A/N: Wow...I just wrote three (albeit small) chapters in a row. I wanted to write something light and fluffy, but ended up with this. I think I'm addicted to angst. o_O
Sherlock, bored out of his mind after three weeks without a case, is a nightmare.
The constant moaning, shooting the wall, complaining and lazing about.
Then finally, like a beacon of hope, Detective Inspector Lestrade pulled up at their flat and announced that the serial killings were out of hand and they desperately needed his...Sherlock Holmes's...help.
And then standing around the gruesomely mangled body, deductions being formed rapid-fire and theories discarded and considered each second, the bored is finally alleviated.
And John, the small overlooked man lurking in the background, smiles as he remembers the screams, the inflicted pain and the life slowly ebbing away.
After all, Sherlock isn't the only one who gets bored.