How to irritate your flat mate

Disclaimer: I do not own these amazing characters; they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and in this case Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat! Thank you so much BBC, for bringing these wonderful characters to my life!

A/n: Hello again! I suppose you could call this another impulse thing, I find that I really enjoy writing on impulse, and writing cheerful things makes me happy XD.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! Xxx

I made a noise that was a cross between a yelp and a strangled cry. Then, finally regaining the use of my tongue, swore very loudly, making Mrs Hudson jump from her place by the door way, where she was holding the shopping bags.

"Dear me, can you stop the language dear?" she scalded me, frowning slightly.

I swung the fridge door shut, slightly too stunned to speak after my intense shock.

It was not every day you look in the fridge for an innocent bottle of milk and see someone's decapitated head glaring at you gormlessly from the bottom shelf.

Even when living with Sherlock.

I mean fingers were one thing, yeah, I could put up with those. But a head! A head! A human head. Well, it was a whole different matter.

It had been bad enough the last time.

It was always the head in the fridge.

Always.

It took a while to restart my heart.
When the moment passed, I gestured to Mrs Hudson.
"Where the hell does he get this stuff?" I cried.
"What dear?" she asked vaguely, seemingly preoccupied with something in the bag. Perhaps she was hoping to deflect my rage that way.
"That bloody head," I said vehemently, "the fingers, the toes, the- the-" I shuddered, refusing to even say the word as the less than unpleasant memory came back to me, "you know- bloody body parts!"
"Probably from the morgue, that lovely girl Molly Hooper does everything for him, bless her, she's a sweetheart,"

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, glancing around the flat as if expecting to see him there somewhere.
"Where is he anyway?" I seethe, clenching my fists.

When I got hold of him...

"Now John dear," Mrs Hudson chided, "don't go picking a fight,"

"But there's a bloody head in the fridge!" I protested.

"Get him to clear it out when he comes home," she smiled, "or I will, he has no sense of hygiene at all, can you imagine all the germs..."

I zoned out and let her go on a bit.

And consequently refused to go anywhere near the head for the rest of the day.

Sherlock took his sweet time getting home, and as soon as he did, I spent at least half an hour shouting myself hoarse before going out for a walk. I needed to clear my head.

He really had given me a shock, and I wasn't letting it go easily.

10 minutes after that I received a text.

Head cleared out- experiment complete -SH

I sighed, I guess that was his way of apologising.

At least he had got rid of it, though I suspected Mrs Hudson had a hand in that particular problem.

My phone buzzed again.

Are you coming home? SH

I bit back a smile.

Yes I'm coming home- JW

I slipped my phone back in my pocket and turned around, in the direction of Baker Street.

A/n: let me know what you think!

I'm in a dilemma. I could leave it here, or make it a collection of drabbles, based on Sherlock's little quirks, and maybe even John's? And if you have any ideas, you could just let me know? Xxx

Let me know what you think! You're the reader. It's up to you guys Xxx