Hello everyone. This is the next chapter of my little drabbles. I'm sure there will be more after this because my little plot bunnies won't leave me alone. Some of these are a little bit more slashy than last chapter but it is all just implied. I hope you enjoy them. Please, feel free to britpick in the comments! Sometimes my Aussie gets the better of me (as does my sleep deprived brain). Lots of Love, Rose.

"Have you ever eaten a lemon before John?"
John raised his head, his face glowing from the light of his computer screen. How was he supposed to finish his blog when he was a slow typer and Sherlock was asking stupid questions.
"No Sherlock. Have you?"
Sherlock closely examined the lemon he held in his hand, holding it up to the light and casting a shadow across the wall.
"No. Not yet."
John watched in vague bewilderment as Sherlock began to peel off the layer of yellow skin from the fruit. Surely he wasn't going to -
"No, Sherlock, DON'T!"
Sherlock bit into the pulpy flesh of the fruit before letting out a cry of disgust.
"Oh. Oh that's horrible. Why on earth does this fruit exist?"
He was coughing and spluttering, in a futile effort to rid his tongue of the bitter sourness.
"I told you not to. That's why I've never eaten a lemon."

"John, what are you doing?"
John froze immediately, hands in mid air still clutching at the spoons he had been utilising as drumsticks. Slowly, he lowered the cutlery and placed it on the bench before removing his earbuds. ACDC could still be heard faintly in the background.
"Nothing."
The comment was met with a frown of disapproval.
"You can't be doing nothing John. It is impossible. Even in death, you would still be going through the processes of decompostion."
Sometimes John really wished that Sherlock understood normal social protocol. How hard was it to learn that nothing meant 'I don't want to talk about it'?
"I was air drumming."
The frown changed from disapproving to confused.
"Air drumming?"
"Yes Sherlock, air drumming. You know, pretending to play the drum part of a song without actually playing it?"
"Why don't you actually play the drum part?"
John wasn't really sure how to answer that.
"Because - then it wouldn't be air drumming. You have to try it to understand."

Mycroft entered 221B Baker Street without knocking. There was never any need. If Sherlock was home he would already know of Mycroft's arrival. Walking up the stairs, Mycroft heard a sound he wasn't used to hearing at his brother's flat. He could hear music. Loud music. Rock music. Reaching the top of the stairs, he felt a smile spread across his face. In front of him was his brother, violin in hand, pretending to play a guitar riff. His flatmate, no, colleague, was thumping the coffee table with a pair of spoons. Neither man seemed to be aware of the new arrival and Mycroft had no plans of announcing his presence. He was going to wait until one of them noticed him and amuse himself watching their embarassment.

John was nearly asleep on the sofa when Sherlock came in and flopped down next to him.
"Sherlock, your arm is in my face."
There was no response from the taller man who now lay sprawled across the sofa. John sighed before grabbing the hand that was brushing against his face and moving it over his head. It slipped down so that it was resting lightly on his shoulder. John sighed. It was 1am and both of them should be in bed asleep, yet here they were, sitting on the sofa.
"Sherlock. Why aren't you in bed?"
The response was a low murmur.
"Why aren't you in bed?"
Why indeed, John thought to himself.
"I don't have the energy to climb upstairs to my room."
John could see the smile forming on Sherlock's face even though he couldn't see it.
"You're not going to sleep on the sofa. You know how well that worked out when you were with Sarah."
Surely this wasn't going were John thought it was going.
"You never answered my question. Why aren't you in bed Sherlock?"
Was Sherlock laughing now? That low rumbling definitely sounded like a laugh.
"I couldn't sleep."
"You couldn't sleep? How old are you Sherlock?"
"I was lonely."
Oh, for the love of God. What was John doing here? Why hadn't he just gone upstairs to his own room? Surely he wasn't actually contemplating -
"Are you asking me to share a bed with you?"
Suddenly Sherlock had leaped to his feet, a wide grin etched on his face.
"Finally catching on are we?"
John sighed as Sherlock disappeared into the bedroom. What was he doing?

"Why are the duck's looking at us like that?"
"Because we have bread."
Sherlock seemed to ponder this.
"Ducks aren't supposed to eat bread. It's not a part of their natural diet."
John failed to supressed a grin.
"Sherlock, these ducks will have been eating bread for their whole lives. To them, bread is everyday food."
Suddenly, sherlock clutched desperately at John's shoulder.
"Oh God, there's one right behind me. Get it away, get it away."
John doubled over with laughter as Sherlock picked up a slice of bread and started to tear huge chunks off and throw it towards the duck. Ducks began to flock towards the fresh supply of food as Sherlock began to panic completely.
"There's more. They keep coming. How do I get them to go away?"
Somehow, John managed to splutter an answer.
"One way would be to stop throwing them bread. They think you're feeding them."

John closed the door of 221B Baker Street and followed Sherlock up the stairs. When they reached the landing, Sherlock whirled around, nearly pinning John to the wall.
"If you tell anyone about today John, I will never trust you again."
"You want it kept secret, okay."
Sherlock nodded and gave an awkward half smile.
"Good. The last thing I need is my enemies finding out I'm afraid of ducks."

"Stop tapping your foot."
"You stop tapping your foot."
John sighed internally. Sherlock hadn't had a case for six weeks and it showed.
"I'm not tapping my foot Sherlock. You're hearing yourself."
"Oh. Well…stop breathing so loudly then."
It didn't just show, it screamed at John. Sherlock was bored.
"I can't, I have a cold."
"You're a doctor, make yourself better."
Screamed whilst flashing with neon lights.
"Don't be stupid, you know that isn't how disease works."
"Don't you be stupid."
The consulting detective was becoming unbearable in his silly, 'let's see how fast I can upset John' moods.
"I'm not being stupid, I'm being reasonable. Which is more than can be said for you."
Sherlock put on a face of exaggeratedly mocked confusion.
"What does that mean?"
"What do you think?"
"You're so immature."
John glared at his flatmate in disbelief. He shouldn't be rising to the bait, it was exactly what Sherlock wanted. But he couldn't help himself.
"I'm so immature?"
Sherlock raised one eyebrow.
"Amusing you am I Sherlock?"
Silence. Just a wry smile in response.
"You are like a little child. Why don't you just lie down on the floor and beat it with your fists because you're bored? Why don't you just throw your usual boredom tantrum?"
Sherlock made a great show of sighing. Yes Sherlock, you're bored, I can see that.
"Predictable and dull. Why don't I throw something else?"
Before John could react Sherlock had picked up a jaffa cake from the tea tray Mrs Hudson had so kindly fetched for them after reminding them that she wasn't their housekeeper.
"Oh no. No, Sherlock. Put it down."
The protests were of no avail as Sherlock threw the jaffa cake directly as John's chest as hard as he could. Bits of cake splattered all over John's previously spotless cream sweater. He grimaced as he looked at the spongy remnants of cake started to drop off the sweater and onto his trousers. Looking up, he sought out Sherlock's gaze.
"What the hell was that?"
Sherlock grinned mischeviously.
"It was me throwing something other than a tantrum."
"Was it then? Right."
John reached over and picked up a jaffa cake of his own.
"No John, the coat, let me take off the coat. It's expensive and tailored."
John didn't hestitate as he lobbed the cake at the taller man. He smiled with satisfaction as it splattered all over Sherlock's right shoulder.
"I know. You've told me before. But you started this. This sweater has alpaca wool in it. That is expensive wool. This is an expensive jumper, a gift from Harry. Why am I telling you this, you had probably already deduced it. Here, have some more cake."
This time, the cake pelted Sherlock's hip and sprayed across the desk that he was standing next to.
"You're laptop seems to have also recieved some of the cake. Would you like some more? Jaffa cakes are -"
Sherlock's musings were cut short as he was hit in the face by half a croissant.
"Mrs Hudson is going to murder us John, you do know that."
John shrugged.
"She'll just add it to the rent. It'll cost more to get our clothes cleaned."
"I hope you are prepared to eat cake."
Sherlock adopted a ridiculous battle pose.
"Eat it, wear it. Doesn't matter. I am going to destroy you with my croissants."

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
John was standing in the bathroom wearing nothing but his underwear.
"I need to have a shower and get all of these baked goods and cooking ingredients off of me."
John crossed his arms over his chest self conciously.
"Yes, but I'm about to hop into the shower."
Sherlock's expression was vaguely expectant.
"You aren't seriously thinking that we should have a shower together are you?"
John watched as Sherlock adopted a defensive stance.
"Well, why not?"
John could feel himself flushing and his response came out as an indignant splutter.
"Why not? Why would we?
The look Sherlock was giving him suggested that it should be obvious.
"We share a shower at the gym."
"Sherlock, everyone shares a shower at the gym. There is no alternative apart from going without one."
There was a small twitch in the corner of Sherlock's mouth, as though he was trying not to smile.
"Why are you so against sharing a shower?"
"Why are you so for it?"
John had a sudden mental image of water beading over bare skin as two pairs of hands exploring two bodies, two sets of lips locked together as water cascaded down around them.
"Is that why your against it? Seems pretty positive to me."
John was sure he must be crimson by now. He glared at Sherlock with all the intensity that he could muster.
"Stay out of my head Sherlock."
"The shower will be completely innocent, I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."
Sherlock was looking at him with puppy dog eyes and a silly little pout that made John want to laugh at the whole situation.
"Fine. You can get in the shower with me. Let's see how innocent you can keep it."