John stepped out of the car, paid the cabbie, and stood before 221 B Baker Street. As an ordinary person strolling past, you wouldn't notice anything unusual about the quaint little place. You couldn't possibly guess that the flat before you used to be filled with arguments over astronomy and gunshots fired at the wall. You wouldn't be able to see the endless games of Cluedo and operation that temporarily calmed the boredom. You'd never know that in that little flat, two best friends stood against the world, fighting crimes and saving citizens. They were no superheroes, but together, they could do anything. So, as a passerby, you cannot notice that all of those things had ceased to exist at 221 B Baker Street. John Watson, however, could.
When the good doctor entered the flat, he was greeted, to his utter surprise, with tea. More specifically, a teapot. Flying through the air. John's eyes widened and he jumped out the way in the nick of time. The teapot soared past him, narrowly missing his ear.
"I'm sorry Sherlock, really I am. It was just so dusty in here, what was I supposed to do? Leave you to rot away in filth?" Mrs. Hudson pleaded.
"Mrs. Hudson. For God's sake, how many times do I have to tell you not to mess with the flat? I keep everything how it is supposed to be, and I do not appreciate your constant attempts to coddle me!" Sherlock shouted back.
"Oh really, Sherlock, do calm down. You're behaving like a child."
"I am?" he responded. "You're the one who always insists that you are not my housekeeper. I would appreciate it if you STUCK TO YOUR WORD!"
He grabbed the nearest thing to his hand (a dictionary) and started to hurl it across the room.
"Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as she scuttled out of the room.
Once she had left, Sherlock dropped the book and grinned.
"I threaten her sometimes when she is aggravating. Usually gets her out of my hair for a while. Sorry about the teapot."
John scoffed. "Flying teapots and apologies. It's the apocalypse."
They shared a smile as John headed to his chair. The old piece of furniture comforted John, and its familiarity calmed his mood.
"Do you want to start?" Sherlock asked, almost in a timid voice. Of course, John assumed he imagined the tone. Sherlock was never timid. He learned that from experience.
"Guess it's now or never," he replied. "On one condition."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And what is that?"
"No more bloody books."
Author's Note: Helloooooooo! So sorry about my late update (again!) Thank you all for sticking with me and I hope you all are enjoying the story!
