The curtains at 221B Baker Street had seen a lot since Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had moved in. They saw two men, polar opposites, solving crimes. The living room curtains had been surprised that the pair could coexist in such a small space, whilst the curtains from the two bedrooms placed bets on who would make the first move. The curtains saw their friend the wall getting shot. They saw arguments, parties, and loneliness. They saw experiments and random body parts. They saw friendship, meetings between enemies, brotherly love cleverly disguised as irritation. They saw a whole lot of fluffy jumpers and sleek button-downs. The dressers wished the pair would liven up their fashon senses, especially John's. Every dresser wishes for a fashionista owner, dreams of Yves Saint Laurent scarves and vintage dresses. At least they're gay, John's nightstand told his dresser. There's some hope left. In the kitchen, the poor old refrigerator was developing post-traumatic stress disorder from all of the dismembered body parts. The microwave, while it has seen its fair share of human bits, coached the fridge through its bouts of depression. The whisk bothered all of the other furniture and appliances, bored to the point of insanity from lack of use. The blender and the toaster had to ensure he did not hurt something. The kitchen table was usually weighed down with various scientific materials, slides and vials of who knows what. The slides and vials themselves seemed wholeheartedly embarrased at this. The couch good-naturedly put up with Sherlock's sulking, because he didn't smell half bad. The chairs were secretly glad that John's posterior was not nearly as bony as Sherlock's. All in all, the furniture of 221B had a happy life.
Then one day, John was alone. They watched him suffer quietly, crying softly in Sherlock's room, face buried in the scarf that the coatrack hated so much. The curtains watched helplessly as John pushed all of his old friends away: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, everyone. The bathroom saw John come home drunk at night and wake up hungover in the mornings. Sherlock's lamp watched as John experimented with his old flatmate's cocaine stash. The medicine cabinet ached as it saw John taking a bottle of Tylenol. But the front door was pushed open by a pair of uniform-clad men with fancy machines, who explained to the household furniture that their purpose was to save the human's life. The furniture watched the heroic machines work with John. They felt giddy with relief when a stretcher carried John away. The stretcher had reaured the worried bathtub that it had seen people in much worse condition walk away heathfully. The furniture was alone then, with the occasional visit from Mrs. Hudson, tidying the place up. The front door one day saw a taxi pull up with a rather harried-looking John in the back. It announced his return, and the furniture was overjoyed. The duvet in Sherlock's room comforted John knowingly as he began to sleep under it, much to the jealousy of John's old one. The curtains were quite happy when John began to open them up once again. The cabinets noted how much the sunlight improved his mood, because John was now eating. The crazy old whisk even got used one day as John made an omelette. The frying pan and the stove were determined to cook the most excellent food possible for their ailing human, and it worked. John was eating. The kitchen silently celebrated day and night on his behalf.
Then, early one morning, the knocker was woken up by a shy tapping. Then the doorbell rung itself dutifully. Sherlock's bed watched John arise and don the dressing gown draped over the bedroom door. The umbrella stand thought it was dreaming when it saw a tired, but very much alive Sherlock Holmes greet John. It watched John punch Sherlock a few times, then hug him. The furniture watched dormantly as the two men settled into their old routine. They could feel tension arising between the flatmates, however. Then one rainy morning came a quick kiss. The bedroom curtains were overjoyed. The furniture watched more kisses come between the two men, until one day Sherlock followed John up to his bedroom. The bed was ecstatic. Sherlock and John fell asleep together afterwards. The bedroom furniture quietly partied all night long. In the morning, the sun streamed through the window, and the two men awoke.
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I had the strangest dream last night. All of the furniture was alive." The furniture wished they knew the truth. Sherlock would have so much fun deducing that.
Then one day, John was alone. They watched him suffer quietly, crying softly in Sherlock's room, face buried in the scarf that the coatrack hated so much. The curtains watched helplessly as John pushed all of his old friends away: Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, everyone. The bathroom saw John come home drunk at night and wake up hungover in the mornings. Sherlock's lamp watched as John experimented with his old flatmate's cocaine stash. The medicine cabinet ached as it saw John taking a bottle of Tylenol. But the front door was pushed open by a pair of uniform-clad men with fancy machines, who explained to the household furniture that their purpose was to save the human's life. The furniture watched the heroic machines work with John. They felt giddy with relief when a stretcher carried John away. The stretcher had reaured the worried bathtub that it had seen people in much worse condition walk away heathfully. The furniture was alone then, with the occasional visit from Mrs. Hudson, tidying the place up. The front door one day saw a taxi pull up with a rather harried-looking John in the back. It announced his return, and the furniture was overjoyed. The duvet in Sherlock's room comforted John knowingly as he began to sleep under it, much to the jealousy of John's old one. The curtains were quite happy when John began to open them up once again. The cabinets noted how much the sunlight improved his mood, because John was now eating. The crazy old whisk even got used one day as John made an omelette. The frying pan and the stove were determined to cook the most excellent food possible for their ailing human, and it worked. John was eating. The kitchen silently celebrated day and night on his behalf.
Then, early one morning, the knocker was woken up by a shy tapping. Then the doorbell rung itself dutifully. Sherlock's bed watched John arise and don the dressing gown draped over the bedroom door. The umbrella stand thought it was dreaming when it saw a tired, but very much alive Sherlock Holmes greet John. It watched John punch Sherlock a few times, then hug him. The furniture watched dormantly as the two men settled into their old routine. They could feel tension arising between the flatmates, however. Then one rainy morning came a quick kiss. The bedroom curtains were overjoyed. The furniture watched more kisses come between the two men, until one day Sherlock followed John up to his bedroom. The bed was ecstatic. Sherlock and John fell asleep together afterwards. The bedroom furniture quietly partied all night long. In the morning, the sun streamed through the window, and the two men awoke.
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"I had the strangest dream last night. All of the furniture was alive." The furniture wished they knew the truth. Sherlock would have so much fun deducing that.