John's alarm was gunshots, as usual. How many smiley faces was that now? 17? Sighing, he stumbled to the living room, tying a robe loosely over a bare chest and checkered pajama pants. Rubbing his eyes, John was startled to see Sherlock not standing with the gun in his hand, but the discarded pistol was flung on the under stuffed chair. Glancing at the wall, a familiar smiley face greeted him. He shuffled toward the kitchen, a surprised to find Sherlock's lanky but muscular form folded over the small stovetop.
"What in the world are you trying to do?" John asked with exasperation.
"I'm not TRYING to do anything. I'm making pancakes," a miniscule smirk twitched on his lips.
"Why?" John asked skeptically.
"A morning treat!" Sherlock replied with a twinkle in his eye. Since there seemed to be nothing else to say, John asked a totally unrelated question. He sat carefully on a wooden stool near the counter and sighed.
"How many smiley faces has that been?"
"Sixteen I think," said Sherlock.
"Seventeen," said John matter of factly.
"Oh, no worries," Sherlock replied, "Mrs. Hudson will clean it up."
"Sherlock, its bullets, not dirty dishes," John said. His irritation was rising.
"Bullets aren't that hard, you know. Aren't housekeepers trained to do this kind of thing? Clean up after their employers? We are paying her after all." John had had enough. He slammed his palm against the old granite countertop, which didn't make Sherlock even wince.
"Sherlock!"
"Yes, John?" he replied with a lazy tone. Fumbling for words, John opened his mouth but couldn't come up with a smart response.
"Cat got your tongue?" said Sherlock with a little amusement in his voice. "Oh that reminds me! I was walking home last night and found a poor stray in our alley. I just couldn't resist taking it home." John was stunned. He stood with his mouth agape, not knowing how to react.
"John! Johnny boy, come here!" Sherlock crooned. "By the way, I named it after you," as Sherlock continues to strut about the apartment, sing songing John's name, the actual John sat heavily onto his stool. This had been a very taxing morning. Just as Sherlock walked back into the kitchen muttering "where is that damned cat," three things happened. A pancake burned, a tortious shell kitten jumped onto the counter, and John fainted.