John returned home from work that day and half tore the kitchen apart around Sherlock (who was at his microscope again supremely unconcerned by the goings-on around him), looking for his evening tea. Anytime he was near the detective, he muttered, "bastard" or "arse" or the like but absolutely refused to ask where the tea was. That would be like letting Sherlock win, and that could not happen. Sherlock, meanwhile, was tickled by the whole experience. John finally found it and made himself a cup, purposely pouring out the extra water in the electric kettle when he was done. Usually when one of them used the kettle, he would leave the excess water in case the other wanted some. It was just a little polite thing to do, given how much hot beverages were consumed here. This way though, John was ensuring Sherlock would have to make his own water if he wanted any.
Sherlock arrived home from the morgue a few days later with some plague-infected tissue samples from Molly, only to see his microscope unplugged and a tiny padlock fastened to the little hole in one of the prongs in the cord plug. That touched a nerve. The microscope was expensive‒that was his territory! John didn't even know how microscopes worked! John was in the sitting room (obviously listening for a reaction) and Sherlock refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing the nerve had been struck. He had a pair of bolt cutters on the shelf in his room and he cut the lock off as loudly as he could manage before flinging it in the bin. Pleased that John had been unable to get to him much, Sherlock sat down and pulled a new slide out of the box…only to find each and every new slide inside smudged to hell with fingerprints. John's prints. Damn him.
The Great War of 221B continued.
Sherlock took one half of every single pair of John's shoes late one night. The noise the doctor made the next morning upon discovery was one of the funniest things Sherlock ever heard.
John rearranged all of the stacks of papers in the flat, shuffling pages around within them and in some cases, flinging the pages haphazardly around the room. He had given this particular prank pause initially, as he didn't want to cause real damage, but screw that. That was then, and this had already escalated further than John would have thought. Sherlock arrived home and saw the obviously tampered with papers and for a moment, John thought he would yell and they would finally row about this whole thing, but he didn't. Instead he calmly went to his bedroom and shut himself inside for the rest of the night.
For three days John couldn't find his laptop. When it was returned, sitting innocuously on the desk as if it had been there all along, there were so many viruses on it that it almost didn't start. Anytime he tried to take steps to remove one, he was treated to the speakers vomiting out a high pitched recording of Sherlock terrorizing the violin. Clever, John had to admit, but also irritating. Really irritating. He muted the machine and sat back in his chair. How long was this going to go on? They hadn't spoken in days, and it was really only a matter of time before the food started being tampered with and one of them got sick. At the very least. No doubt it would eventually escalate into a fire or the flat being filled with killer bees or something.
Mrs. Hudson came up one afternoon with a repairman in tow. His nametag read 'Bill.'
"I found the same wallpaper!" She exclaimed to John as Sherlock helped Bill drag the sofa away from the wall. "I thought it was discontinued‒now I only need to repaper the part of the wall Sherlock shot! It'll still be an expense though…"
Bill looked apprehensive at the thought of bullets flying through the air here, but instead he dutifully spread a tarp in the cleared space and went to work.
"Would you like some tea, Bill?" John asked.
"If it's not much trouble."
"Not at all." John went into the kitchen and opened the cabinet. "Oh for f‒" the tea was on the high shelf again.
"Sherlock." He called. The detective and Mrs. Hudson came into the room and Sherlock sheepishly reached up for the brew.
"What is it doing up there?" Mrs. Hudson asked.
"I put it there." Sherlock muttered.
"Why so high?"
"Because." Sherlock said. He popped open the box.
"So I can't reach it." John said snidely. He knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be pleased about that, and John was thrilled at the easy way to get back at him.
"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson sounded aghast and Sherlock glanced up at them, alarmed. "That's just because he almost broke my microscope on purpose!" Sherlock declared.
Mrs. Hudson turned her aghast face to the doctor. "John Watson!" She sounded appalled and disappointed at the same time and John mentally scrabbled for an excuse.
"He stole my shoes!" He managed. John neglected to tell her that he had found them in a biohazard bag near the bin outside. They had been rained on.
"He messed up my socks!" Sherlock yelled.
"He put intestines under my‒"
"‒Enough!" Mrs. Hudson snapped. She lowered her voice as Bill started stripping the paper in the other room. "Both of you have clearly been behaving like children and I want it to stop right now. Understood?"
"Yes." Both men said in dull voices.
"Fine. One of you come get me when Bill is finished." She left. Sherlock retreated to his bedroom and John brought the mug out to Bill, who took it gratefully. Within a couple hours he was finished and a nice shiny newly papered wall decorated the flat.
Days went by and John didn't touch any of Sherlock's things. Mrs. Hudson's visit had been sobering, and John didn't want to upset her. Granted, it was Sherlock's arse that would be in the firing line, but still. As far as he could tell, Sherlock didn't touch any of his items either. All was well for the next few days and they were even talking again. As far as John was concerned, this stupid petty war was over.
tbc...