Sherlock and Archie's Slightly Warped Adventure

Sherlock Holmes was bored, and completely and utterly so. This in itself was not an unusual occurrence; being surrounded by morons on a daily basis would have that effect upon one such as he was. In Sherlock's vast experience, there were twelve particular and varied types of boredom. One such tedium involved his lying upon the sofa for days on end, with any movement being solely internal; in light of the relatively recent necessity of his faux suicide, Mrs Hudson had taken to assuming his death upon these occurrences and subsequently developed an irritating habit of telephoning the emergency services. Another, more favourable circumstance relied on the precession of clients, of whom he could launch a vicious character assassination until the pangs (and more often, the client) disappeared. This week's dosage, however, pertained to a particularly unusual brand of ennui. The world had had simply failed to give Sherlock a reason to exist. There wasn't so much as a toe to idly lacerate, let alone a client. Scotland Yard had been atypically silent. The gun had been left in St Barts' morgue. He couldn't even retreat into his mind palace; for want of a better, less distasteful expression, he had simply lost the keys. Lacking the incentive to reach out to the comfort of the sofa, Sherlock had spent the past three hours lying upon the kitchen floor with only broken test tubes and a glass eye to keep him company.

He hadn't seen or heard from John Watson since the night after that preposterous display of pageantry which they had deigned to call a wedding. The only highlight of the day itself had been the thrill of potential murder; the smiles had merely been for John's benefit. The current absence did not bother Sherlock, or rather, so he told himself. John was presently on what Sherlock preferred to call his "Sex Holiday". The rest of the world had decided to call the trip a honeymoon, but Sherlock saw it as a pointless excursion made all the more redundant by Mary's beckoning pregnancy. No doubt John would try to utilise the Sex Holiday for its original purpose regardless. Sherlock did not care about the fact that his friend was too busy attending to primal impulses to spend time with him; sentiment was, and would always remain, a considerable waste of brainpower. However, he did care about his current lethargy. Sherlock rolled onto his side, joints groaning in protest as he sat up and promptly knocked his head against the underside of the table. There was the dazed realisation that he had lost at least twenty-three vital brain cells in this collision. It was if the Universe was enjoying his discomfort; he therefore hated the Universe. Or at least he would have, had he not been too bored to bother.

The stale silence of the flat was suddenly punctuated by Mrs Hudson's bizarre cooing. Why couldn't she knock, as the rest of the world did? Or else abandon the redundant concept of politeness altogether and simply walk inside? The woman was a walking enigma. Her life story and habits were painfully transparent to Sherlock, but her insistence upon lying to herself in denying that she knew anything about running a drug cartel was beyond him. Still, evolution was about survival of the fittest; her fussing, matriarchal ways resulted in him being fed and living virtually rent-free, so he kept her around. It was for this same reason that he remained where he was, allowing her to approach him.

'Oh, Sherlock, what are you doing down there? You're going to get shredded to pieces with all that broken glass.'

'Bored.' Sherlock sullenly replied. Her tone had been laced with concern, which was something that he couldn't bear. 'Unless the Metropolitan Police has started using you as an envoy, get out.'

'I really am going to invite your mother round for a chat, young man. There's someone here to see you.'

'Client?' Sherlock leapt to his feet, bounding over to his chair in anticipation. Finally.

'No, dear. It's one of Mary's friends – the one with the lovely little boy from the wedding.'

'What is she doing here?'

'How should I know? I don't like to pry.'

'Send her up, then. I've got nothing better to do.' He stood up, his dressing gown swinging loosely around him as he waved her away.

'I'm not your secretary, dear.'

'Just send her up.' Sherlock had to physically usher his landlady out of the room. Whilst Mrs Hudson was ultimately the most pliable person he had ever met, she occasionally needed more forceful directions for doing his bidding.

Well, this was more than a little annoying. Whilst the woman's presence would more than likely provide some base-level entertainment, it was completely illogical that she should make the journey to 221B Baker Street. Unless someone close to her had been violently murdered, which Sherlock was wholeheartedly hoping was the case. As the most favourable situation also happened to be the most unlikely, he settled cross-legged back down upon his chair and prepared to crucify the woman before promptly extracting her from his presence.

'Hello, Mr Holmes. It's nice to see you again.' With a staccato of cheap shoes echoing from the staircase, the brunette had stumbled into Sherlock's living room, fumbling alternately with a mass of overstretched shopping bags and her phone. A classic characteristic of a harassed working single mother. The rest of her clothing matched the low budget of her shoes. Aside from the fairly obvious fact that she appeared to be holding three different conversations at once, there was not a remotely interesting fact about her. Sherlock attempted to tune her out as she chattered on. 'Archie's been talking about you non-stop! He wants to be a detective or a policeman now; before the wedding it was all clowns and spacemen, so you've definitely inspired him. Of course, I don't approve of your –.'

'What do you want?' Sherlock snapped, offering the woman his most disdainful expression. Her name was lost to him; it had been on the invitation, but remembering anyone beyond the bridesmaids would have resulted in the deletion of a particularly relevant autopsy. The name, much like the woman, was irritatingly unimportant.

'Oh. Well, Mary's wedding gift turned up late so I thought I would just drop it round.' After offering Sherlock a momentary impression of a startled rabbit, she recommenced her fumbling and eventually produced a large ball of wrapping paper. The gift had been hurriedly overdosed with sellotape.

'John Watson no longer lives here. I believe that they call it "marriage".'

'Yes, but I thought as you'll probably see Mary before I do it would be better to give it to you.'

'And yet the Post Office boasts an excellent delivery service.' Sherlock waved away the proffered present, hoping she would take the hint. 'You are fully aware of Mr and Mrs Watson's new address and the trustworthiness of their neighbours, but still chose to make an hour round trip into central London. I will ask you again; why are you here?'

The woman shifted a little on the spot; clearly she was about to ask something personal of Sherlock.

'I need a favour, Mr Holmes.' She began; Sherlock rolled his eyes. He could see the question coming from a mile off. Equally, he knew what his answer would be.

'No.'

'Sorry?'

'No. I am a consulting detective, not a child-minder. Regardless of Archie's performance in the service, I am not his "friend" and am in fact widely viewed as a dangerous individual. Not only does your request lack sufficient logic, but I am also busy!'

'But I've left him waiting downstairs!' The woman despaired. 'Look, please! He doesn't trust anyone else and my mother's in hospital. I've got work on my back because my presentation is –.'

'You assume that I care, which leaves me further disinclined to help you. Come back when your son has been murdered.'

Sherlock could see her hand twitching, as if aching to throw something at him. Her restraint was impressive. Ninety percent of the population would have normally given into the urge about five minutes ago; Sherlock could only assume that this self-discipline had stemmed from the combination of working numerous jobs and having an unhealthily inquisitive child. He found this barely contained reaction to be mildly satisfying and flashed the woman the most impolite of his smirks. John's Sex Holiday had the added benefit of Sherlock not being told to curb his tongue, which went some way to easing the dullness of the day.

Oddly enough, this seemed to antagonise the woman into action. Her lips tightened together and she seemed to be making a decision.

"For the love of God;" She muttered to herself. Sherlock rolled his eyes, partly willing her to snap. "you can do this." Drawing in a deep breath, she looked directly at Sherlock.

"Mr Holmes, I have absolutely no idea why, but my son looks up to you. Frankly you're the last role model a child should ever have, unless they want to become… disturbed, but he likes you. He also trusts you, so that is that. You're looking after him for the afternoon, because I don't know anyone else in London who is free at the moment, and I am desperate."

'Nonetheless,' Sherlock motioned sharply towards the door. 'I suggest that you retrieve your child from the clutches of Mrs Hudson. Either childhood obesity has gained one more statistic, or by now Archie has chosen to roam the streets of Westminster for a less tedious pastime. Good morning.'

The cracks in the peach foundation were beginning to show. She simply gaped at him for a good minute; her brain failing to make the connection between Sherlock's flippant outstretched arm and the exit. And then she crumbled.

'You, Mr Holmes, are a heartless bastard! I don't know what Mary sees in you!'

'Probably a backdoor to John.'

One more disparaging look later, the woman finally relented. A slam of the door reverberated around the flat and Sherlock relaxed. He stood up and padded across the room, eyeing an out-of-date box of cereal which was perched on the sofa; the dearth of work meant that other nourishment was required. If the body's demands were tended to, then perhaps the mind could finally stop musing about nothing in particular. Only then could he summon the energy to seek something out. Sherlock dismissed a scuffling sound from the next room in favour of a handful of stale Cheerios. That was until a small head peeked around the kitchen door and offered him a disarming grin.

'Mr Holmes; Mr Holmes! I escaped Mummy – she was boring. What does "bastard" mean?'

Sherlock froze, utterly speechless. The Universe had bequeathed him a minor problem. He was no longer too bored to hate the Universe.

So the plan for this one is to make it a five chapter minific, if enough people like the concept. Updates will tend to be a little sporadic because of my current love of Sherlock/Janine and the fact that "Seduction and Deduction" involves some pretty intense (yet fun) writing sessions. Thanks again to MissMercury101 for her additions; they really helped things to move along! Reviews are adored. :) MC. xx