AN: The following chapter is short because it's a tester. If you feel I should continue, please let me know. Please enjoy and thanks for reading. :)

Chapter 1

John triple checked the list that he had made for himself. He didn't know why he always got so rattled this time of the year. It was just for a week and then it was over with. He moved his hand towards his open suitcase on the bed and started to rifle through the clothing there one last time.

"Alright...shirts, check...trousers, check...seven pairs of socks, one...two...three...four...five...six...wait, where's the seventh pair?"

He let out a sigh of exasperation as he pinched the bridge of his nose. This time last year, he hadn't had this problem. This time last year, he had been living alone. This time last year, he didn't have to deal with high functioning sociopath flatmates who stole your socks for the purpose of an experiment.

"Sherlock!" said John as he threw his check list down beside the suitcase and marched back out into the other room. "What did you do with my socks?"

Sherlock was sitting in his chair as John barged into the room. Sherlock's violin lay on his lap as he gave him a small smirk.

"What are you talking about, John?"

John let out another sigh as he threw his hands up into the air.

"I need seven pairs of socks for my trip and I only have six."

"And that's my problem because?..." asked Sherlock, waiting to catch John's drift.

"What did you do with my socks? I know their disappearance was your doing."

Sherlock placed a hand to his chest and pretended to look offended.

"Has our friendship stooped to such a low level that you have to accuse me of being a sock thief?"

"Ha, ha, Sherlock. You're a card," said John sarcastically as he rolled his eyes and marched over to pace in front of the windows.

Sherlock merely rolled his eyes and brought the violin into position. He was just about to bring his bow across the strings when John walked over and yanked the bow from his fingers.

"What on earth was that for?..." asked Sherlock as he looked up at John's flustered face, bewildered.

"You will get your bow back as soon as you tell me where my pair of socks are…" said John in a deceptively calm tone of voice.

Sherlock let out a sigh through his nose as he stood up.

"You're being quite a child about this whole mess, John, but if you must know, your socks are in the kitchen."

"Thank you…" said John.

Sherlock leaned forward to try to reclaim his bow, but John held it out of reach.

"I'm keeping this for insurance purposes," said John as he held the bow close to his chest and walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock closed his eyes as John disappeared into the kitchen and slowly started to count to ten. He knew it wouldn't take that long for John to explode in anger, but he was giving him a considerable window just incase.

"Sherlock bloody Holmes! What the…"

"It's just a pair of socks, John," said Sherlock as he opened his eyes again. "There really isn't a need to get so worked up over this."

John marched back into the room then; Sherlock's bow in one hand and his soiled socks in the other.

"What did you even do to them?"

"I used them to scrub out some of my beakers. Mrs. Hudson said I needed to clean and I couldn't find any rags lying about so…"

"So you used my socks?! Why didn't you use a pair of your own?"

"Because I need them," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"Why I…" John's face grew redder as he placed the bow gently aside before hucking the soiled socks at Sherlock, hitting him in the face.

Sherlock spluttered for a second as he tried to get the foul socks off his face. When he finally managed to, all he saw was John's back as he briskly walked back into his bedroom.

"You don't even know what kind of substances I scrubbed with these socks! You could have just contaminated us both!"

"Good! It'll teach you a lesson then, won't it?" hollered John in response as he walked over to the dresser drawers in his room to see if he could find another pair of socks that he wouldn't mind taking with him. He found a pair of Christmas socks buried at the bottom of his drawer with little elves in green hats on it and sighed. These would have to do. Why couldn't Sherlock have used these in his experiment?

"No matter," said John out loud to himself as he walked over to his suitcase with his Christmas socks and packed them into it. "Tomorrow, you'll be on a flight out of here for a week."

He let out a small grimace of pain as he felt a shot run through his body. It was the tell tale signs of the changes to come. He sighed with exasperation as he tried to shut the lid of his suitcase. This wouldn't be such a problem to hide if his ancestors hadn't been so careless. They had been careless enough to reveal themselves to some guy named Tolkien who wrote down everything they told him. They even went so far as to take him to their native country (which was no more now since they had taken one too many people through it). John wished that he hadn't been born with this burden, but he suppose it could be worse. All he had to do was go away for a week while he was in his changed form and then come back home. How hard could that be?