John himself writing on his blog a lot lately. Which he found fairly surprising, considering he had the poetic skill of a heavily concussed twelve year old. But he found it actually was a fairly therapeutic way of dealing with the frankly bizarre events that occurred on a daily basis. Granted, he couldn't post any of the really interesting (read: batshit insane) happenings for two reasons:
1) No one would believe anything he said.
2) His therapist had enough ideas about the state of his psyche without him ranting about his vampiric roommate's rivalry with his overbearing older brother who happened to own most of london.
But he didn't mind that terribly as he had plenty of material to write about even after subtracting the borderline supernatural elements. Just the other day, a man broke into the flat and threatened them with a fire extinguisher. The strange thing was, he didn't demand money or valuables. He wanted them to solve the disappearance of his wife and clear up the suspicion surrounding him. Of course, John wasn't too keen on helping a man who was currently holding hostage at the business end of a fire extinguisher, but Sherlock was so intrigued by the case that he didn't even charge him for solving it, let alone destroying a window and terrifying the wits out of Mrs. Hudson.
'Actually,' John typed out. 'he did pay in the end. Mrs. Hudson picked his wallet when he dropped by to thank Sherlock.'
"Are you aware that you have the typing skills of a dyslexic pidgeon?" Sherlock groaned as he sprawled across the couch. Unfortunately, that particular mystery had turned out to be too boring to please Sherlock. John didn't understand how a break-in followed by a missing person's case which actually turned out to be a case of long-term burglary could be boring. But he didn't understand many things these days.
John smirked to himself. "If you don't want to listen to me typing, you can go somewhere else."
Sherlock responded by rolling towards the back of the couch and folding a pillow over his head.
'In other news, I went out to see a movie with Sara from work.' Sherlock moaned pitifully into the sofa cushions. 'She's really quite nice.'
"God, I can feel the senseless noise that is your mortal life eating away at my mind." He groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back again.
John was about to peck out some quip about plotting the murder of his flatmate when the door burst open. Lestrade rushed in like blessed rain after a drought.
"Kidnapped children. Hostage situation. I'll give you the details on the way." John stood immediately, grabbing his jacket on the way to the door. Sherlock languorously stood with all of the haste of a lazy sunday afternoon and made his way to his bedroom.
Lestrade was gawped, still panting from running up the stairs. "Where are you going?"
"Well, I'm hardly going to run about london in my dressing gown, am I?" He retorted over his shoulder.
"I don't care if you go out starkers! I don't have time for this. They don't have time-."
"Yes, we do." Sherlock said with a confident smirk. "We've got all the time in the world."
Lestrade charged towards him, temper blazing. Sherlock stepped to the side, missing a fist to the head by a mile. He still seems surprised for it. "I swear to god, Sherlock. If this is another childish game of yours I'll-"
"It's definitely a game, but it's not mine. Hostage situations. It's a desperate act, committed by desperate idiots who don't know what they're doing. They're very much like dogs. They bark because they're scared but they won't actually bite. They're not prepared to take a life. It doesn't matter what demands they make or how little time they say you have, they don't want to do it. Even if they're psychopaths, they're not going to get rid of their only bargaining chips." Sherlock reasoned, as though calming a panicked horse. Lestrade nodded, but his expression still burned with doubt. "When an annoying lap dog yaps at your ankles, acting scared only gives it power. The more you panic, the less control you have over the situation. So if you'll excuse me, I need to get dressed."
"Fine." Lestrade conceded, stepping out of the way. "But if you're wrong and one of them dies I'll-... you'll never feel my warmth again."
That seemed to ruffle Sherlock's feathers, but only briefly.
"I'm not." He stated confidently as he disappeared into his room.
