Lying on the sticky leather couch, Sherlock glared at the ceiling, hoping it would talk back to him. He scrutinized every crack, crumble and peel. His hands in prayer position and neatly secured under his chin. It was a prayer for crime.
"Come on, Satan. Come out to play," he muttered, tapping his fingers.
Once again, London was criminal free. All thanks to him, of course. He just wished some of the on-the-run murderers would last a bit longer until they were behind bars or decided to wimp out and kill themselves. There were no desperate cries for help, no blood splattered on the brick walls or guns being fired into human flesh. Sherlock cursed under his breath and squashed his head into the back of his beloved couch.
Thankfully, the door slammed. Heavy footsteps made their way up the creaking stairs and hesitated every now and then. Sherlock knew exactly who had arrived from the body weight disputed on the wooden floor boards.
"John," Sherlock muffled into the thick leather, making no attempt to remove his head from the leather walls.
His heartbeat seemed to pick up pace when he heard John huffing and heaving his work bag onto the kitchen table. His flatmate hadn't noticed his supposedly lifeless body, head wedged into the back of the leather cushions. A pale hand limped off the couch for extra realism.
John had just finished a ridiculously long shift at the surgery, agreeing to overtime to impress Sarah and to gain some brownie points to his black mark against 'reliability'. Thanks to his crime hunting adventures with Sherlock, he wasn't the most reliable employee, but thanks to Sarah, she understood that he was helping the community in a different way than the surgery.
"You haven't attempted to move then," John sighed, eyeing the detective on the couch whilst supplying their empty fridge with four pints of milk.
Sherlock didn't respond. He enjoyed playing this game. It was called 'Worrying John for No Reason.' John would the frights of his life when Sherlock supposedly attempts to perform a deliberate or accidental suicide. A few weeks ago, John found him dangling from a curtain pole with one of John's ties around his neck. What he didn't see was the chair still under Sherlock's feet, which was hidden by the towers of cardboard boxes in front. John was his doctor and Sherlock always liked playing innocent patient.
Sherlock made his body stiff as John approached closer.
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock smirked into the leather. The air was beginning to get tight between the thick leather pillows. He felt John's hand touching his arm and repeated his name several times. Still, Sherlock tightened his lips and bit his tongue in case a sound escaped. Inside Sherlock's head, he was laughing and silently counting until John's first aid instinct would kick in and come to his rescue. He knew John secretly enjoyed playing the brave knight in shining armour as Sherlock would have to play the damsel in distress. It took another ten seconds before John yanked Sherlock's head from the mould of leather cushions and checked his pulse.
Sherlock squinted at the sudden burst of light and John's hand slapping his cheeks. He was about to force his eyes open until Sherlock couldn't keep up the role play any longer. Sherlock grinned and joked, "You're late."
"You…Sherlock…you're such-" John hissed, leaping out of his kneeling position and standing further away from his flatmate.
"-an idiot. Always so predictable, John," Sherlock groaned, straightening his back and eyeing his wiggling toes.
"You could have suffocated yourself!" barked John.
"…and dramatic," sighed Sherlock, ignoring John's pacing.
John threw his hands in the air and gave a final scowl at Sherlock for good measure.
"Have you ever heard about the boy, who cried wolf?"
"Deleted it, but do tell if you want me to drift into unconsciousness," huffed Sherlock, pushing his palms against his closed eyes.
John suddenly felt sympathetic towards his flatmate. He hadn't slept in over a week since the last case he solved. It was a rather upsetting one. A teenaged girl found lying in a poorly lit back street, had been sexually assaulted and tortured to her death. Sherlock pointed out all her clothes were on her person except her beloved watch, given by her mother, was missing. Thanks to his deduction, he managed to quickly solve the mysterious killer by identifying her stepfather, Phillip Sermon, as the murderer along with her missing watch shoved into his jacket pocket. Mr Sermon had been consumed by jealously and wanted to start a new family with her mother. This meant getting rid of any baggage and raping his stepdaughter for pure disgusting pleasure. Sherlock had banned John from being anywhere near Mr Sermon when they arrested him. John agreed as he had to withhold himself when he caught a tiny glimpse of him. John could tell that Sherlock had given Mr Sermon a piece of his mind as he had a fat bleeding lip and swollen eyes as stepped into the awaiting police car.
John blinked away the flashback and asked, "What have you been up to today, Sherlock?"
"Come on, John. You know the answer," replied Sherlock, picking at his nicotine patch.
"Sorry for trying to make conversation," muttered John, strolling back into the kitchen. "Want some tea?"
"Please"
John smiled. At least his flatmate had manners and decided to use them.
John gave Sherlock the mug and sat in his armchair, flicking through the television channels. He hadn't watched the news all day and was guaranteed for a little bit of gossip from the battlefield. Until a report immediately flashed on the screen, 'MP found dead'. He turned his head, getting ready to witness an excitable Sherlock, but smirked at the rare sight. Sherlock was asleep. An empty mug still held in his hand. His chest rising and falling was simply a captivating performance.
John slowly walked over to his friend and took the mug from his hand. He crouched down for a blanket underneath the couch and draped it over the sleeping figure.
He reached over for Sherlock's laptop as it looked like it would snap in half if Sherlock rolled over in his sleep. Suddenly, the screen flashed and a soft 'ping' alerted an email had been received. Out of curiosity, John clicked onto it, praying Sherlock wasn't awake behind him. Sneaking an eye over his shoulder, Sherlock was still in the land of nod.
The email was from Mycroft. John found this even more exciting. The message read 'Booked Table 221. Don't let me down'. Attached to the email was a leaflet for a London strip club, inviting guests to watch 'Kara Rose dance especially for one night only'. John stared at the screen in total puzzlement.
'What an earth….' He thought as he flicked back to the message and its sender. He wasn't dreaming, but he was bloody tired! John shut down the laptop as he couldn't be bothered with it. He couldn't be bothered to wake up Sherlock for answers as to why his brother was inviting him to a strip club.
'Stupid Holmes brothers,' John scoffed.
He turned the television off and eyed Sherlock again. John smiled as the detective looked so cute and innocent, wrapped up in the blanket. He kissed his forehead and stroked a fallen curl out of his face.
"Don't tell Sarah," he whispered and walked off to his bedroom for the night.
"I won't," Sherlock sighed.