The First Attempt
John lifted his head and fumbled for his phone. Brilliant. Too soon to get up but too late to sleep more before he had to get up anyway. Deciding that he might as well get it over with, he dropped the phone back onto his bedside table and gritted his teeth. The left shoulder was always stiffer and more painful in the morning; something that was getting worse as the cold weather well and truly set in.
Upright, but not happy about it, John stumbled for the door, still more asleep than awake and trying not to disturb the nagging ache of his shoulder more than he absolutely had to until he could stand under the shower and let the hot water work its magic.
He opened it, ducked to the left, tripped his off balance flatmate who was trying to adjust for John not being where he so obviously was supposed to be and shuffled towards the bathroom door. As he shuffled he mused that kicking the other man in the back of the knee was not exactly Marquis of Queensbury rules, but then again neither was lurking outside of your flatmates room with a cosh. Said cosh was kicked down the stairs, clattering to the bottom in a very annoying manner. John made a mental note to make sure it was picked up later, as Sherlock certainly wouldn't bother. The last thing they needed was for Mrs Hudson to fall down the stairs and actually break her dodgy hip.
"Try harder, Sherlock," John tossed the grumpy comment over his shoulder and locked the bathroom door behind him, heading for the loo.
The swearing on the landing was hair curling. No pun intended.
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