A/N: I go on holiday tomorrow for 10 days... So I had to try desperately to get this chapter out.
Hope you like it!
I got the idea from watching my little cousin try and make a Marble Run around the whole of my living room and adding in a big catapult-style thing at the end. Just to let you know, it didn't work :)
Sherlock had been absolutely, horrifically, mind-numbingly bored. That was one of the reasons he had decided to start building. The other reasons were insignificant. The skull had agreed. Sherlock had tested and tested the design, sent the marble down the chute so many times that the sound had become as normal as the traffic outside. He has been thinking, calculating, and using the brain that had become strained with boredom. He'd been having fun like a child with a train set. Designing and testing, editing and building. And it was finally ready. The target was painted on the door and Sherlock had climbed back to the top of his creation. It was now time to wait. Sherlock was assured that Mrs Hudson's nephew would walk through the door any minute to complain about how he had been tormenting her. He was the perfect target. A small, angry man with a loud voice and tendency to threaten Sherlock's life. There was a set of footsteps up the stairs, lighter sounding than usual for Ted. He'd probably lost weight. Sherlock released the marble. It ran down the chute, setting off the other home-made devices that would eventually set of the final device. The one that would make this whole exercise worthwhile. The door opened, the bag of fake blood dropped into the bowl, John walked into the apartment.
"No!" Sherlock cried. The catapult went off. John realised too late what was flying at him.
Sherlock ran over.
"Please tell me this is fake." John murmured, wiping the liquid from his face.
"It's fake."
"Are you lying?"
"Not this time." Sherlock promised. John looked down.
"You've ruined my shirt." He noted.
"I suppose I have." Sherlock grimaced. John frowned.
"This is my best shirt." John told him.
"Oh." Sherlock murmured. John sighed and unbuttoned his shirt. The fake blood had seeped through. He chucked the shirt in the direction of the bin. It didn't matter if he missed; the shirt would disappear into the general crap on the floor.
"I guess I'd better go clean myself up." John sighed. "Take down the catapult, would you?"
When John came back down the stairs he was in jogging bottoms and had no top on. His top half was still wet. Sherlock couldn't stop himself looking.
"Has the laundry come up yet?" John asked.
"Yes."
"Where is it?" John asked.
"In the kitchen. I guess you're not going out again today." Sherlock commented.
"No, I have no reason to." John shrugged. He was still annoyed.
"I'm sorry." Sherlock sighed, dropping his head to his chest. John smiled slightly. Sherlock was such a dramatic.
"Shut up and find me a shirt." He teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to the kitchen. "Oh, and you only had to ask." John added, with a wink. Sherlock blushed.
A/N: Hope you liked it, tell me what you thought! I'm not sure Sherlock was quite... Sherlockey enough...