A/N This is the first part of a short fic which will be spread over several chapters. If I take too long to upload feel free to yell at me in the reviews or PM me, also feel free to point out errors.
I don't even care if it's as small a thing as using 'too' instead of 'to', please tell me!
I hope you enjoy.
John's footsteps sounded on the stairs and echoed through the house like thunder, each stomp! stomp! stomp! making the steps shake and creak. He reached the top of the stairs and opened the door to 221b. There was, apparently, a skill to opening a door angrily, and it was also apparent that John had that skill. The fury he injected into the simple turning of a handle is, I'm sure, unrivalled to this day.
After slamming the door shut again, John flopped into his armchair. He looked stiff and stressed, his fists clenching and unclenching on the armrests as he shot little darting glared around the room, his eyes narrowed and his lips in a thin line. Yes, John was on the warpath.
Finally, John's eyes locked onto something on the coffee table. It shouldn't have been possible, but his eyes seemed to narrow more and his lips became so thin that his mouth literally looked like a gash in his face.
John sat, glaring at the syringe for a couple of seconds until, suddenly, in a burst of energy akin to a small explosion, John leapt out of the armchair and dived towards the coffee table, grasping the syringe in his hand.
The syringe was destined to arrive, in pieces, at a landfill site not long after this explosion of anger on the part of John.
A/N There you go, I will update a.s.a.p but until then, R&R: it means a lot. Thanks!