Hello everyone *friendly wave*! I'm new to the Sherlockverse, and as my first attempt, I post…this. I will say that this is the strangest thing I have ever written, but I love it as I love my somewhat mutated cat. That said, do keep in mind that I have no beta (except for the mutant cat what sometimes walks on my keyboard). Hope you enjoy my twisted plot. -MSSH

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.

Warnings: Discussions of violence! Bizarreness!

Hypothetically

Chapter One: Premeditation

"Bored."

John Watson struggled for a more comfortable position against his chair regardless of the fact that its cushions had perfectly moulded to his backside months ago. His fingers crunched tighter against the first and last pages of The Telegraph. The sweat from his palms permeated into the unread paper. Uneasily, he risked a glance over his neglected newspaper at the source of his constant suffering.

Sherlock was sprawled lazily over the sofa with one leg dangling over the edge. Much like the consulting detective himself, that pyjama-clad leg was caught in an infinite loop, circling counter-clockwise in the air. It was a cycle that had been perpetuating for a good half hour now; Sherlock would hold his mobile centimetres from his face and let his eyes hunt the lit screen for a suspicious story in the press, a text, an email, anything. When there was obviously nothing, just as there had been in his last twenty-five searches, Sherlock would slam the mobile against the sofa and groan out that horrible, monosyllabic word: bored. It was as though it were his twisted mantra, and one might even find the tortuous routine strangely meditative. But John was no Buddhist monk. He was only a doctor who wanted to read his paper.

At the too-familiar-by-now sound of his flatmate slamming his phone down, John flattened the newspaper against his lap. "Bored!" John exclaimed in unison with Sherlock.

Sherlock looked up at John as though it were the first time he had noticed they were sharing the same room. His leg stilled, and the cycle had been broken. "I'm bored, John."

The twenty-six—now twenty-seven—times that Sherlock had moaned this word came thundering down on John's patience. "Yes, I know, everyone knows, Sherlock, you're bored! Can you keep quiet for five minutes while I read at least one of the stories in the press? I did pay for the paper at the market. Along with the milk. And the jam. While you were bored, in case you were wondering. So I'd like to read it," he finished breathlessly and found himself perplexed by the unanimous silence in the sitting room.

Sherlock pouted, drummed his long fingers against the sofa cushion, but refrained from one of his pointed responses.

"Right then." While keeping a wary eye on his restless friend, John picked up the wrinkled paper from his lap. He knew his day-off would not be relaxing. Sherlock had been without a case for six days now, without a relevant experiment to conduct for three days, and he had been driving John insane during the unfortunate moments he returned from work for the last two. He had dreaded his day-off. He even asked, begged Sarah to give him more hours at the clinic. Hell, he would have mopped the linoleum floors at her behest if it meant not coming home to Bored Sherlock at Baker Street. But Sarah had owed him no favours, and it being weeks after their break-up, she felt no kindness toward him. No, he was meant to suffer today.

He was just beginning to peruse the second line of a scathing politics article when he felt his side vibrate, and John all but threw the paper to the floor while reaching into his pocket for his mobile. Maybe Sarah had mercy on him after all! His thoughts raced to a carefree half-day at the clinic, where the flux of patients and paperwork could distract him from his mad flatmate. Before John could envision the quiet calm of his office, his eyes narrowed at the succinct text on the screen, and the air deflated from his body.

Sent 10:57 AM

Bored.

-SH

John glared at Sherlock, whose hands were innocently empty of the offending phone. Oh, he thinks he's clever. In one familiar movement, John reached behind the small of his back for his Union Jack pillow and tossed it at Sherlock's head. It hit Sherlock square in the face with a hard thump and mussed his already unruly dark curls. Unfazed, Sherlock lifted the projectile from his head and dropped it onto the coffee table.

"Sherlock, what exactly do you want me to do about this?"

Sherlock's tungsten-green eyes lit onto John's. "Fetch me my revolver." If John had known Sherlock any less, he would have mistaken this for an order instead of a hopeful request.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, and while raising both eyebrows at Sherlock, replied, "Why would I do that? We just paid off the repairs to the last wall you abused."

A scratch on the coffee table suddenly grew worthy of the consulting detective's attention. "Because you've confiscated my cigarettes and will not tell me where they are."

John smirked in spite of himself. Although that had been a nasty intervention, it felt quite good to have hidden something that even Sherlock Holmes could not find. "Yes, that's right. Two weeks without a cigarette tomorrow, we're all thrilled for you, Sherlock."

"The revolver, John." Sherlock was now sitting on the very edge of the sofa with his eyes boring holes into him.

"No, I don't think I'll return that to you, either. Funny thing, a headline in here mentioned that people and those around them tend to live longer without guns and cigarettes. I'd elaborate, but an annoying git seems to keep me from reading the article."

Sherlock let out a long, frustrated growl. "I need something!" He ran his palms through his curls as if scratching an itch deep in his skull. "A murder, a kidnapping, identity fraud, a bloody cat up a tree! Anything but this infernal silence, my mind is swallowing itself whole!"

It was not until John glimpsed a flash of Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown flying in the air that he realised the detective had jumped on the coffee table again. Sherlock on the coffee table never ended well for John or his possessions. "Okay, okay!" He held out a placating hand toward Sherlock, who was moments from a veritable tantrum that would rival that of a two year-old. "How about if we left the flat? Get that brain of yours some stimulation?"

Sherlock glared over the Union Jack pillow that he was now holding and contemplating how to best rip it in two.

"Uh, we can go to the park! Have a nice, long walk."

"That's dull. I'm not some dog that is satiated by the stench of sick in every grass patch and the occasional trash pile."

"You practically mess the flat like a dog," John muttered. Since Sherlock had quit smoking, objects that John had even remotely liked had appeared strewn about the floor in pieces. Sherlock's eyes flickered back to the imperilled pillow in his arms, and John picked up his voice. "We'll go to the cinema!"

"Atrocious. Furthermore, you're forgetting that our six month ban does not expire for another nine weeks."

"Well, whose fault is that?"

"Yours, for insisting that I partake in a 3-D viewing experience. Hardly an experience, John."

John sharply exhaled. "Okay, how about an amusement park?"

If it were possible, Sherlock's frown set itself deeper into his angled features. "Amusing for whom?"

"Perhaps the zoo?"

"Is that a threat? Seriously, John, are you threatening me now? What possible good can that do? I'm practically rotting with lethargy, already!" Sherlock flung the pillow to his side, and the motion was followed by a distant crash.

John ignored the noise—it could have been his laptop lying broken on the floor for all he cared—his gaze was transfixed on the childish man whingeing on their coffee table. "Then maybe we can take a walk to the cemetery. At least that will save me a step or two!"

"Ah, sarcasm!"

"Very good, now stop acting like a two year-old, and get off the coffee table, Sherlock!"

"I rather dislike cemeteries, John," Sherlock continued, heedless of the doctor's warning. "They are a constant reminder of the shortcomings of the murdering class!" He began pacing on what little clearance he had on the stubby table. "In the first place, there are hardly any bodies in a cemetery that have been murdered, very dull, I should say. And for the ones that are, it's just a quick poke here or a shot there so that any idiot could solve it, and then they're left to the worms!"

"How sympathetic of you, caring."

This time the sarcasm was lost on Sherlock. "I'd like to think so. There's barely any creativity in murder these days! That's precisely what is wrong with the average criminal. If one must kill an employer, lover, sister, what-have-you, then why is there not an ounce of effort?"

John felt a familiar pain throb beneath his eyes. He was going to read the paper today. He was going to drink some tea, perhaps watch crap telly, and otherwise enjoy his day-off like an ordinary British citizen. Instead he was talking down a madman who was raving about murder from a coffee table. "How would you do it, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock froze in mid-pace from the edge of the abused table. "How would I do it?" His expression had lost all traces of its former irritation, and his eyes glittered with wonder. "You mean, how would I murder someone?"

"It's a rhetorical question, Sherlock. I didn't actually—"

"No one's ever asked me that, John," interjected Sherlock. One side of his mouth quirked up into a pleased, little smile. "Of course I would need a victim, hypothetically, if I were to murder someone."

"Again, that was a rhetorical—oh, sod this." At the sight of Sherlock's calm, albeit eerie smile, and the odd peace that his sudden stillness brought, John realised that somehow, he must have said something right to relax his flatmate's overactive synapses. "How about Anderson?"

The thought of murdering Anderson must have had its appeal because Sherlock's smirk widened; however, he reluctantly shook his head. "No, even Donovan, vapid cretin as she is, would suspect me. Besides, I would actually have to touch Anderson, repeatedly, in order to murder him."

John grinned back. "No, can't have that. What about Mycroft?"

"No, fratricide. It's annoyingly common these days."

"Molly?"

"Why would I want to kill Molly Hooper?"

"Right. How about Lestrade? Donovan?"

Sherlock wrinkled the bridge of his nose in distaste, although judging by his grin, he was still immensely enjoying the conversation. "Cop-killing. Why don't we just do it under a spotlight? When it's an officer, John, the Yard adopts some semblance of usefulness. They only need to suspect me."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"John. That is depraved."

John opened his mouth to ask just why a man who kept a severed head next to the milk would think that hypothetically murdering their landlady was depraved, but it was then that he noticed that one potential victim was left absent from consideration.

"Well, there is me," John ventured. The moment the words left his mouth, he strangely itchy and uncomfortable under his cable knit jumper. Of course Sherlock would never consider John as his victim—he was ordinary, boring Doctor John Watson. Hardly anyone exciting for a genius to murder, even hypothetically.

As he had predicted, the smile vanished from Sherlock's face. "You? John, you're—"

"Too obvious as a flatmate? Is it depraved? Too boring?" answered John. His voice raised a fraction with each word, and he inwardly chastised himself for feeling put-off by such a ridiculous conversation.

"Perfect!"

He was not expecting that. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock hopped down from his perch on the coffee table and clapped two pale hands on the doctor's shoulders. "Perfect, John! You're the perfect victim! It's so obvious, but on the other hand, why would I murder the only flatmate I've kept for over a week? The gears holding their little minds together will break!" He leaned in closer, so that his imploring eyes were only centimetres away from John's. "May I, John? May I murder you and destroy your mutilated corpse?"

John blinked, twice. Sherlock was still there, hard grey-green eyes locked on his face, pleading. Sherlock hardly asked for anything, never mind that he asked to murder him like a child begging for an ice cream. For the consulting detective to ask John's permission for something instead of imperiously taking what he wanted was a sign that he was desperate for a distraction. What harm could a hypothetical murder possibly do?

"Sherlock, I would consider it an honour if you were to murder me."

A wild grin spread over Sherlock's face, and he clenched his fists in the air. "Brilliant! Brilliant, John!"

John tremulously smiled back at his ecstatic flatmate. Perhaps he should have been indignant that his best friend was giddy over the prospect of hypothetically murdering him, but he had managed to bring Sherlock down from the coffee table without the use of force and make him happy inside of five minutes. The rest of his day-off was looking brighter—until Sherlock yanked his arm in the wrong direction.

"Ow, Sherlock!" he growled. Sherlock disregarded his cry of pain and bent John's neck as far back as it would go. "Ouch! Sherlock, that hurts! What the hell are you doing?"

"Examining you," he replied coolly, while prodding a narrow, pale fingertip at his uninjured shoulder joint. "Interesting."

"Sherlock! Sherlock, stop that!" Just as they were both discovering that John's elbow definitely did not bend that way, he slapped Sherlock's hands away.

Sherlock huffed, but nevertheless stood aside, while dissecting him carefully with his eyes. "Very well. I'm finished. You can continue with whatever dull activity you believe will occupy your underutilised mind for the day."

Sherlock's caustic remarks hardly fazed John, but watching him saunter back to the sofa without offering a single word about his pretend murder after being manhandled was a bit much. "Wait, hold on! Aren't you going to, you know, tell me? My murder?"

Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa, and neatly curled himself into a sitting position. "Have some patience, John. I'm deliberating."

"Oh," John said intelligently. "Premeditated murder, then. I'm flattered."

Sherlock offered him a smile across the sitting room. "You should be."

Those were the last three words Sherlock had spoken for hours. Much to John's surprise, the remainder of his day-off had become exactly what he had hoped. Of course, there was no salvaging the newspaper. In his haste to prevent Sherlock's coffee table tantrum he had thrown it to the floor where it sat crumpled in disarray.

He fixed himself a cuppa along with the leftover ginger biscuits Mrs Hudson had brought up to them the day before. Out of habit, he placed a hot cup of tea beside Sherlock, already knowing that when he returned to it, the mug would be cold and untouched. He watched two films, both forgettable spy thrillers that would have had Sherlock ranting and raving at the television screen, but the detective sat perfectly, catatonically still as he sometimes would when he worked on a real case. He managed one hundred pages through a murder mystery novel—a true milestone since all his previous attempts to read one were thwarted by Sherlock snatching the book from his hands, leafing through the first ten pages, and declaring the identity of the murderer. Yes, the rest of the day had been wonderfully mundane. Mundane, peaceful and the last thing that Sherlock would have allowed him to endure under ordinary circumstances. He should have given Sherlock a rhetorical question to mull over months ago!

John had flipped to page one hundred twenty-three of what was becoming a rather terrible novel (he was beginning to see why Sherlock routinely rescued him from these) when the bell sounded the delivery of a take-away. He returned to the sitting room realising that the book had disappeared from its place on his armrest, and John could have sworn that Sherlock's position on the sofa had shifted.

Neither observations were of much concern to him until he re-emerged from the kitchen with silverware and found Sherlock unwrapping his own supper from its plastic cocoon.

"John, why do you bother with this pulp?" He said, while holding up the mystery novel with his free hand. "It's obvious that the murderer is the woman's twin sister thought dead in the car accident."

"I suspected," John growled, although he was secretly quite pleased at having an excuse to throw the novel into the bin. He handed Sherlock a fork before returning to his seat and starting in on a flavourful Indian curry. "I take it that the return of your appetite means that you've decided how you would like to murder me."

"Yes, I have." Sherlock's lips stretched into a grin the Cheshire cat would envy.

"Well, don't keep me in suspense." John gestured at him offhandedly with his fork. "Would you shoot me with a wooden bullet? Stab me with a shard of ice? Please, I'd like to know how you would 'do' murder."

Sherlock gave him a long, quiet glare. "John. I would like to shatter your elbows, knees and shoulders with a ball-pin hammer, tie you up, and drag you to an abandoned warehouse where I will proceed to dip you in a vat of hydrofluoric acid. It will liquefy your lungs upon inhalation, slough away your skin until it is a necrotic gel, and dissolve the integrity of your bones. I will then recover the slurry of your remains and freeze them with liquid nitrogen into a large cube, which I will break into small pieces that I will leave scattered throughout London."

John felt the blood drain from his face. "Dear Lord." He managed to tear himself away from Sherlock's piercing gaze, only to look down at what had been a satisfying tikka masala supper. Recalling the word slurry, he fought to keep what he had consumed from jumping back up his oesophagus. "No," he whispered to the curry, or rather the inconvenient fact that it should exist at all. He quickly stood and rushed what remained of the take-away to the bin.

Sherlock chewed his lip, looking almost sheepish. "What? Not good?"

John said nothing; he only shot Sherlock a look. Definitely not good.

The detective cleared his throat. "I admit there are some holes in the plot, for instance, not even I could obtain a vat of hydrofluoric acid without arousing some suspicion. And I suppose there is the risk of splatter from the acid, as well as the fumes...but really, John, it's not good? At all?"

John let out a sigh he did not know he had been holding as he listened to his incredulous friend. Only with Sherlock could he feel in the wrong for declining to die a truly horrendous, albeit hypothetical, death. "Sherlock," he began cautiously, "It isn't like I don't appreciate—"

Sherlock held up an arm, effectively silencing him. "No, don't. You're apologising, don't apologise. Why are you apologising?" He paused, and his pale green eyes roved over John appraisingly. He took in a short breath and collected himself. "You didn't like it. Too much? Yes, too much. Very well, I suppose I cannot rush such an endeavour. I will just have to recalculate."

"Recalculate?"

Sherlock barely nodded, while his fingers gently lifted the lid of his take-away, a chicken korma. "How does that tired little saying go, 'try and try again'? Not to worry John, I shall envision a fitting end for you yet."

Whatever colour that had remained in John's expression certainly deserted him now. So much for a simple, rhetorical question.

"Hmm," purred Sherlock after he had taken a tentative bite his take-away. "This is actually quite good."

What have I gotten myself into?

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