The ball hit the ceiling, landed in John's hand, and then hit the ceiling once again. It was a seemingly endless pattern that had gone on for the past half an hour. Due to the fact that neither he nor Sherlock had found a good case for the past few months things on 221b Baker Street have been moving very slow. John lay across the couch while Sherlock's fingers flew across his keyboard. John chuckled under his breath lightly knowing that Sherlock was probably updating his website on the many types of tobacco ash. Throwing his ball back up at the wall he couldn't help but continue smiling to himself, sometimes Sherlock was so predictable.
"FORTY TWO POINT SEVEN SECONDS," Sherlock spun around in his chair to smile mischievously at John who almost fell off the couch in surprise. Sherlock wasn't as predictable as he thought. Scrambling to save himself from crashing face first onto the floor, John placed both of his hands on the ground, looking angrily at his flat mate. He realized that the curly haired psychopath, no sociopath, John didn't even know the difference, had already turned around and was back to doing whatever he was doing on the computer.
"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" He had given up on trying to get back up onto the couch and slid down to the ground, letting the ball roll away. He stared at the back of Sherlock's head for several seconds, hoping that he would feel his piercing stare. He twirled around in his chair dramatically, smiling at John as if he solved an impossible puzzle. A shiver ran down John's back, that smile terrifies him.
"On average you would throw your ball up to the ceiling about once every twenty seconds, less than half of a minute, meaning that that was your standard time while you weren't putting any brain power into each throw, but your last throw was more than double your average time." He got up out of his chair and jumped over John and onto the couch. "While you were taking your pause, obviously, you were thinking on something and you stared exactly at this spot." John spun over on his other side, not bothering to get up off of the ground and began to stare at Sherlock in curiosity, who was completely fixated with a section of the ceiling. "This is where they are, right?" He began pushing on the piece, looking as if he were waiting for it to give way. "You and Mrs. Hudson hid my smokes here."
He jumped back over John who had now sprawled across the floor in a mixture of the feelings horror and disappointment. Horror because the last time Sherlock went this long without a case he began reliant on cigarettes, just like this, but had decided that he wouldn't let himself have any, so his dependency on them led the duo to go on adventure after an "imaginary" dog which almost got them both killed. And disappointment because Sherlock was his best friend and the smartest man he knew, so when he acted insane like this John couldn't help but feel an overwhelming frustration towards the man.
Turning his head, he noticed Sherlock clambering around the room, looking as if he were searching for something. At first, John thought he gave up on the idea that the cigarettes were in the ceiling but then he realized he was looking in places he had searched before, so he had to be looking for something else. Suddenly, Sherlock looked up from the umbrella stand and ran out of the room, then down the stairs.
Too lazy to look up, John closed his eyes and directed his gaze at the ceiling and on the spot where Sherlock was positive the cigarettes were. He thought on why he was even there. Not in this particular situation, but Baker Street. He had a wife and a little girl on the way, he knew he should be with them, be a proper man and deal with his problems head on, but something held him here, in 221b. He hated to admit it but it was most likely Sherlock, he was his best friend and ever since he came back from the dead almost a year ago he's seemed different. He's been more recluse, grabbing more petty cases, sneaking more cigarettes in while John wasn't looking. It wasn't like him and although John technically staying here to sort out his feelings towards Mary, which was true, another piece of him, which he hid well and would never tell anyone, was staying in the apartment to make sure Sherlock didn't make any idiotic decisions or get himself killed while he was going through this weird phase.
Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson's screams echoed through the flat and John immediately sprang up, completely alert. He looked around the room to see if any intruders had entered and when he found none he flew out and sprinted down the stairs, running into Sherlock and losing his balance. He was falling and he had no time for it. Craning his head around he saw Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the stairs, hands clasped tight, screaming once again. He relieved a sigh, no one had broken in and her screaming earlier was probably Sherlock's fault, the only reason she was screaming now was because he was falling down a flight of stairs.
I am falling down a flight of stairs. He was too busy paying attention to Mrs. Hudson to notice that Sherlock had caused him to trip and plummet down the staircase. He spread out his arms and swung them around in an attempt to grab something and regain his balance. Spinning his head around to look ahead, he saw Sherlock spring forward and grab him by the front of the shirt, a stunned look on his face. The two stood there for a moment, Sherlock's face turned from a dazed to a placid one in less than second and John still looked completely shocked. Sherlock leaned back on his heels slowly making sure that John was stably on a step before running out the door back into the other room.
John stood there for another moment before turning around and very, very carefully walk down the stairs where Mrs. Hudson still stood looking as if she was still processing the events that had just unfolded in front of her. Once he was on level ground, he ran to her and awkwardly held her in his arms for a moment. Then, she turned her head and simply smiled at him like always and unwound herself from his protecting embrace leaving the room as if this whole scene was a completely normal thing for her, turning in the doorway she called. "Are you sure you aren't hiding anything from Mary, dear?"
He stood there confused for a moment before it really dawned on him. This whole scene must've looked completely different from Mrs. Hudson's point of view. Sherlock ran out of the room, less than a minute later he ran out "after him", John was falling, Sherlock caught him, and then they stared "lovingly" into one another's eyes. "Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted after her hoping for her to finally understand. "Mrs. Hudson, I am not gay!"
He stood there for a moment alone before hearing a loud knocking from the room Sherlock was in. A realization washed over him where he realized that why he was sent on this wild goose chase. Sherlock thinks that there's a pack of smokes in the ceiling. He ran back up the stairs and didn't even care if he tripped. He needed to stop Sherlock from tearing down the entire apartment for his temporary bliss. It'd be easier if he just handed him the box and suffer from the consequences later because in the reality he really didn't want to have to deal with him right now.
Sherlock was standing on the couch with a broom in hand, repeatedly driving it into the ceiling; there was an abundance of holes already. John stood in the doorway, shocked and not sure what to do, it was true that Sherlock was different and radical when in need of a case, but John's never seen him this insane. He placed a hand in his pocket and curled his fingers around the box of cigarettes, where they always were, where they were always hidden and somehow the one place Sherlock never checked. He contemplated giving them to him like he previously thought he was going to do, but his fingers let go of the box and he walked over to Sherlock and opened his mouth, not quite sure what to say.
"Sherlock," He sighed, reaching out with a friendly hand, trying to comfort his friend.
Suddenly, the doorbell rang and Sherlock immediately stopped and dropped the broom. He jumped off the couch and flew out the door. "A CASE!" John stared out the doorway and fell on the couch trying to relax, staring at all the holes that were now permanently in the ceiling. His head turned to look at the broom and all the pieces came together. When Sherlock first thought that the cigarettes were in the ceiling he knew he'd have to find away to get them out, broom was apparently the best option. That was why he frantically checked the front room; he was looking for a broom. Then he realized Mrs. Hudson would have it and went after her, looking back up at the holes, he groaned to himself. Hopefully, the client would bring in a good case to get Sherlock back to his normal self.
"John!" Sherlock yelled.
John hopped up off the couch and ran to the doorway, looking down his jaw dropped. Sherlock was standing over a young, homeless woman that was crumbled in a heap on the ground. He straightened up his collar and grabbed his cheesy detective hat off the rack, laying it smoothly on his curly locks. Although a woman may be dead at his feet he wore an excited smile similar to a child who is about to open presents on Christmas. "We have a case, John Watson. And the game is on."