Greg Lestrade stormed into the flat to find Sherlock sitting in his chair, completely nude.
"Even, Gabe. Tea?" Sherlock held up his mug. "Kettles just boiled, help yourself."
"Wha— what's going on here, Sherlock?" The D.I. asked, ignoring his name being butchered.
"Well, the writers upset him, so Sherlocks taking their show." John informed Greg and the man in question smiled before taking a long drink.
"By sitting around naked?" His face wrinkled up as he passed glances between John and Sherlock.
"Well, thats just to get their attention… I do have other plans." Sherlock explained.
"Like, what? They've given us a proper case this script." The DI pleaded.
"Ah, yes. The body in the alleyway. Jeffrey Martin." Adjusting in his seat, Sherlock continued to sip his tea.
"Well, yeah, but you're not suppose to know that yet." Greg squinted his eyes at the unnecessarily calm man.
"I read ahead. Its some guy name Nickoli Banks. He left a shoe, I analyzed some dirt—" He took a breath "WITHOUT MOLLY!" Was shouted into the air "and then we were able to track him down in some random warehouse… I forget where… but, its boring now, I don't want to do it."
"Yeah, well, we're suppose to." Greg continued his attempted negotiation.
"Suppose to, yes. Going to, absolutely not." Sherlock mused before returning to his tea and John merely stared back up at the DI from his chair.
"He's been like this since they finalized the scripts. He won't put his clothes on, he's being exceptionally creepy and, apparently, has decided to smoke with his feet." John gestured to the clown lighting a cigarette up between his toes.
"Well, what if they take my arms next?" Sherlock retorted.
"You won't be lighting a lighter, thats for sure." John argued back.
"I'll strike a match with my mouth." Sherlock countered.
"How?" Sherlock thought on this for a minute before cursing.
"Well, what am I suppose to do?" Greg had no interest in enjoying the company of a nude Sherlock Holmes.
"You can help." The mans blue grey eyes flickered as he retrieved the cigarette from between his toes and leaned forward.
"How?" Greg threw his arms in the air.
"By doing whatever you want…. rob a liquor store or something, they'll love that."
"I started a fire in a taxi just to get him to stop bitching." John sighed.
"You see, its that easy." Sherlock got up from his seat to a chorus of complaints and objections from his two friends. "Just in general, cause destruction and mayhem. We have to get Molly back."
"What? Molly? This is about Molly?" Greg was clearly irritated.
"Yes! They have to bring her back, we need her!" The nude man insisted, scratching at his inner thigh.
"Could you just stop… please, put some clothes on at the very least… you're making us all uncomfortable." John pleaded but his request was waved off and, instead, Sherlock tossed his cigarette butt into the fire place and proceeded to jump on the couch, forcing the DI to leave and John to groan in disgust.
"Please, lets take a walk… come on, we'll … go to the park and you shout at children and a kick elder people." John offered and Sherlock stopped jumping and considered his friend for a minute.
"Are clothes necessary?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.
"If you want my company… yes." Reluctantly, Sherlock finally went to dress.
TWO HOURS LATER
Sitting on the bench in the middle of the park, Sherlock began to cry.
"Why are you crying, Sherlock? Whats wrong, now?" John felt a bit obligated to inquire.
"I miss Molly." His friend wailed.
"Oh, god, still on this. Look, she's dead. The writers have other plans, maybe they'll give you a new friend—thing—something or other.. what the fuck were you two anyway?"
"Hold me, John." Sherlock leaned into John, who immediately stood up, letting the tearful man hit the bench.
"NO!"
"If Molly were here, she'd hold me."
"Right, yes, I'm sure she would. But, thats Molly. You guys were… different than us."
"But, I love you, too, John."
"Yes, but not that—"
"WHY WON'T YOU LOVE ME, JOHN? I'VE BEEN NOTHING BUT GOOD TO YOU!" He grabbed at the doctors jacket and tried to pull him towards his tear soaked face. Seeing the crowd that had turned to watch, John reluctantly hugged Sherlock. "Stroke my hair."
"What?"
"Molly use to stroke my hair."
"I'm not—"
"PLEASE!"
"Fine, but only a little." John hesitantly fondled a few curls. "This is weird, Sherlock."
"You don't do it right!" Sherlock pushed the doctor away and stormed off. "Not Molly!" He turned and pointed at his friend accusingly, still crying, and broke into a run, John was sure, simply to entertain and confuse the audience.
Not that he really wanted to, but he followed after the wannabe mental patient as he wandered around the park. At one point, Sherlock pulled a large wrench out of his jacket and started banging at a water fountain. Not that it did much damage, but John pulled him away, anyway.
"What else can I do? John, what would I never do?"
"Behave?" Sherlock stopped in his tracks.
"Thats it, John, you're a genius!" Sherlock turned and gave John a kiss on the cheek before grabbing his hand and running off.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"We're going back home."
"Why?"
"Because its boring." He tossed John into the back of the cab and they sped off.