John trudged into his flat, dropping his keys on the table in the hall as he made his way up the stairs. He'd had a long, boring day, and was hoping he'd walk into the apartment to find Sherlock rambling to his skull about a new case.

Unfortunately, the sight when he opened the door was quite different than he had imagined.

"Sherlock - again!?" he asked, his eyes widening slightly. He shook his head at the man on the floor, resting his hand above his brow as if to somehow shield the embarrassment he felt.

"It appears I'm stuck," Sherlock noted, looking down at his bundled body in mild curiosity.

"Yes, I can see that," John muttered, giving him an incredulous glance. "How did you even manage to do this?"

"I - I'm not quite sure," Sherlock admitted sheepishly. "I was just putting on my scarf and the next thing I knew, I had my whole body tied up."

John sighed and quickly snatched a knife off the kitchen table. "All right. Let's cut you out."

"NO, JOHN, NOT MY SCARF!" Sherlock cried suddenly, causing John to jump about a foot in the air. He cleared his throat, quickly masking the look of panic that had appeared on his face. "I mean to say, that shredding my scarf is hardly necessary. Simply carry me over to the couch and I'll think of a way to get out of this predicament."

"Carry - carry you over to the couch!?" he exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. He didn't quite know why he was surprised, though - this was Sherlock, after all.

"Yes. You're a solider and quite capable. Now, go on. Get to it."

John glared, but obliged, scooping Sherlock up in his arms and dumping him on the couch.

"Ah. Excellent. Now, shut up. I'm thinking." John threw his hands in the air in exasperation, but kept quiet. He vaguely wondered if there was some consulting detective in Germany who would be able to figure out who the culprit was if Sherlock just happened to be murdered. Hmm. It was an interesting thought.

"Oh! I've got it!" He glanced at John, his eyes inquisitive. "Could you fetch a wheelbarrow?"

John blinked. Had he heard him correctly? "Sorry, what?"

"A wheelbarrow." Seeing John blink aimlessly, Sherlock made an impatient noise and glared at his flatmate. "I've been called to a crime scene and it's obvious I'm not getting out of this anytime soon. Therefore, we need a wheelbarrow."

"Hang on," John said, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you saying you want me to wheel you around the whole city while you solve crimes, because you refuse to let me cut you out of the scarf you somehow managed to tangle yourself into?"

Sherlock grinned, his blue eyes shining with endless delight. "Precisely."

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"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," John grumbled as he wheeled Sherlock through the busy streets of London. "Remind me again why I agreed to this?"

"Because someone needs my expert opinion and you'd do anything to save the lives of the innocent." He paused. "Or the not so innocent. Which, I might add, is one of the worst weaknesses you can have. You should really get this whole 'caring' thing in check."

John muttered something so foul under his breath, Mrs Hudson likely would have slapped him for even thinking it. He continued to mumble incoherent insults as he turned a corner and finally found the crime scene. He wheeled Sherlock to the two clear glass doors of the candy shop, noticing the whole store was surrounded with yellow caution tape.

John raised an inquisitive eyebrow, examining the scene before him with narrowed eyes. "Is this the right place?"

Sherlock looked up at John in shock. "Of course it is, look at the signs!" he exclaimed incredulously. "There are police cars everywhere, the store is closed off, and I can smell Anderson's ugly face from a mile away. Not to mention this is the address they gave me. God, John, a three-year-old could figure it out! I expected more from you."

John glared, sucking in a breath and restraining himself from tipping the wheelbarrow and dumping his flatmate in the gutter. But, honestly...was there any real harm in that?

John shook his head, snapping himself out of his violent thoughts. "I meant that a candy shop isn't a usual place for a big enough crime to occur to call in Sherlock Holmes."

"Crime happens everywhere, John. Now, enough talking - I'm wasting precious air having this idiotic conversation when I could be solving a case. Wheel me inside."

John glared but said nothing, balancing the wheelbarrow on one hand with a grunt - when had he gotten so heavy? How many biscuits had Mrs Hudson made him? - to open the door with the other. He pushed the wheelbarrow inside to be met by the eyes of three police men, Detective Lestrade, Sally, and, as Sherlock had predicted, Anderson.

"So, what do we have?" Sherlock asked wearily from his wheelbarrow - or transporter as he'd decided to call it. "Homicide? Serial killer? Perhaps a terrorist attack?"

Lestrade looked down at the one and only consulting detective, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Sherlock...what - "

"I've gotten myself into a bit of a predicament. However, that hardly - "

"How did you even manage to get yourself wrapped up like that?"

Sherlock made an impatient noise in the back of his throat. "Putting your scarf on in a hurry can lead to disastrous consequences. Now, can we move on? Why do you require my assistance? And, please, try not to bore me."

"Can't you deduce it?" Anderson sneered, regarding Sherlock as if he was something he would find on the bottom of his shoe.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he took a sharp intake of breath, his stare cold. "I already have," he drawled, a slight smirk in his features. "The crime has occurred in the back of the room, which is obvious, considering you're all slightly turned toward it. It happened about half an hour ago, knowing that it probably took you ten minutes of arguing before you finally agreed on calling me. Seeing Sally's face, it's obvious she does not want me here and is stressed about talking to the victim who is also sitting in the back room, which is made clear by her frown. Also, the latex gloves tell me she was already checking the room for clues, but didn't find any, prompting Lestrade to alert me. And now, here I am. I'm aware of the crime, Anderson - I just can't see it. Now, will you all do me a favour and step aside?"

There was silence. Anderson simply glared, while John looked down at him in admiration. How could a man who managed to get himself trapped in his own scarf be such a genius?

Begrudgingly, the group parted, making a wide path for the bulk of the wheelbarrow. Sherlock shared a glare with Anderson as they passed, John shaking his head as he wheeled him to the back of the store, where an obese man with a bushy mustache and straggly brown hair sat in a wobbly chair.

"The store owner, I presume," Sherlock observed, sounding bored. The man whipped around in his seat at the sound of his voice, his dark green eyes narrowing.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock inclined his head slightly. "Robert Burns - don't look surprised, you're wearing a name tag."

Instead of looking impressed, he simply looked confused. "Why are you in a wheelbarrow?"

"That hardly matters. Now, would you care to tell me why you requested my assistance?"

Robert swallowed and nodded, taking a hanky from out of his pocket and noisily blowing his nose. "Of - of course. It appears..." he trailed off as a tear leaked out his eye and he quickly dabbed it away with the cloth. He sucked in a deep breath and continued. "It appears that someone has stolen a stick of gum from my shop."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a slight gleam in his eyes. "Interesting..."

John blinked. "Sorry, what?" he asked, looking at Robert in utter confusion. Had he said a stick of gum?

"A man," Robert said quietly, causing another trail of tears to fall down his cheeks, "came into my shop. He was young, perhaps in his twenties. I had seventy-two sticks of gum when he came through those doors. And when he left..." his voice cracked as he let out a sob, not even trying to conceal his tears any longer. "THERE WERE ONLY SEVENTY-ONE!"

John eyes shifted to Sherlock, who seemed to be lost in thought, looking off into the distance, eyes curious. Was this a prank? Had Anderson convinced Sally and Lestrade to finally get back at Sherlock for all his arrogance by coming up with some mediocre case? And, furthermore, had he actually wheeled Sherlock down five different streets just so they could solve a case about a stick of stolen gum!?

"May I ask, Mr Burns, what kind of gum it was?" Sherlock inquired, gaze intrigued.

"It's brand new," he spluttered, desperately trying to wipe away his tears with the hanky. "Strawberry Splash from Sarah's Spectacular Sweets. Which is, of course - "

"The best sweet shop in the country - everything she makes is sold exclusively to Britain," Sherlock finished, eyes wide. "So the man knows his gum. Must be a gum fanatic." Sherlock grinned, his face filled with so much delight, he resembled a superhero nerd trapped in a comic book store. "We'll take the case."

"SHERLOCK!" John cried, looking down at his flatmate incredulously. Was Sherlock in on it too!? Was that the reason he was wrapped in the scarf? Had all of them teamed up against him so they could laugh at John for having to wheel around a six foot tall man?

It was all so obvious now. But why would Sherlock prank him? He'd lived with the man for almost two years. He knew for a fact that Sherlock didn't find any amusement in practical jokes whatsoever.

"Don't you see, John?" Sherlock grinned, eyes wild. "The man who stole this gum is obviously a criminal mastermind! What if he's been going into thousands of different shops and stealing one stick of the most amazing gum each time? He could sell them illegally to the Canadians and get millions! He's a genius - a genius that has to be caught!"

"Okay, you got me, this is all very funny," John sighed, crossing his arms as he set the wheelbarrow down. "But I am very tired and would like to go back to the flat. And you can get out of that scarf now - I know you're faking it."

An amazing thing happened - a look of confusion crossed Sherlock's face. John was shocked. Had he ever seen Sherlock confused before? "John, what are you talking about? Time is running out! That gum could be in a trash bin by now!"

My, God, John thought, his eyes widening. He's serious. He's actually serious. "Sherlock, do you know how many people live in London!?"

"8,174,100 to be exact - at least, that was the number in 2011. Good lord, John, don't you know these things?"

"Sherlock, how in the hell do you expect to find the culprit who stole one stick of gum in over eight million people!?"

"With deduction. Now, wheel me to the tube - we have a crime to solve."

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"Sherlock, will you just shut up and listen to me!?" John screeched for what had to be the thirtieth time. The consulting detective was constantly interrupting him, going on about the process of elimination and making incoherent ramblings about the warehouse the countless sticks of gum he was sure were stored in.

"Not until we get to the tube!"

"Why the tube!?" John exclaimed, barely restraining himself from chucking his flatmate into the busy street. "It's the middle of a Saturday - do you know how busy it will be!? How am I supposed to get you through all those people while you're in a wheelbarrow? Can't we just take a cab?"

"My transporter won't fit," Sherlock stated blatantly. "And we don't have enough money for a cab to take us all the way to Cockfosters."

"Why are we going there anyway?" John demanded as he reached the top of the stairs for the Piccadilly Line. (A/N: Have only been to London once. Don't remember the systems for the tube exactly - sorry if I get it wrong.) Oh, God. How was he going to get Sherlock down these things!?

Sherlock sighed, glaring up at his flatmate. "Have you been listening to a single word I've been saying? Cockfosters has the largest abandoned warehouse in all of London. It's obvious that's where we should - Jesus Christ, John, be careful!"

"Why don't you try dragging a wheelbarrow down three flights of stairs then!?" John practically screamed, causing at least thirty people to throw a confused and slightly frightened glance in his direction. "Or, better yet, how about you let me cut you out of that God damned scarf!?"

"Don't threaten my scarf because you're angered, John," Sherlock replied brashly. "Rage is quite unattractive on you."

John bit back a growl, ignoring the questioning stares from everyone scurrying past them, and focusing on his annoying flatmate. "What I don't get," he started, trying to keep his voice leveled, "is how you're still stuck in the thing. The first time I found you like this, you managed to unravel yourself within minutes. Why can't you do it now?"

Sherlock bit his lip as John turned a corner and managed to drag the wheelbarrow down another flight of stairs, finally arriving at the platform. "I admit, it confuses me," Sherlock muttered, eyes narrowing as he examined the bystanders around them, who were impatiently waiting for the train to arrive. "I struggled for over fifteen minutes trying to break free before you arrived, but it simply wouldn't budge. It's as if it's glued." He paused, then looked up at John in shock. "Did you glue my scarf!?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John drawled, his voice getting dangerously louder with each word. "In the time I wasn't dealing with countless patients or running around solving crimes with you, I stole your scarf and covered it in glue so I could be forced to PUSH YOU AROUND IN A WHEELBARROW FOR THE WHOLE BLOODY DAY!"

Everyone turned to shoot John an incredulous glance, shaking their heads and some furrowing their eyebrows as they examined the tangled detective. John shrank down under their gazes, mumbling something about how nice it would be if certain people just "fell" out a window.

Before Sherlock could reply, the train drove into the station and came to a screeching halt. The doors slid open, causing a flood of people to come rushing out as the robotic voice reminded everyone to, "Please mind the gap."

John sighed, gripping the wheelbarrow, pushing it forward - and jolting to a complete stop.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked in annoyance.

"The wheelbarrow," he muttered, grunting as he tried to push it onto the train. He put his back against the handles, desperately trying to shove Sherlock through the open doors. "It's stuck!"

"On what?"

"Please mind the gap."

John sucked in a deep breath, slumping against the wheelbarrow and glancing down to see the front wheel caught between the platform and the train. Of course. "IT'S STUCK ON THE BLOODY GAP!"

"Please mind the - "

"GO TO HELL!" John screeched, angrily kicking the wheelbarrow as hard as he could. So hard, in fact, it managed to dislodge the wheel from the gap and send Sherlock rolling straight into the opposite wall.

"John, control yourself!" Sherlock snapped. "May I remind you we have a case to solve?"

"I'll kill him," he murmured as he stomped onto the train, grabbing hold of the wheelbarrow and spinning it away from the wall. "I really will."

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

"Good. Now, obviously, you know why we're going to Cockfosters, so I believe we should - "

"I know why we're going there, but I don't get the point. Why do we need to investigate some warehouse?"

Sherlock looked up at him as if he was having a conversation with an oblivious two-year-old. "It's obvious that's where he's storing the gum."

"What?"

"I already told you, John, the culprit is stealing gum and exporting it to the Canadians. He only takes one stick per store, as he's trying not to attract attention - but clearly, Mr Burns was very passionate about his sweets. He made a mistake by robbing that store - and now I have everything I need to know.

"With amounts of gum that large, a criminal would need a place to store it, to control the operation. He wouldn't be able to get away with just using a storage room or breaking into an industrial warehouse. No, he would need an abandoned workspace and a sizable one, at that. Ergo, Cockfosters. Home to the biggest abandoned warehouse in all of London. Make sense?"

"Yes, but Sherlock...you're not actually serious about this, are you? This is worse than the Bluebell case."

"May I remind you what Bluebell led to?" Sherlock prompted with a raised eyebrow. "You never know where this will lead us, John. All we need is - "

Sherlock was interrupted by an all too familiar mechanical voice, announcing their arrival at Oakwood. The train came to a sudden, screeching halt, causing Sherlock's wheelbarrow to tumble over and sending the bundled detective flying through the air. He landed on the ground with a soft plop, squirming in his scarf.

"John!" he barked. "John, be more careful!" He made small grunts as he managed to roll his body helplessly down the aisles of seats, somehow reminding John of a mentally disabled turtle stuck on it's back.

After enjoying the sight of Sherlock rolling around like an utter moron, he scooped him up into his arms and dropped him back in the wheelbarrow, smiling contently for the first time since Sherlock had gotten in the damned thing.

"That was tedious and irresponsible," Sherlock muttered as the train took off again, John holding onto the Transporter a little more firmly than he had been before. "You know the media has a habit of following us around, John. If someone saw me in that compromising position, it could damage our liability. People would assume I'm unprofessional and stop asking for my assistance."

John quirked an eyebrow, looking down at his flatmate incredulously. "Right, because Sherlock Holmes, the man who pretends to be a reverend to infiltrate someone's home and completely destroys his wall using a few bullets because he's bored, is the model image of professionalization."

There was silence. Then, finally, in the quietest voice he ever heard Sherlock manage, he muttered, "Touché."

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"So this is it?" John asked incredulously, looking up at the warehouse that towered above him. Well, Sherlock had definitely been right about one thing - this place sure was abandoned. The bricks were crumbling, the building caked with red dust and graffiti. The windows were all broken, shattered glass littering the ground and the ledges inside. The door was hanging off a single hinge, creaking eerily in the wind. And, to top it all off, the whole building was covered in a large patch of dead grass.

John frowned, shaking his head slightly. He didn't even know why he was surprised. If there was one thing he learned from working with Sherlock, it was that his flatmate did not do pubs, clubs, or strip joints. He preferred the places where serial killers were likely to jump out at you from every corner. He wondered - and certainly not for the first time - if agreeing to move into 221B had really been the best idea.

Sherlock nodded. "The biggest warehouse in Cockfosters. Now, go on. Wheel me inside." John rolled his eyes, but pushed the wheelbarrow up the stairs and through the crooked door, mumbling curses under his breath.

However, when he took in the scene before him, his jaw dropped and his eyes widened in shock. No. This - it couldn't - bloody hell.

The warehouse was in action. Conveyer belts zoomed from one end of the room to another, each one lined with individual pink boxes, the Sarah's Spectacular Sweets logo printed on all of them. John watched incredulously as machines would print, "IMPORT TO CANADA" in huge, black letters on each box, before the conveyers would lead them to one of the hundreds of shelves filled with those same boxes.

"Just as I suspected," Sherlock said from his wheelbarrow, his voice bored and tired. John looked down at him in utter shock. How had - how did he - was this actually happening?! "A culprit has been gathering sticks of gum and illegally shipping them to Canada. The question is...who?"

"Help!" a voice cried suddenly, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts and John out of his pure confusion. "Please help me!"

John whirled around to see a man standing by one of the conveyers, packing piles and piles of gum into boxes with tears in his eyes, his lower lip trembling as he whimpered. John grabbed hold of Sherlock's wheelbarrow and rushed forward, skidding to a stop beside the frightened man.

"What happened, are you all right?" John asked urgently. The man looked helpless, his frail frame shaking and light blue eyes pierced with fear. His black hair was long and shaggy, light stubble coating his chin. The clothes he wore hung off his body, at least ten sizes too big, covered with what looked like powdered sugar. The poor man looked so terrified and vulnerable. Who could have done this?

"I've been here for weeks," he cried, his body shaking with each sob. "I was just walking down the street one day when someone knocked me out and threw me in the back of a van. I woke up in this warehouse, where some man ordered me to pack gum into cases. It's all I've been doing. He only feeds me every two days. I've been chewing pieces of gum to remind me of food, but he found out so I had to gather a stash and rationalize the rest of my gum." His lower lip trembled as his sobs came out harder. "I've b - been chewing this s - same piece of g - gum since y - yesterday!"

"God," John breathed, reaching out to the man and holding him tightly against his chest. No matter how weird this case got, he had to remember that people had been hurt. "Don't worry, we'll get you out of here. Sherlock and - "

"Tell me, sir," Sherlock drawled, his voice hard and inquisitive. "Is the wrapper in your pocket from the piece of gum you're chewing now?"

John shot Sherlock a glare. Couldn't he go ten seconds without thinking about anything but the case!?

The man sniffled and nodded, choking out a strangled, "Yes."

"May I see it?"

The man nodded again, taking the wrapper out from his pocket and placing it on Sherlock's chest.

"John, examine this for me, will you? My magnifying glass is my back pocket."

John grimaced, but managed to slip his hand into Sherlock's back pocket, yanking out the magnifying glass and holding it up to the wrapper. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he examined it before a grin spread across his face. "Ah. It appears my presumption was correct. This wrapper is well looked after. Pampered and cared for. Only one person is that passionate about his gum - Mr Burns." His grin widened, his eyes maniac. "And, if I remember correctly, you said you found this yesterday. When, in fact, this gum was stolen today. Which can mean only one thing."

John's eyes narrowed, as he looked at Sherlock and then at the sobbing man standing in front of them. Except, he was no longer sobbing. He'd stopped trembling and a grin had even spread across his face, eyes wild. "Well done, Mr Holmes," he drawled, his voice suddenly sickly sweet. "I heard you were clever, but I wasn't aware you'd catch on so fast."

John blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" Was he dreaming? Had he been asleep this whole time? Maybe if he pinched himself, he would wake up in the flat, snuggled in his blankets. He took two fingers and squeezed them together between his skin, although the only thing it did was give him a bruise. Nope. He wasn't dreaming. He was simply solving a case with Sherlock about a man who was illegally importing amazing gum to Canada.

"Isn't it obvious, John?" Sherlock asked, grinning up at his associate. "This man is the culprit we're looking for. He's in charge of the whole operation."

"It had been going so well," the man sighed, clasping two hands behind his back as he started to pace across the concrete floor. "All the gum had been stolen, the boxes were ready to pack, and I was about to become a billionaire. That is, until I started hearing about you in the papers. The famous Sherlock Holmes, the man who can solve any case. I figured you'd get in my way eventually - so I had to disable you."

At that, Sherlock's grin faded, his brow crinkling as he glared at the man furiously. "You did this!?" he screamed, his deep voice echoing throughout the warehouse. "You're the one who trapped me in my scarf!?"

"Of course I was - I was honestly worried that someone of your intellect would figure it out. Especially after the first time was a failure and you managed to wiggle yourself out of it within mere minutes. Luckily, you failed to realize someone had tampered with your scarf and brushed it off as an an accident, when in reality, I was plotting against you. You see, I'd extracted a chemical from some of the gum I'd stolen - the particle that makes it so sticky. I hadn't gotten the formula quite right the first time, which explains why you escaped. I tweaked the biological makeup and gave it another go." He grinned. "As you can see, it was a success."

"But it didn't stop me," Sherlock smirked. "Immobilize me, yes, but now I know where you're hiding. You're caught. I advise surrendering now - it will be less painful."

The man chortled, shaking his head with a sigh. "That's where you're wrong, Mr Holmes. I was preparing myself for your visit." He quickly dashed to the table where he'd been packing the gum and picked up a remote control. "This is my explosives remote. It allows me to control where I want the chaos to begin. If I wanted to, I could take down this entire place." His grin widened, eyes dancing. "Or, I could simply explode the spot underneath your feet, killing you and keeping my gum safe. Which is exactly what I intend to do." He let out a loud laugh, beaming wildly. "And to think - you could have stopped me if you doused yourself in goat's milk. It would've cancelled out the chemical's properties - you would be free. Too bad you're not that smart - too bad I defeated you." And with that, he took off, sprinting to the door.

"Go after him, John!" Sherlock cried, rocking himself in the wheelbarrow to emphasize his desperation.

"I can't, he's too fast!"

"Then wheel me over him!"

John cocked an eyebrow, looking down at the detective in confusion. Today had been crazy enough - now he wanted to run over the culprit with his wheelbarrow!? "Sherlock, what - "

"There's not time for doubt, John, just do it!"

And that was all John needed. With a grunt, he grabbed onto the handles of the wheelbarrow and shoved forward with all his might. It shot forward, wobbling unsteadily before it tumbled over - right on top of the culprit.

"I've got him!" Sherlock gasped from his spot on the ground. "Call Lestrade and the police! The case has been solved!"

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John sat beside Sherlock on the rotting steps of the warehouse - Sherlock, who's wet scarf was resting beside him, his dark hair dripping with goat's milk, his clothes, hair, and body reeking of it.

"Thank you," Sherlock muttered begrudgingly, clutching the blanket Lestrade had given to him while giggling like a school girl. "That was quick thinking, telling Lestrade to bring goat's milk. It's comforting to be able to move again."

John smiled in spite of himself. This had most definitely been the weirdest case he'd been involved in - but, at the same time, it had also been the most entertaining. "Yeah, well, I figured you'd be less of a pain once you were out of that wheelbarrow."

Sherlock gave a slight nod, watching as the police dragged the culprit out of the warehouse, his hands cuffed behind his back as the shoved him into the car. "There is one place we need to go before we return to Baker Street."

John raised an eyebrow, looking at his flatmate in curiosity. "And where would that be?"

He simply stood, shoved his hands in his pockets, and started walking, obviously expecting John to follow. John frowned, but jumped up, and looked at the object lying in front of him.

"Sherlock!" John called, causing him to briefly turn around and raise an eyebrow at him. "What about the wheelbarrow?"

He smiled slightly, turning back around and continuing his stroll. "Bring it along - we might need it again someday."

John's frown deepened as he picked up the wheelbarrow, following in exhaustion after Sherlock. We might need it again someday.

John promised himself that people would be hearing about the great detective's murder on the news if they did.

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"Mr Burns?" Sherlock called as he stepped into the candy shop they'd been in earlier that day. John was puzzled. The police had already contacted the owner and informed him of what had happened. Why did Sherlock want to come back?

The man wobbled out of the back room, eyes red and puffy. He sniffled, but gave Sherlock a small smile when he saw him. "Ah - Mr Holmes. Thank you for solving the case. I was thinking of making a small donation for your - "

"Payment won't be necessary," Sherlock interrupted harshly. "I simply came back to give you what's rightfully yours." And, with that, he stuck his hand into his pocket, and placed a chewed up piece of bright pink gum into the shop owner's hands.

He looked down at it in awe, his eyes glazing over with fresh tears. "Is this...?"

"The gum that was stolen from your shop today? Yes. I figured you might - "

"Oh, thank you!" Mr Burns cried, throwing his arms around the detective as he sobbed into his shoulder. Sherlock sighed, looking extremely uncomfortable, but patted his back nonetheless.

John grinned. He didn't care what Sherlock or anyone else said. Sherlock was a caring, loving person. Maybe living with the sociopath wasn't so bad after all.

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John stepped out of his room, freshly showered and clothed. He sighed contently as he made his way down the stairs, rolling up his sleeves. Yesterday had been exhausting, having to wheel Sherlock around all of London. He figured he'd treat himself to a day of relaxation, just exploring the town and maybe going to a pub to see if he could find himself a girl to...talk to.

He turned into the living room and abruptly stopped when he saw the sight before him.

Sherlock lay immobile in the middle of the floor, his expression desperate, a can of hairspray resting at his side. His eyes met John's and a look of relief washed over his face. "John! Finally, you're up! You have to help me!"

Oh God. He was curled up just as he'd been yesterday, except this time he wasn't bound by his scarf. Had the culprit escaped from prison? Had he purposely immobilized his flatmate?! And, more importantly, would he be forced to carry Sherlock around in the wheelbarrow all over again?! "What. Happened?" John growled.

"I was doing a hair tutorial," Sherlock explained quickly. "I must have used too much hairspray. I felt myself start to get sticky, and before I knew it, I was lying uselessly on the ground. I've unfortunately managed to immobilize myself - but I'm not getting out anytime soon and I have errands to run. Now, all you have to do is - "

John ignored whatever Sherlock was saying. He gave his flatmate one glance before he grabbed the wheelbarrow that rested in the corner of the room and promptly dumped it out the window. He then ignored the look of shock on Sherlock's face as he picked him up and dumped him on the armchair facing the tele.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked as John flicked on the TV to display a blue cartoon dog and a man in a striped green shirt.

"It's called Blue's Clues," John stated happily. "It's about a dog and a man solving mysteries together."

"John, this show is for children."

"Oh, I know. They spend about two minutes looking for clues that are right behind them. Have fun, Sherlock." John then tucked the remote into his pocket and headed for the door.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John. John! You're not actually going to leave me here, are you!?"

"I'll be back in a few hours."

"TURN IT OFF, JOHN! DO IT! DO IT NOW!"

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"NO, JOHN, PLEASE - " With that, John closed the door and trampled down the stairs, smiling as Sherlock's pleading cries rang throughout 221 Baker Street.

John sighed contently as he walked out onto the sidewalk, a grin spread across his face. All was well.

Welp, that's it you guys! :) This concludes my first Sherlock fic and also my first crack fic! I hope you enjoyed and remember to please, PLEASE review! Thanks a bunch!

- Gallifrey101