The characters of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson created by Sir Author Conan Doyle.
The setting of Sherlock (BBC) created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them for this idea.
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The doctor walked into the kitchen hesitantly, the smell was...peculiar and quite pungent. "No, no, no," he said upon seeing his flatmate bent over the center table. "It's too early for this kind of shit, Sherlock." John's voice was exasperated and he was beyond exhausted, but living with Sherlock Holmes had a tendency to do that to a person, even one with as much patience as John Watson.
Sherlock didn't look up at the doctor's statement. "Case, John, don't you remember? Came in last night."
"I...," John sighed, palming his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I just got it. I was at the surgery last night. What is that doing on the table?"
"You know how I hate repeating myself, John. I've already told you it's for a case, can't you see that?" John narrowed his eyes at his flatmate. There were many things John was, a blogger, an ex-army doctor, a ladies man, Sherlock's moral compass. A simpleton he was not and he hated being talked down to like one. He wasn't because living with Sherlock Holmes had as many advantages as it did disadvantages. John certainly felt smarter for being around the genius for so long, though he did miss things that Sherlock clearly noticed, he never said he was perfect.
"I do happen to see that it's for a case, but do you have to dissect it on the kitchen table?" He pointed to the animal carcass that Sherlock was pouring over. The smell was almost unbearable and was beginning to make John's eyes water; it was probably something to do with how Sherlock obtained the animal. For the first time throughout the entire conversation, the detective looked up, an eyebrow cocked at his flatmate.
"Where else would you have me do this work?"
"Bart's morgue comes to mind."
"Molly would never allow it, a potentially diseased animal in a place where bodies are being examined. Come now, John, you know better."
"So you decide to bring a 'potentially diseased animal' home, smelling and dripping, and ruin our kitchen table. Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table," he corrected, seeing Sherlock prepare a reply. "Where we." He gestured a finger between the tow of them. "Eat."
Sherlock smirked at his friend. "You know I don't eat when I'm working." And there it was, the straw that broke the camels back. Sherlock hadn't thought about it, or worse yet, he had and chose to ignore John's needs. His brow furrowed at the look on John's face; who turned from the kitchen and pulled his coat from the hook.
"Where are you going?" Sherlock stood from the carcass, his bloody gloves occasionally dripping to the floor.
"Mike's. Don't call unless it's important. You know what, never mind, don't call at all." John tugged his coat over his shoulders roughly, clearly distressed about something.
"Why are you going there?"
"You're the consulting detective, figure it out."
"If this is about the animal, I'll take care of it." He gestured to the oozing beast. John's eyes snapped between it and Sherlock. Clearly this wasn't about the animal.
"That's not the point, Sherlock."
"Then what is?" Sherlock reached a bloody hand out to turn John to him, when the doctor batted the hand away and suddenly chinned him. He tumbled to the floor in a heap, holding his chin in the crook of his arm; shock clouding his features as he look up to John.
"When you remember that you aren't the only bloody person who lives in this goddamn flat, then maybe I'll come home." John turned and stormed down the seventeen steps and out onto Baker Street, leaving Sherlock to think over what John had said.