Disclaimer: Okay so I forgot to put this up on the first chapter…er, prologue, whatever. Sue me. Seriously. The only thing I have of any worth is my children. I'd say you could have 'em but that's kinda illegal. So…anyway…Sherlock and Co. are not mine no matter how much I wish for them. Some wishes aren't meant to come true and this is probably a good thing that it won't. Sherlock and my son in the same room? Not a good combo if I'd like to stay living in my house. My son is a mad scientist and Sherlock would only encourage him. So yeah. They aren't mine and they never will be.
A/N: I know John and Sherlock are both being extremely unreasonable and irrational for this chapter but John's actually had a very bad day and Sherlock's moodiness isn't helping. Don't worry it'll work out.
Chapter One: Bored!
John, glad to finally be home, instinctively ducked his head at the sound of the gunshots coming from his flat. He straightened up after a moment with one hand clutching at the knob. After his heart had slowed to a more normal pace he rolled his eyes in exasperation. Great. Sherlock was bored. Again. Damn. Well at least the bounder was home safe, he thought. Made killing him so much easier. He shook his head at himself. He'd missed the brat while he'd been gone and now that he was back his first thought was of various ways to murder him and hide the body. Didn't say much about his state of mind. On the other hand…bored Sherlock was not his husband. Bored Sherlock was a demon that would occasionally possess his husband and leave destruction and misery in its wake.
He stared at the knob in his hand for a long moment before sighing and pushing the door open. It had already been a long and trying day and now it looked to get even longer. Still there was no avoiding it. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't be too far gone yet. Wishful thinking, my lad, he told himself even as he headed for the stairs.
Sherlock heard the front door slam and smiled a bit, John was home. Finally. John's new job with Mycroft's handpicked clinic was getting in the way again. Sherlock scowled at the thought of Mycroft's getting John a job. John didn't need a job. He needed John home with him. John made everything entertaining. And if John was here then John wasn't off getting kidnapped or shot or tortured. John safe was good. John out of his sight was bad. It was that simple.
Hearing John's footsteps finally pounding up the stairs Sherlock leveled the gun at the smiley face on the wall with his eyes closed. He was going to have a very good afternoon. John in a strop was always fun. He pulled the trigger. And again. And again. Adjusting his aim slightly more away from the door with each pull. It wouldn't do to shoot John on accident after all and besides that damn smiley face was mocking him. One more pull and John should start shouting at him…just…about…now.
"Sherlock!" Right on time. John always had been a punctual child and it seemed he was even as an adult. Not to mention predictable. "What the HELL are you doing?" He was using that I am calm voice that only served to irritate Sherlock usually. Right now he was glad to hear it as that voice meant that John was just as up for a fight and the subsequent making up with hot, dirty, angry sex. Hopefully against the wall...or the couch. Either would do.
Sherlock stared at the air in front of him, determined to get what he wanted. "Bored," he told his husband in a quiet, monotone voice. It was a struggle to keep the anticipation from his tone but he thought he managed admirably when he caught John's reaction from the corner of his eye.
John drew in a deep breath at the answer he had more than half expected. A part of him was jumping in anticipation but the rest of him was just so tired and unhappy after the events at the clinic that he just wanted to cuddle on the couch and make Sherlock hold him until the sorrow went away. But Sherlock was looking for entertainment. Or a good fight. Though in Sherlock's world that was entertainment too. "What?" He finally asked in a fake confused tone. He hoped the other man would look at him soon. If Sherlock would simply cast a glance in his direction then he would see the state John was sure he was in and he'd switch gears and become the 'must care for John' mother hen that John actually kind of needed tonight.
The dark haired Sherlock straightened a bit in his armchair, turned his head and opened his eyes to gaze at the wall behind his husband. "Bored!" He said a bit louder. He jumped to his feet and waved the gun around. Knowing John would come and take it from his hands. John did not approve of using a gun like a toy. Neither did Sherlock really but he knew exactly what he was doing and John knew he was an excellent shot. Not as good as John but enough to keep from shooting something he hadn't intended to.
Knowing exactly what Sherlock was about to do, John covered his ears. "No!" He attempted to stop Sherlock even knowing that it was futile. Sherlock was in a mood and there was little John could do to alleviate it until the younger man calmed down. He took an aborted step towards Sherlock and ducked involuntarily.
Sherlock shot the wall again, he knew John was creeping up on his off side but ignored his husband…supposedly. "Bored!" He put the hand holding the gun behind his back and twisted a bit to shoot again, that was going to get him the reaction he really wanted. "Bored!" John rushed over when Sherlock's arm came back around and pulled the gun from his hand. Sherlock nearly pouted. John was supposed to tackle him. "I don't know what's got into the criminal classes," Sherlock complained, attempting to provoke John into a more amenable reaction to his petulance.
John stepped away from Sherlock, emptied the remaining bullets from the gun onto his desk and rolled his eyes. "Vacation," he suggested though he doubted Sherlock heard or cared if he had. Sherlock was in a mood and John wasn't sure he had the reserves to deal with it tonight. He was tired, hungry and just wanted a bit of a cuddle. He knew he wasn't going to get it though and that only made him feel even worse.
Sherlock strolled over to inspect the holes in the smiley face. "Good job I'm not one of them," he commented, lightly. Why wasn't John getting with the program? Sherlock avoided looking at his husband as he didn't want to deduce his husband right now. Besides John knew him well enough to throw him off on his deductions.
John sighed. He was tired and the rain had his leg and shoulder acting up again. And to top it all off one of Mycroft's spies had come in injured beyond saving. John had done everything he could but it hadn't helped any. He'd been able to hear the woman's sister screaming for her even as he'd left the building two hours after he'd failed to save the woman. He didn't know if he could handle one of Sherlock's moods today. "So you take it out on the wall?" He asked mildly. Look at me, Sherlock, he begged in his mind knowing it would only take one cursory glance for Sherlock to switch tacks.
Sherlock flopped down on the sofa under the smiley face, one arm thrown over his face as though to block out the world. Joh normally would have snickered at his dramatics but Sherlock heard only silence from his husband. "The wall had it coming," he muttered in an undertone wondering why John was still silent. John wasn't reacting at all how he should or how he normally did. The taste of revenge was starting to sour on his tongue but he wasn't going to give up.
John rubbed at his temple, a headache had formed on the way home and it had only worsened through the conversation with Sherlock, and stalked into the kitchen. "I'm sure it did," he murmured, studied the chaos of beakers, test tubes, and unknown substances on the table and sighed. "Anything to eat? I'm starving." He tried to keep his voce level but wasn't sure he managed it.
Sherlock made a noncommittal sound and waited impatiently for John to open the fridge. He scowled when there was no yelp of shock even though he'd clearly heard the door open.
"Sherlock?" John called. The only hint of strain in his voice was a slight raise in octave. Damn him for being so unflappable. He'd usually give at least a token yelp just to appease Sherlock's dramatic nature. "Why is there a heading staring at me from our refrigerator?" He was almost too calm. Sherlock blinked and lifted his arm an inch to look over to John. Damn. John was in the kitchen and he couldn't see him from this angle.
"He's dead, John, obviously," Sherlock scoffed even as he tried to maneuver himself into a position to be able to see his husband. "He cannot possibly be looking at you. It's your imagination."
"Right, of course," John murmured as he softly, carefully shut the door on the head with the unsettling eyes that did stare at him no matter what Sherlock said. He wanted to rage and shout and rant and scream and throw a temper tantrum but his name was not Sherlock Holmes and he was far too mature to do something that childish…maybe later. It would only make his headache worse right now. "But what's it doing in our refrigerator? You know where we normally keep food." He paused as a thought struck him and shot a horrified look into the parlor. "You're not planning on cooking his brains or something, are you, Sherlock? Because if you are then I'm calling Mycroft and we're staging an intervention." He crossed to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the jamb so that he could watch his husband's reaction. He knew the mention of Mycroft and an intervention would get to his husband.
Sherlock glared at him ignoring all the signs of John's state of mind in his irritation. "Don't be idiotic," he sneered. "It's an experiment on salvia coagulation after death." Really John should know better than to allude, even obliquely, to his past history as a junkie. What was wrong with the other man today?
"I see," John said slowly and then crossed the room to stand beside the dark haired man. He reined in his temper and realized that Sherlock really was angry now and he had no idea why. "I really am starving," he offered the information in a soft tone. "And there's no food in the flat. Wanna go to Angelo's with me?" He needed to get out of the flat and he needed his Sherlock.
Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared even harder at the ceiling than he had at John. "Not hungry," he said irritably. Something was nagging at the back of his mind. He knew the thought was about John but he was so bored and irritated it wouldn't become a truly cohesive thought.
John squeezed onto the sofa beside Sherlock's feet and rubbed at his aching leg. "Want me to order in a Chinese?" He offered in the hopes of Sherlock calming down some. The last time he'd ordered in a Chinese they'd had a very good evening in the living room and the kitchen and the bathroom and for a little while on the stairs before they'd finally made it to the bedroom. The bathroom had been added to the list again when they discovered they were both covered with duck sauce and that Sherlock had sweet and sour in his hair. It had been a rather good evening.
Sherlock uncrossed his arms with a petulant glare and covered his face with his hands. "I said I'm not hungry, you idiot! Are you deaf as well as crippled?" The fact that his tone was muffled by his hands took away none of the sting of his words or the meaning John took to be behind them.
John shoved Sherlock's feet away, stood up with a jerk and glared back at his petulant husband. "Well I am hungry, you arrogant berk." He stalked across the room and grabbed up his jacket. He thrust his arms into it and strode for the door. He would not deal with this today. Sherlock was a complete bastard at times and while John normally redirected Sherlock's moods easily he just didn't have the energy to do it now. Why couldn't Sherlock just once act the loving husband? He could at least pretend that he cared occasionally.
Sherlock pulled his hands from his face and stared at John's retreating back in utter astonishment. "Wait! Where are you going?" He called after him. John rarely walked away in the middle of an argument. He only did that when Sherlock had crossed the line unforgivably. And Sherlock hadn't…oh…damn.
"Out," John snarled back at him without turning to see the remorse on Sherlock's face and walked out the door.
SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW
Sherlock scowled and flopped back on the sofa. The ache in his chest was ignored as a matter of course. John would come back and they'd make up. They always did. But…damn. What in the Hell had happened?
He hated truly fighting with John, mock fighting was fun, true arguments were rare and all the more wounding for it. But his brain was rotting. There was no stimulation and now John was truly angry with him there wouldn't be any. John had taken all chance of entertainment away with him. Why couldn't John just once think of Sherlock first? He always had to put himself and everyone else before Sherlock himself. It wasn't fair. He didn't want to think about that.
He forced his mind onto a new track. What was wrong with the criminal classes? Actually, he considered that for a moment, why had the police suddenly had an upswing of intelligence? He then dismissed that thought very quickly. The police hadn't had an injection of intelligence. That was a preposterous notion. And it wouldn't bode well for his continued career.
His head lifted a bit at the knock on the open door. Even though he knew it couldn't possibly be his John. John had just walked out and he wouldn't knock anyway, not even in the mood he'd been in. Knocking was for people who weren't sure if they'd be allowed in. Still his traitorous heart pounded just a bit in hope that John had seen his remorse and had come back to finish the argument and move on to the making up. "Whoo whoo," Mrs. Hudson cooed in what sounded like an effort to be comforting but only grated on Sherlock's taut nerves. Sherlock dropped his head down and ignored her as much as he could, he didn't want the old woman. He wanted his John. "Have you two had a little domestic?" She asked softly.
Sherlock groaned loudly and climbed off of the sofa. He didn't look over to Mrs. Hudson. He didn't want to talk about it. Especially not with his landlady come housekeeper. She'd just take John's side anyway. He crossed his arms over his chest and stalked to the window. He really hated fighting with John and he wasn't even sure what they had been fighting about. He knew he was being difficult but usually John bore it all in his stride. What was wrong with John today? Maybe he should have looked at him when he'd first come in. Then he'd know.
Mrs. Hudson set the bags of groceries that John had asked her to purchase that morning in her hands on the kitchen table and glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock's sulking form. She kept her sigh inside and gave a dramatic shudder that she knew Sherlock would see even if he wasn't actually looking at her. Her boys were so high-strung sometimes. "Oooh, it's a bit nippy out there," she observed in an idle tone. "He should have wrapped himself up a bit more." Honestly, they were grown men, John should know better…though maybe his anger would keep him warm.
Sherlock just snorted in derision at her comment. He wasn't going to let her guilt trip him. He used one finger to push the curtain aside and watched John disappear down the street. He'd shoved his hands in his pockets. John had forgotten his gloves again. His fingers must be freezing.
No, he told himself fiercely even as his brow creased in concern. He wasn't going to get sucked into worrying about his husband. John was a grown man and could take care of himself. Besides, John had walked out of his own free will. If his hands froze then it was his own fault. Sherlock had other things to obsess over. He forced his mind away from the dwindling form of his husband's hunched figure and onto another track altogether.
"Look at that, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said lowly in an effort to put aside his anxiety over the argument with John. "Quiet. Calm. Peaceful." He uttered the words as though they were curses. He drew in a breath and let it out in a despondent sigh. "Isn't it hateful?" And it was all the Universe's fault he'd fought with John anyway. If the criminals would just do something then he wouldn't be bored and he wouldn't have antagonized his husband so severely.
Mrs. Hudson turned her back to him so that he wouldn't see her fond smile. She was sure he knew it was there but as long as he couldn't see it he'd let her get away with her affection. "I'm sure something will turn up, Sherlock," she tried to comfort him and looked over her shoulder at the forlorn form by the window. Such dramatics, she snickered to herself absolutely positive they'd have it worked out by morning. "A nice murder, that'll cheer you up." She put the receipt for the groceries she'd bought them on the table, gathered her purse and walked out of the kitchen towards the door. There was nothing perishable except for the milk she'd already put in the refrigerator making no comment on the man's head staring out at her. It wasn't like she'd never found even more disturbing items in there before. So long as they kept the body parts away from her flat she wasn't going to quibble about them.
Sherlock sighed again both at her lack of reaction to the head and her words. "Can't come too soon," he muttered. Hopefully, a good murder would put his brain to use and then he wouldn't fight with John because he was bored. Really it wasn't his fault John was in a mood and the universe refused to give him something to do.
Mrs. Hudson stifled a chuckle; Sherlock was rather amusing when he was upset and bored. Patience had never been one of Sherlock's virtues. She headed out the door and stopped suddenly as she caught sight of the wall. "Hey," she exclaimed in a severe tone. "What have you done to my bloody wall?" She didn't normally curse but this was beyond the pale really.
Sherlock slowly turned to regard the bullet ridden smiley face and couldn't stop the half smile that crossed his lips. The face should have known better than to mock him. Stupid wall had it coming. And she should be grateful he hadn't decided that the window was making him shoot it.
Mrs. Hudson saw the smile and scowled at him fiercely. "I'm putting this on your rent, young man," she informed him in a tight voice. "Not John's, mind you, yours." She bustled off down the stairs muttering imprecations against bored geniuses with no impulse control the whole way.
Sherlock ignored her muttering and grinned at the face. A moment later he sighed and scowled at the empty street below him. Now he was even more bored. He really wished John had stayed. Even if they fought. He should probably text him and apologize. Even if he didn't know what he was apologizing for. He knew if he actually thought about it he'd know exactly what he'd done wrong but…John usually just let him get away with a quick 'I'm sorry' and they went on about life as though nothing had happened.
He took a step towards the table where his phone lay to do just that very thing. John would come back and he'd actually say the words for once. Then they could get on with the make-up sex and he wouldn't be so very bored. He'd only taken two steps more when he suddenly found himself face down on the parlor floor with no knowledge of how he'd come to be there. Heat and glass rained down over his back and he curled himself up in a ball in an effort to mitigate any damage. What the Hell was going on, was the last coherent thought he had before blackness swallowed him.