It's now Tuesday in Sherlock world, and personally I hate Tuesdays. And John probably does now too.
One little note, I love my lovely readers/reviewers. You've made my day :)
Anyhoo...here's day two, and it's a little more original than the 'head-in-the-fridge' gag :D
Hope you LOVE :D:D
oOo
Tuesday –
After yesterdays incident – of finding a human head in the fridge where the food should be – John was edgier than usual and frankly nervous about what he would find upon entering the flat tonight.
But as he walked slowly up the stairs, his anxiousness faded as he thought over the probability of finding something worse than a decapitated head sitting next to the milk.
Entering, he looked around thoroughly before entering. Sherlock, to his relief, was draped across the couch, staring up at the ceiling peacefully. John shuffled over to his armchair and with a sigh, sank into it.
"Have you moved at all today?", he asked the motionless shadow.
There was a grunt in reply. A few movements and shuffling sounds. And then Sherlock was sitting up, staring at his hands. "Bored", he stated.
John nodded, "Yes, I'm sure you are. You should find something to do, a hobby, other than bring home chopped up body parts". He hesitated, and then stood up, approaching the man with a nervous twitch in his voice, "You haven't left any other limbs in the fridge have you?".
Sherlock looked up, "What? Oh, the head. No, it's the only thing in the fridge I assure you. I'm not completely insane you know". He was going to mention that there might be a leg in the freezer, but after John's reaction yesterday, thought best to leave it.
Chuckling light-heartedly, John nodded with relief and reached down to pick up the newspaper that was lying on the coffee table, when a knife suddenly fell down from above and landed, embedded in the table, a millimetre from John's hand. He froze, staring in disbelief at the scenario where his fingers had nearly been sliced off. It took a few moments for the shock to wear off, at which point Sherlock, holding his hands to his face, finally spoke. "Damn it", he muttered glancing at the ceiling.
John looked up too, still not moving his hand, to see at least a dozen knives thrown into the ceiling, some wavering where they were stuck.
Sherlock sighed in disappointment, "They were doing so well", he mumbled, clicking off the stopwatch in his hand.
Then he looked up at John and stated simply, "2 minutes, 37 seconds".
oOo
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