John Watson is angry.
The kind of angry where only a nice cup of tea could prevent him from killing his roommate's older brother.
He stomps up the stairs to the flat and grumbles under his breath as he crosses through to the kitchen. He flicks the switch on the kettle, pausing for a moment. It didn't turn on. He takes a deep breath and runs a finger over the cord, finding it unplugged and with the cord cut. He takes another deep breath.
"Sherlock?"
He hears his roommate's noncommittal grunt and rubs at the bridge of his nose.
"What happened to the kettle?"
Sherlock grunts again.
"Experiment."
John grits his teeth. Both of the Holmeses were walking dead men. He grumbles under his breath some more and ducks down to dig through one of the cupboards, finding the old stove top kettle and forcing himself not to slam it down on the hot plate. He continues to grumble under his breath as he keeps stomping through the kitchen, angrily grabbing the milk out of the fridge and slamming it down on the counter near his mug. He fills the kettle and fiddles with the stoves until the gas lit before setting the kettle back onto the hot plate. The grumbling continues right up until the kettle beginning to whistle loudly. John calms slightly as he pours the water into the mug, humming slightly to himself, already starting to feel better. Little did he know how short lived that feeling would be.
He's almost completely calm by the time the tea's finished steeping and he's stirred in the sugar. By the time he picks up the milk the army doctor's mouth is quirking up into a slight smile. It was almost as if everything was fine. Like his twat of a roommate hadn't cut the plug off of the kettle. Like his twat roommate's brother hadn't just kidnapped him from work for the umpteenth time this week. He hums slightly under his breath and pours the milk into his mug. Wrong move. A loud banging sound echoes out of the lounge room and John jumps, knocking his mug over and spilling the milk.
Now, there's a saying, 'don't cry over spilled milk'? Well, normally John wouldn't. He'd sigh exasperatedly and just start to clean it up. But this time? Not this time. No, John would later claim that a man is allowed to burst into tears when their milk suddenly explodes in said man's face. He lets out a yell and jumps back, slipping in the spilled tea and falling to the ground. He stares up at the ceiling in shock, hardly registering the burning feeling on his face. He offers no resistance to the arms that yank him up and deposit him into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, eyes tearing up as the hands attached to said arms began patting his face down with a damp cloth, a dull voice nattering away in his ear. After a silent moment, John blinks and slumps slightly in the chair before bursting into tears. He sobbed for a good few minutes, gasping for breath and hiccupping, still ignoring Sherlock's now worried voice.
"John? John, why are you crying? Did it get in your eyes? How does it feel?"
John calms down after a moment, focusing in on Sherlock and grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket, growling lowly.
"What. The. Hell. Just. Happened?"
He feels the other stiffen and clear his throat awkwardly.
"I may have experimented on your milk while you were at work."
The doctor growls again and tightens his grip on Sherlock jacket, ignoring the pain flaring up across the stretched skin. And then he snapped.
"You, wha- no. Just no. YOU DO NOT EXPERIMENT ON MY MILK, SHERLOCK! YOU DO NOT USE THE KETTLE OR ANY OF IT'S PARTS FOR YOUR EXPERIMENTS. AND MOST CERTAINLY ARE NOT GOING TO LEAVE ME TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS! WHAT WAS IN THE MILK ANYWAY?! No, you know what? Don't tell me. I don't want to know. Get a mop. I'm going to murder you."
He pauses to take a breath, and spots the small smile on Sherlock's face, immediately scowling.
"What the Hell are you smiling at?"
Sherlock gently detaches John's hands from his lapels and takes a calculated step back, keeping himself out of John's reach before gesturing at his eyebrows.
"You have no eyebrows."
John's eye twitches as he stares at Sherlock with a completely blank expression. The raven haired genius snickers slightly and John snaps again. He throws himself out of the chair and at Sherlock, tackling the other to the ground and snarling.
"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU, YOU HORRID, SHIT OF A FLATSHARE!" He doesn't pause to take in the shocked expression on Sherlock's pale face as he pulls his arm back to gear up for a hefty punch. Someone clears the throat from the doorway and John freezes, arm still back and fist clenched, head slowly turning to look at the new addition to the room.
"Um, hello Lestrade."
The detective inspector blinks as he takes in the scene before him and rubs a hand over his face.
"You're going to have to let him up, John. I really don't want to arrest you."
He sits there for a moment before grumbling and pushing himself up, stomping out of the room to inspect the damage from the explosion in the bathroom mirror. He ignores the sounds of conversation coming from the kitchen and looks over himself in the mirror. Sherlock was right. His eyebrows were gone. Splotches of his face were also covered in minor burns. As were his hands. He lets out a sigh and turns on the tap, running his hands under the cold stream before gently splashing water on his face. It stung like Hell. He took a deep breath and finished washing the burns before applying an antiseptic salve and covering the worst of them.