A/N: Here we go again! :) I find it surprisingly easy to write humour with those two, so I hope it makes you smile a little after all the drama of series 3.
Disclaimer: Copyright for this incarnation of Sherlock Holmes at BBC and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss, no infringement intended.
John returned from work late in the afternoon, feeling completely exhausted. He was supposed to be temping, but sometimes, it felt like a full time job to him – besides, he was absolutely certain that, once he looked into their fridge, he would see nothing whatsoever – aside from the usual uneatable experiments Sherlock insisted on leaving there. He really wasn't in the mood to go shopping.
When he stepped into the flat, however, John froze on the spot. He half assumed he had gone into the wrong house, if it had not been for Mrs Hudson, wiping the floor of the hallway. This, most certainly, was not their flat.
The clutter was gone. There was not one sheet of paper on the floor, not one book, phial, discarded nicotine patch. For once, John could actually see their carpet – he really had had no idea that it was that particular colour. Sherlock's case files had been gathered up, as well, and placed in a neat pile on the side table. Whoever had done that would have hell to pay once Sherlock noticed.
The table and armchairs were carefully arranged, the pillows fluffed up and placed evenly on the armchairs – they usually had a habit of gathering on the sofa. The sofa itself, which, in the morning, had been occupied by a sleeping Sherlock (overwork finally taking its toll) was now empty, the blanket folded carefully at one end. Sherlock's laptop, previously on the floor beside the sofa, sat on the table beside the case files.
Even the boxes of the take-away they had had for dinner – which John had felt guilty about not throwing away all day, even though he had had to sneak out of their flat in absolute silence as to not wake his flatmate – were gone.
The mantle had been dusted. The jackknife pinning down Sherlock's 'boring' letters was still there, but the letters were gone. And the skull, usually appearing all the more grim for the layers of dust covering it, was now perfectly shining.
Even the violin was in its case, resting on the window sill.
Everything smelled of lemon.
There were three explanations for this. One – Sherlock had been abducted, and the abductor had planned to conceal the signs of a struggle by tiding up. Nonsense, John, use your brain! Two – Sherlock had tidied up, but that was a once-in-a-million-years occurrence, so hardly an acceptable theory. John hadn't tidied up himself since Sherlock had snapped at him for even touching his files... Three – Mrs Hudson had finally seen sense and thrown them out of the flat, making it ready for the next tenants. Why she would want to keep the skull, though, was beyond him.
John crept into the flat. "Sherlock?"
Of course, he was not there.
The kitchen was a sparkling clean as the rest of the flat, and John approached the fridge with trepidation. There were no body parts, no poisons, no bacteria – merely food. Lots and lots of food. This, most certainly, was not even remotely normal, and definitely not Sherlock's doing.
John slammed the door of the fridge shut as he heard Sherlock bounding up the stairs, as if trying to hide the offending orderliness.
Sherlock, however, came strolling into the kitchen with nonchalance. "Ah, John. You're back."
"Yes, only just. It wasn't me!"
Sherlock regarded him as if he was wondering whether his flatmate had been deserted by the last scrap of intelligence. "What are you talking about?"
"Don't tell me you didn't notice!"
Sherlock leant against the kitchen table. "John, there is no need to get all worked up. Despite common belief, I am not able to read anyone's mind, let alone yours."
John was not sure whether that was supposed to be a compliment, but in face of the enormity of the things at hand, he let it slide. "The flat! It's clean! No paper, no clutter, no dust!"
"Oh, that. That was Mrs Hudson. I thought you'd like it."
"I... do." John just failed to believe it – their landlady-not-housekeeper would never have touched their flat out of her own accord. "Why?"
"Oh, I did her a small favour. Retrieved her handbag from a pair of muggers. I suppose she was grateful." A quicksilver smile flashed over Sherlock's face, then he retreated into his bedroom.
John stared after him, looking again at the flat. "Well, this is... new."