John Watson bounded up the steps of his shared flat to find his flat mate shooting at the wall.
Again.
"What the hell are you doing?" He had his hands over his ears as he looked towards the black haired man in the dressing gown, sitting in a chair with a gun in his hand. A bright yellow smiley face was painted on the wall across from him.
"Bored. Again." The tone certainly indicated that.
"What?" He almost regretted asking that, for his flat mate jumped up on the chair, shooting the gun randomly.
"Bored! Bored! I am bored!"
John rolled his eyes, running over and snatching the gun from him. "Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson is putting that on our rent, it's getting frustrating!"
A hint of a smile played at the ends of Sherlock Holmes' mouth. But only a hint. "There's no work, John, what else am I supposed to be up to?" He hopped off the chair and sat back down in it.
"I know we haven't had anything… particularly exciting since Irene Adler, but it doesn't mean you need to go around shooting walls because of it!" John glared at Sherlock, stopping when he noticed the way his friend's mouth hardened. "Sherlock, I'm sorry…"
"No need for apologies. We…. We hardly knew her."
John internally slapped himself. Irene Adler, The Woman, the dominatrix… she'd been killed a month ago, even after Sherlock had rescued her. But it wasn't an attack. She'd drowned accidentally, back with her family. It had been somewhat of a hard blow to the consulting detective, though he hardly showed it. At the mention of her, Sherlock would quiet and turn away. To mourn, most likely.
"D'you want some tea, Sherlock?"
"That would be lovely."
But they wouldn't get that tea. Not just yet.