John rattled the door handle to Sherlock's bedroom, but it was no use—locked fast. He heaved a sigh. "Sherlock, open up."
"Go away," was the reply, muffled by what was probably a duvet. John had an instant mental image of what was going on behind that door. Sherlock was curled up on his bed, sulking.
For God's sake. Six months after that fateful first meeting in the Barts lab, and John still couldn't believe how stupidly immature his flatmate could be sometimes.
"I'd love to 'go away'," he said through gritted teeth. "But I can't leave without my wallet and phone, which I know you've got in there with you. Cut it out and open the door."
Silence.
John rattled the handle again. "If I can't get to my wallet, I'm headed to Maggs Bros with as many of your books as I can carry," he said. "Don't think I won't. There's a reason Harry doesn't own any Def Leppard CDs anymore."
"I'd like to see you try without your wallet," Sherlock replied. "You need to confirm your identity to sell. They won't accept what are clearly stolen goods."
"As opposed to, what, you borrowing my stuff in there?" John smacked his palm against the door. "Should I skip all this and call your brother to sort you out instead?"
"You might find that difficult. Mycroft's in Copenhagen."
"Sherlock, come on. I'm only going on a date. It's not the end of the world. I know you're not keen on Laura, but you're not the one dating her." And I won't be dating her either, if I don't get a move on. I don't even know her number without my phone.
"We're in the middle of a case. How am I supposed to interview Emma Laughton about the murder of her secretary and examine her office at the same time while you're off watching some dull film with Lauren?"
"Laura. And how are you going to do either of those things while you're barricaded in your room with my stuff?"
More silence.
"I'll help you when I get back. Promise," John offered.
"You said that last time."
"Yeah, well, it's not my fault you solved the case while I was gone… oh, fine."
John huffed back to the kitchen, rifling the drawers by the sink for a flathead screwdriver and a safety pin, both of which came to hand within a few seconds. He took them back to Sherlock's bedroom door and got to work. As he slid the screwdriver into the lock and started resetting the pins, he heard Sherlock get up in a flurry.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not completely useless," John said as the last pin sprung and the lock clicked over. He opened the door and marched over to pick up his wallet and phone from where they sat on Sherlock's mattress. "Thank you. I'll be home around midnight."
Sherlock looked blankly at the sprung lock on the door, then reached out and ran his finger over it. "You never told me you could pick a lock," he said, as if he had just discovered John could fly.
"You never asked. See you."
Sherlock steepled his fingers, putting them to his lips. "This changes everything, John," he said, eyes aglow with the possibilities that had just presented themselves to him. "Now that we both know how to pick a lock under pressure, our chances of finding the…"
He trailed off, only realising he was now alone as the street door below slammed shut. John was already hailing a cab.