The following morning, John woke to a dim light outside and about two inches of snow on the ground. With a quick look at his clock, he knew Sherlock would still be asleep and Mrs. Hudson would still be at work, for it was almost noon. He stretched and gathered clothes to take a shower before Sherlock woke up so he could get a start on breakfast...well it would be lunch now, wouldn't it? He popped the thought out of his mind and made his way down to the bathroom with clothes in hand, though as soon as he opened the door he, again, nearly fell to the ground in shock.

Sherlock wasn't in bed, he was in the bathtub with the door wide open and the small traces of bubbles found around his shoulders. John held his hand over his eyes, his ears and cheeks rather red, and leaned against the wall with his back to him.

"I didn't expect to see you here," said John, his voice a little shaky with embarrassment.

"I woke up around eight," Sherlock said plainly, "I've been in here since then."

"Wouldn't the water be cold by now?"

"Yes, but I've drained the water to fill it back up again-"

"Sherlock!"

"I was trying to enter my mind palace!"

"For what reason?!"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Just hurry up, please. I need a shower."

"The shower is just there-"

"I know."

"I don't bite, John."

"I'm just going to start lunch."

He slammed the door and entered the kitchen in hopes that Mrs. Hudson had at least gotten them groceries this morning. He opened the fridge to find that she had in fact gotten groceries, but none of which appealed to him. Still frustrated and embarrassed, he settled on a bacon sandwich and made one for Sherlock as well, setting it in the microwave to keep it warm.

"John!" shouted Sherlock from the bathroom.

John sighed, slid off his stool, and went to stand outside the bathroom door where Sherlock was still yelling for him.

"What?!" John shouted to interrupt him.

"I need you in here."

"Why?"

"Now, please."

His voice had cracked when he said "please". First, Sherlock only said "please" to Mrs. Hudson, and second, when his voice cracked, something was wrong. With a bit of hesitation, he opened the door. Sherlock wasn't in the bathtub and his favorite blue towel was missing as well. As John took another step into the room, he saw a reflection in the mirror and turned quickly to see Sherlock hiding on top of the set of shelves beside the shower.

"Oh for God's sake, Holmes-!"

"Sh! Kill it...kill it right now."

"Kill what?"

Sherlock pointed at the edge of the tub where a decently sized spider rested near the faucet.

"That...that is what you called me in here for?"

"Yes."

"You couldn't kill that yourself?"

"John, all I have as protection is a bloody towel now kill it."

"Will you finish drying off, get some clothes on, and go eat the bacon sandwich I left for you in the microwave?"

"Yes."

"All right, then I'll kill it."

Sherlock nodded and hopped off the shelves to his bedroom, leaving John in the bathroom with the small spider. He rolled his eyes, rolled up a magazine, and hit the spider, killing it with ease. Now nothing separated him from finishing his sandwich and getting his own bath before heading out to the countryside to get a little fresh air. Fresher than London's smog.


The day went on and on...and on. John never got the chance to leave, for Sherlock kept having epidemics of wanting a forbidden cigarette and nearly tearing apart the flat in search of one. He never found any of course, seeing as how John had hidden them fairly well: Mycroft's office. Sherlock had resorted to whining on the couch with his violin playing terrible Christmas carols. He wished he would stop so he may read the paper or think for once.

After two hours of earsplitting and teeth-grinding tunes, John gave up and threw his paper at Sherlock's head before escaping to his room where he locked the door, picking up a book, and not reading it. Sherlock was picking the lock the moment he'd laid on his bed.

Out of the sheer impulse of humor he wished to pull on Sherlock, he walked quietly to the door, turned the knob, and let Sherlock fall in. He stood, straightened himself, and took to John's bed, making himself comfortable atop the pillows, folding his hands behind his head.

"What do you want?" asked John after he sat in his desk chair.

"You hit me in the face with a bloody newspaper," he grumbled.

"Yes, I did."

"You could've just told me you were irritated."

"I did. Several times."

Sherlock turned his head to him, "Really?"

"Yes."

"No-"

"Yes I did, Sherlock. I would not have thrown the paper at you if I didn't ask you multiple times, each time you ignored me."

"I didn't ignore you!"

"YES YOU DID! My God, man. Do you know anything outside that little mind of yours while you're just sitting there?"

"I never just sit, John. I always think. I tune things out."

"You've never tuned me out."

He huffed and turned away. John knew he'd gotten him.

"It's eight," John finally said after looking at his watch for about the fiftieth time, "shall we get some dinner?"

"Sounds delightful," mumbled Sherlock.

"Good. Make yourself decent, I'll be downstairs."


Dinner was long and silent, but he was happy to be at home again in bed, tucked tightly in beneath thick blankets, for Sherlock shut off the heat for whatever reason. John was beginning to worry about his sanity. So he lay there shivering until he was nearly asleep, his eyes getting heavier and heavier, his mind wandering into strange places, and eventually, he drifted into a deep sleep...

Only to be interrupted with a strange shout from downstairs. John sat up to listen and catch his breath, making sure he was awake by rubbing his face and eyes. Listening hard, almost able to hear a pin drop, he waited for the next shout or some follow-up noise, but nothing could be heard. So he brushed it off as a dream he was having just a moment ago that woke him up. Nothing to worry about-

It sounded again, this time followed by the moving of furniture. The voice belonged to his flat-mate, a shout so rare he knew someone was in the flat and attacking Sherlock. He stumbled out of bed for his foot got caught in the sheets and made his way as quickly as he could downstairs. And lo, he came to find that nobody was in the flat, just Sherlock being a total ass as he rolled around on the floor drunk as an Irishman.

"What the hell are you doing?!" he demanded as he pulled Sherlock to his feet. He wobbled for a moment, giggling like a moron, and flopped into his chair only to laugh some more and curl into a ball. John was just thankful he wasn't naked this time.

"Sherlock, why have you been drinking?"

"There weren't any cigarettes in here so I had to do something," he replied in a shockingly sober voice.

"Yes, but drinking yourself into a stupor isn't the smartest thing to do. Oh for God's sake, this is the second time I've woken up in the middle of the night to your ridiculous antics. You know what? I'm just going to lock you in the bathroom with that spider."

Sherlock gave him a very horrified look.

"You would not!"

"Oh I would."

"You didn't kill it?!"

"Nope. I let it roam free, just to be your personal Satan."

"You bastard!"

"Then go back to bed with a bucket and sleep! I've had it up to here with you! You've got a problem and you need to get yourself some more nicotine patches or something, but you cannot keep this up!"

"You don't work, it doesn't matter!"

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock! Do I need to call Mycroft?"

"He wouldn't do anything."

"No, but I would."

"No you wouldn't."

"Sherlock, I mean it. Get to bed now or I swear to you I will lock you in that bathroom."

He rolled his eyes and slumped into his bedroom, closing the door and locking it, and made a loud thud by crashing onto the floor, his snoring coming to be almost louder.

"Good God, what am I going to do with him?" John asked himself. On his way back to his room, he made a change of plans. He hurried back downstairs, pulled the recliner in front of Sherlock's door, grabbed a blanket, and made himself comfortable, soon falling asleep and not to be awakened by anything Sherlock said or did in his drunken sleep.