Sherlock has chewed gum before... just not for fun.
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This is the first fanfic I have completed! I had just a bit of feedback for this one, mostly from my sister though. I tried to stick with the characters well, but I'm a bit iffy on how I portrayed John. Let me know what you guys think!
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John sucks in a breath, mentally preparing himself before opening the fridge. Gripping the cold metal handle, he wrenches the door open like ripping off a bandaid. He let out a sigh of relief to see the fridge devoid of toxic or radioactive substances.
John's stomach growls and he frowns at the nearly empty fridge. He curses the half empty milk carton and bag of carrots, eyeing the slightly molding shredded cheese suspiciously.
His mind is focused on one thing.
'Food.'
He shouts in the general direction of the living room. "Sherlock, I'm stepping out for groceries, do you want anything?" He hears a barely audible "Hmf." John glances into the living room and raises an eyebrow.
Sherlock is draped over the sofa upside down with his eyes closed and his head hanging off the cushion. His feet were dangling over the back and one arm splayed over the armrest and the other resting dramatically on his tipped back head.
"Sherlock."
"Hmmmf."
John rolls his eyes and turns away with a tut. At least he got some response from the frustrating detective. That was better than nothing, right? John opens the pantry to see what else he needs to pick-
"Sherlock!"
"Mmm?" Sherlock lazily opens one eye to look up at John who had stormed over to stand in front of him.
"What is in the pantry." John is fuming with frustration. "At the very least I would expect it in the fridge, but the pantry?" John is mentally plotting ways to end Sherlock's life.
Sherlock blinks at John's upside down expression with a bemused glint in his eyes. He chuckles. "You wouldn't hurt me and you know it." Sherlock then turns his head away and mutters dismissively. "Was an experiment." He closes his eyes and, again, covers them with the back of his hand and an exaggerated sigh. He continues with a whine. "I'm just so bored, John. BOooOoRed!"
"No, no, no. You don't put a bloody dissected rat in the middle of the pantry, Sherlock. Even if you're bored! Do I even want to know why?" John thinks his patience couldn't possibly wear any thinner.
Sherlock chuckles. "Well, the rat is bloody. Are you attempting at humor, John?" He gives John a smug grin then sighs. He mutters again lazily, as if the effort of speaking was too much to bear. "Experiment, wanna see if...eaten… if the other rats… eat it... hmmmf."
John clears his throat and straightens up, his eyes boring into the taller man's skull. "Sherlock, look at me." After a few long seconds, he receives a slightly annoyed glance from the prick.
"I'm going to have to replace every non-canned item in the pantry. You're going to have it cleaned up by the time I get back." John paused, his tongue darting over his bottom lip. 'Should I really indulge Sherlock when he gets in one of his moods? Probably not, but maybe it'll be a motivator...'
"If you remove that fucking rat and throw away the food that needs pitched, AND disinfect and wipe down the pantry… I'll see if Greg has a case for us."
Sherlock blinks. "...Greg?"
"Lestrade, Sherlock."
"Ahh." After a long pause, Sherlock flops his arms around in defeat. "Fine, but pick up some patches. It's the only way I'll survive this debilitating boredom."
"No Sherlock, no cigarettes, no patches, remember? You're quitting cold turkey."
Sherlock looks up, feigning a sad pout and even bats his eyelashes. "Please John?"
'That fucking pout.'
"I said no."
"...Nicotine gum?"
John hesitates. 'It's better than patches I guess… and if it shuts him up...' "Alright, but if I see one speck of blood or feces in that pantry when I get back, I'm throwing it in the bins."
Sherlock offers no response.
John walks away, his anger slowly dissipating. 'Insufferable!' He returns to the kitchen, holding his breath again and opens the pantry to take inventory for the grocery list. He swore he heard a squeak from somewhere else in the cabinets.
...
Sherlock doesn't move a muscle for about five minutes after John had stormed out the door. Four minutes and thirty-two seconds to be precise. He twitches only when he realizes that the blood rushing to his brain was finally too much and is making his head spin.
He lets out a loud unrestrained groan.
"BOOORED." He sits up enough to rotate his body and curl up on his side. 'I want a smoke. I could clean the pantry…' He opens his eyes and rubs at them with the palms of his hands. 'Am I really that bored?'
The consulting detective slides off the sofa and shuffles into the kitchen. Sherlock pulls his dressing gown tighter and glares at the pantry. His skin itches and he tightens his fists in frustration. If he gets this over with, he'll have some nicotine. Not a smoke, or a patch, but something was better than nothing.
He roots under the sink for the cleaning supplies.