This is basically a gag chapter. Sherly and John are pretty out of character but I just couldn't help myself.
It must be a saturday. I can't remember what yesterday was and I haven't even opened my eyes let alone looked at a calendar, but it feels like a saturday. I shut my eyes tighter against the early morning light and huddle in deeper under the thick, fluffy blankets. My instincts tell me it's around... seven. Way too early to get up on a weekend. Noon sounds like a good time to drag myself out of bed. I don't think I'll go back to sleep, just laze in the wonderful dreamy haze of saturday mornings for a few hours. I roll into the warm center of what must be a gigantic bed, only to bump into something halfway through. Hmmm... Denise? No, we broke up ages ago. Tall... Renee. It must be. I huddle a little closer, burying my nose in her soft curls. God, she smells delicious. I wrap an arm around her, more of a reflex than anything, and she shifts a little closer. Wait something's... flat...
"SHERLOCK, GET OUT OF MY BED." I kick him out and he wakes on his way to the ground with a yelp. My lazy saturday morning is completely ruined. I'll be spending the rest of my day trying to wash the Sherlock off of me and try to forget that I described any aspect of Sherlock as delicious. His cooking isn't even delicious! The sad thing is this isn't the first time that has happened. In fact it's happened so many times, I've had to stop dating tall girls or girls with curly hair because of all the awkward morning situations. But somehow they still keep happening.
"Ahh, my head!" Sherlock groaned from the floor, as if this hasn't happened before.
"Oh please, as if you didn't see that coming" He's the genius, he should've deduced it from the thirteen other times he's crawled into my bed and been viciously thrown out.
"I really don't understand what I've done to deserve being thrown over like a sack of potatoes. You were being very... comforting just a few seconds ago." I cringe at the thought. I'm never using the words comforting or delicious ever again. Delicious. Ugh.
"I've told you dozens of times. You're my flatmate. Flatmates don't just crawl into their flatmate's bed while their flatmate is sleeping. Especially when said flatmate has been thrown out of their flatmate's bed and told off all of the times said flatmate had tried to do such." Sherlock lifts himself off the ground and rubs at the base of his neck. He shot me the 'you're forgetting something, you idiot' look.
"John, I know I've called you unobservant before, but I feel I might have to find a better word for your apparent selective blindness. Have you really failed to notice the lack of a second bed in this room?" I'm not sure what point he's trying to make by pointing that out. He could always sleep on the sofa in his office. He'd spend days on the sofa at baker street, I don't see why the one here would be any different. "And the fact that this culture hasn't developed electicity or central heating."
Oh no. It's pretty drafty in this giant stone castle, he must've been freezing. It's been at least two days since he's gotten a nights sleep, too. So, exhausted and cold, he climbed in next to me because he didn't have another choice. God, don't I feel awful.
"...Oh shit. Sherlock, I'm sorry. You should've woken me up... so I wouldn't... assume you were..." My attention embarrassedly drifts to the door, which is obviously much smaller than the bed I was currently sitting on. My mind wandered quickly away from the awkward current subject and towards the matter of how they got the bed in here and if we could get another one in. "... How would we get a second bed in here?"
"Magic." He says, like a nobel prize winner giving the answer of 2+2. "Like everything else in this castle. Now hurry up and get dressed, there's classes this afternoon. I'll need you for demonstrations and things."
"Sherlock... what shampoo do you use?" I break the heavy silence that descended over the empty classroom. He's angry at me. Not raging angry or even 'I'm never speaking to you again' angry. More of a 'I'm not happy. This is me not being happy' angry. I couldn't blame him, so I beared with his unhappy silence. But I've always been curious how he kept his hair so... well groomed. Getting a whiff of it made the curiousity unbearable and I'm hoping the odd subject would break the tension before class started again.
"...sniffed my hair." He mutters at the other side of the room. He's facing the other way, hunched over a stack of papers. "You sniffed... my hair..."
"I-I didn't mean to! I just..." I trail off as I see Sherlock's shoulders shake from across the room. He-he's not... crying. Is he? The low rumble of his laughter drifts through the room. "... wha-what's so funny?"
"How-... How you convince anyone you're straight is beyond me." He says between sub-sonic chortles, trying to recover from his burst of giggles. Then he throws his head back and launches into another bout. "You-hoo-hoo sniffed my ha-ha-hair."
"Sherlock, for the hundredth time. I actually am straight. I just mistook you for an old girlfriend. Because it was early!" I try desperately to defend myself. But the feeble, one-sided argument is only making Sherlock laugh harder. By now, he's hanging halfway over the armrest of his chair. "And. And. Your skin is really soft! And no man I've ever known has such good smelling hair! Yeah, yeah. I know I'm only making it worse and it's hilarious. Shut up already." He tumbles onto the floor, thrashing like fish with hiccups. Redfaced and embarrassed, I get up from my chair by the window and storm out of the room. Then when I get halfway to the door, I remember how lost I was last time I stormed out of a room. So I stormed back and stood over Sherlock as he laughed himself to asphyxiation.
"I u-hoo-hoose a body wa-ha-hash... infused wi-hith lotus, in case yo-hoo-hoo were wo-hon... dering." His maniacal laughter is dying down slowly to sporadic chuckling. I'm finding it pretty hard to maintain the cold glare I had aimed at Sherlock. He just looks so silly laying flat on the ground, robes twisted up from rolling around, face turning an uncharacteristic shade of pink. I giggle a little, despite myself. "Co-could you help me up, laughing took it out of me."
I grab his outstretched hand and pull him up. "Hey, are you feeling alright?" I asked, while he continued to grin ecstatically.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I just added a potion I was working on to my morning tea-hee-hee." He burst into another bout of the giggles, nearly toppling back to the ground.
"No no no Sherlock. Don't tell me you've gone back to-"
"Ohohoh John, I forge-he-het how much of a raging muggle you are. You're so good at pretending you aren't an imbecile." He leans on my shoulder, a little oxygen deprived and still letting out the occasion hiccup of laughter. "Potions aren't drugs. Granted, some are dangerous and a rare few are fatal, but they're never taken for the high. No one ever got addicted to a potion and I'm not going to overdose on what I assume is a laughing potion." I nod as he had another minor fit of the giggles, deciding to trust him at his word.
"But it'd sti-hi-hill be a good idea to keep a keen eye on your drink near Snape. Hi-hi-his truth serums are such pa-ha-hain." The advice is just about useless to me. Around a suspicious figure like Snape, who already has a hostile attitude towards Sherlock, (and by extention, me) there wouldn't be much I'd let slip from my attention.
"How do you expect to teach like this?" He can hardly stand up straight for very long. Every few seconds he has to lean against a wall as laughter overtakes him. It'd definitely destroy the dark, mysterious reputation he's built up over the last few days.
"I-hi-hi-hi have no clue-hoo-hoo!" He giggled before collapsing back onto the floor. I sighed and sat back to watch him roll around and laugh himself hoarse. It certainly is a rare sight. I wish I had my phone on my so I could send a quick video to Lestrade. He'd love to add this to his already sizable collection of short films of Sherlock making a fool of himself.
"YOU SNIFFED MY HAIR!" He bellows for the whole school to hear. I sigh, exasperated. It must be a thursday. I could never get the hang of thursdays.