighing, John eased himself out of his armchair. It was five O'clock in the evening, and he had taken on a graveyard shift at St. Barts for a bit of extra income. Picking up a pen, he began to scribble a note and made his way to the other's bedroom.

Sherlock, why is your door locked? -JW

He slid the scrap of paper under the door. There was a snort on the other side. The white sheet scooted back under to him.

Go away, John. - SH

John sighed again. He'd been doing that a lot since moving in with the consulting detective, sighing. But then, that was just the effect Sherlock Holmes had on people. He was exasperating, him and his stupid cheekbones.

Wait, John thought, why am I thinking about his cheekbones? He shuddered, shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind, as he picked up a notebook and sagged against the wall, sinking to the cold wood floor.

No Sherlock, you've been in there for over 24 hours, just come out? Please? - JW

John sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, pushing the paper under the door frame. There was a thump, and it was returned with a new scrawl.

No John, leave me alone! - SH

He let out and audible sigh. That man! That frustrating, infuriating, lovely man! John pulled a face and returned his message,

Sherlock, there's been a triple murder and Lestrade wants you in, will you please come out? - JW

This was barefaced lie of course. There was no case. John just needed to, at the very least, see Sherlock's face, if only to make sure he was okay. There was an awful lot of crashes and a very loud thump. quick as a flash, the door flew open, and Sherlock strode out, tying his scarf on. He looked down at John, catching himself as he had nearly tripped over the smaller man.

"Ah good, you're okay!" John exclaimed.

Sherlock glowered at him.

"Oh, uh, yes, the uh, the rule...-I..." John took the notebook from Sherlock, who was offering it to him. He wrote quickly.

There is no murder, triple or otherwise, I just wanted to make sure you're alright.

Sherlock glared at the paper, his eyes lifting from it to stare pointedly at John, as if to say "Get out of my face, you short-arse, woolly little bastard."
He turned on his heel, slamming his bedroom door in John's face. Great. Oh well. I may as well leave the stubborn shit be, John thought bitterly, as he made his way back to his chair, shaking his head at his stubborn, temporarily mute friend.


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