In Which Sherlock Wakes John Up
John:
There's a creak at the foot of the stairs and I'm instantly awake. Without telling my body to do so, I find myself palming my gun and edging noiselessly to my bedroom door. My shoulder presses instinctively against the doorway, legs angled so that I can both see down the stairs and take cover with relative ease. I chamber a round, take a deep breath, and yank the door open fiercely.
Sherlock is standing on the top landing, his pale eyes impossibly wide and my gun mere inches from his face. Any reasonable, normal flatmate would have lost it at that point. There would have been wailing, or screaming, or just terrified shuddering. But Sherlock, to my absolute amazement, grins broadly and begins to laugh, just a small chuckle at first but then hard enough that he leans back against the wall, his breathing uneven and his cheeks red. I can't help it; soon enough, I'm laughing too, my gun drooping to my side. I'm laughing so hard there aren't any noises anymore, just breathless shaking, and Sherlock's much the same. He slips down on to his rump and laughs into his palms.
Eventually, I catch my breath. I wipe the tears from my cheeks and help him up, both of us still giggling intermittently. "Come on," I say, shaking my head and emptying the gun's chamber with a careful slide. "Let's go downstairs; I'll fix you a cuppa." My new flatmate nods messily, his face still screwed up with laughter, and follows me down the steps. I don't think to ask him why he was coming up to my room in the first place, and he never volunteers a reason.