Disclaimer: I do not own BBC!Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, or Mrs. Hudson.
Warning: Contains cats, stubborn Sherlocks, and sculleries.
A/N: And so I seemed to have disappeared for a few days, mostly with good reason. I hope to catch up on pieces fairly soon, keeping my quantities up. Some will be horrible, some will be mediocre, some will be good, and some will be great. Hopefully more of the lattermost arrive soon enough. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy what I post and I hope you'll continue to encourage me with your wonderful messages, favorites, follows, etc.
I may or may not post something else today, as I am rather tired and have a dental appointment tomorrow morning, followed by an evening at work. So we shall see~
Please remember that reviews, comments, critiques, ideas, feedback in general is both welcome and encouraged. I try to respond to everyone as quickly and as thoroughly as possible, and I hope to see more names in my inbox soon~
Sometimes conversations even create new stories!
Thank you for your time, your opinion, and your Patience,
-Selvine
When Mrs. Hudson had refused Sherlock the lease of 221C Baker Street in return for its renovation and upgrading to a laboratory, the younger Holmes brother had been rather put out, and had proceeded to express his displeasure with her decision for several fortnights thereafter. The Landlady, apparently preoccupied with plans of her own, had somehow ignored the consistent griping, the gunshot wounds her walls had acquired, and numerous other unnecessary attacks the detective had provided. Doctor John Watson had sat idly by, hiding a faint air of amusement as Sherlock's ire turned toward someone else for once. However, when Mrs. Hudson had unveiled the remodeling of the small flat into a scullery, an uproar had stirred once more.
Sherlock Holmes did not like being told "no", nor did he seem to actually comprehend the meaning of the word, unless using it himself. Much like the Wizard in John's favorite fantasy novels and the word "Stop", somewhere between the consulting detective's ear and his brain, he seemed to hear "Full speed ahead". As such, he had done everything in his power to bribe contractors, hide blueprints, steal materials, and practically anything else he could think of. In the end, his attempts had only resulted in a raise on their rent, and the fixing of the walls in his own flat.
Unfortunately, for Sherlock, the battle had raged on. Food went missing from Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator. Tea, freshly brewed, turned up lukewarm seconds later. Letters vanished from the post, packages never arrived, and bills somehow disintegrated before being paid. All Mrs. Hudson did in retribution was raise the rent. Eventually, John had enough and instructed Sherlock to play nice. For a while, that at least seemed to work.
A few weeks passed, and for a brief moment 221 Baker Street gave a sigh of relief. Then, the inevitable happened. Sherlock Holmes grew bored; and a bored, selfish Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous Sherlock Holmes.
Rarely did the detective make a mistake, or miss a detail. When he did, it could prove disastrous, to the case, the police, his flatmate, his proprietor, or himself. On a foggy Sunday morning, when John and Mrs. Hudson had gone, such a moment occurred.
It started as another attempt at thievery. The key to 221C Baker Street, possibly some of the items stored within. To the younger Holmes brother's surprise, however, the door to the new scullery had been left conveniently ajar. This should have been his first clue. Yet, upon entering the room and habitually closing the door behind him, Sherlock still expected no foul play. Mrs. Hudson was too sweet and simple-minded for such trickery, unlike himself, and he would defeat her in this game if it killed him. A faint 'click' of the door's latch falling in place, and Sherlock grinned, prancing about the new room as if he were a cat exploring a new domain.
Sparkling new copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling at the far right of the room, shining under the natural light provided by the miniscule windows surrounding them. Large dish basins and a floor-to-ceiling drying rack rested nearby, a wicker basket for clean/dry dishes resting beneath the unused utilities.
To the left of the room were a new washing and drying unit, complete with several hampers for the colors, the pure-whites, the darks, and the blacks. Mrs. Hudson liked to keep things as tidy as possible, and this would allow for more accurate washing and fewer laundry mishaps overall. In the corner, there also rested a cupboard the land lady had recently filled with dried meats, fruits, and veggies. Apparently, Mrs. Hudson was stocking up in case she found herself locked in and couldn't get out.
It was as that thought crossed Sherlock's mind, he realized he'd shut the door and made his way across the floor to push it open again. Fump. No luck. Fump, fump, crick. The door continued to refuse the detective passage. He was trapped.
Turning, the younger Holmes brother sought an escape and located a window. Only to find a rather large and angry-looking cat perched there. No doubt the proprietor had decided this beast would make a fine pet. Tentatively, he reached forward.
A hiss, and blur of paw, and a startled shout later, and Sherlock found himself on the floor, clutching a bleeding hand. When the animal stood and appeared to be readying itself to jump down to his level, the detective turned for the storage closet, quickly adjusting the meats, and locked himself in. A quiet thump and soft padding followed soon after, and then the scratching began.
When John and Mrs. Hudson arrived home several hours later, deducing quickly enough the trouble Sherlock had gotten into, they used the spare key and walked into the room. Lying in front of the closet door was Mr. Hugglesworth, meowing at the door every few seconds and inciting a furious shout of derision.
John smiled and stepped forward, placing various groceries in their respective places before lifting the gigantic Maine Coon onto his shoulder, petting the tabby behind his ears and enjoying the rumbling purrs as they vibrated against his neck.
"You can come out now, Sherlock. The Cat of Baskerville is restrained." Amusement tainted John's voice and a smirk found its way across his usually somber expression.
Sherlock hesitated, then opened the door. Immediately, the detective skirted around his flattmate and the cat in his arms, keeping a wary eye on the animal as he approached the door. "The both of you are vicious and cruel, I should report you to Lestrade for attempted murder, training animals for fighting, and other assorted crimes I know you to be guilty of." Muttering, the lanky gentleman turned, sweeping from the room with an armful of dried fruits and snarling his displeasure. As he approached the door of 221B Baker Street, his shoulders jumped and hunched, for the sound of laughter rang out from down the stairs.
Sherlock frowned "Insufferable, inconsiderate normal people.", and the door closed. Hopefully John had forgotten his key and would find out just how fun life could be with an angry Sherlock Holmes on your hands. Satisfied, the young detective turned toward his makeshift laboratory and bit off a piece of a dried fig. He had experiments to conduct, starting with the first of the keys for the scullery. The wars were far from over.
A/N: So hopefully most of you don't think this is an utter mess and at least enjoyed it a little. It is, by far, not the best piece I've posted, but it was a writing exercise nonetheless and I appreciate its ability to help me keep writing.
This was actually a prompt piece based on the phrase "utility room". I contemplated taking it a whole different direction, but I'd like to keep obeying ToS and not alienate the majority of my readers. Maybe in the future I'll have fun with it in a more edgy way, but for now, this is what I have~
Thanks again for your time and hopefully your Comments,
-Sel