Chapter 17

John tried to suppress a laugh, but failed. "You? Capable of cleaning a flat all by yourself? Highly doubtful as you can't be bothered with keep anything nice and orderly, except for your suits and dress shirts. John commented flinging a hand toward Sherlock's wrinkle free jacket. "I can't sleep now. I'm staying, I want to see you clean the flat. This will be interesting."

"I am NEVER doing this again! Cleaning is SO BORING! My brain is going to explode from stupidity!" Sherlock whined constantly as he collected the scattered papers and straightened the room back to a decent state. "My brain is rotting, becoming so dull and filled with menial information. There are more important things to keep inside my brain, such as identifying forty-two different ash types simply by smell. Or knowing how to read a person's whole life story just by the way he signs his name. THOSE are important AND useful information, 'how to clean a room' is ABSOLUTELY USELESS!" Sherlock rambled on and on pointing out every single reason under the sun why he would never be caught cleaning the flat ever again.

John, as he always was, patiently listened and threw in an occasional remark on how he should have kept the flat neat in the first place, instead of waiting for the mess to pile up and having so much to do all at once.

"It's really your fault, Sherlock. Most of this isn't even mine. Who would even bother care about ash types besides you? That is what I call ABSOLUTELY USELESS." John retorted playfully to a scowling Sherlock busy re-shelving the books he fell on top of earlier. "You should be more neat, then you'll know where to find things. As a bonus you don't have to ask me to fetching for you. Which, by the way, I am not your dog nor servant. I have a life besides getting YOUR mobile out of YOUR own jacket pocket because you're too lazy to do it yourself." John finished with a humph.

Of all the annoying habits his flatmate had, being a personal servant to Sherlock was his least favourite. That man was beyond lazy, just absolutely worse than a lump on a log at times. Ugh! Where were this man's manners? Didn't his mum and dad teach him basic etiquette of doing things by themselves instead of enslaving others? What happened to living by Golden Rule? I suppose he could never be bothered to remember such "useless" information.

Their childish bantering continued until the first rays of light started to decorate the wooden floor, of which was actually visible thanks to the work of the two men slaving away tidying their flat.

"Finally done!" John said as he collapsed into his chair begging the consulting detective, "I'm shattered from all this. Please don't drag me out on a case Sherlock. Please! I need to rest. Just a couple of hours. I know I said I wanted to watch you clean, but I couldn't let you do it all alone."

"What?! Johnnn!" Sherlock whined dragging out his flatmate's name into many syllables. Feeling wide awake and refreshed despite staying up all night doing menial work Sherlock would not accept John's logical request. "No! I solved the case just all the chaos happened. We HAVE to tell Lestrade now, AND go catch the criminal. I know where they will be meeting to plan their next strike. We must catch them or it'll create a larger mess with more people dead."

John just rolled his eyes and sighed.

"As if I'm ever going to win any argument with my crazy flatmate. Simply never going to happen," John thought as he went to changed into fresh clothes and downed a lukewarm cup waiting for Sherlock to finish straightening his appearance.

Sherlock was always one for the dramatic acts, and having on a Belstaff certainly gave any entrance the extra flair. He strode into New Scotland Yard barging right past everyone, and headed straight into Lestrade's room without even knocking.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock boomed scaring the sleep-walking John to full consciousness. Disrupting John's semi-rest earned the over-eager consulting detective a hard elbow jab in the side. A murderous scowl covered the beanpole's face, but the shorter man just shrugged to say, "Your fault. Use your manners. Don't scream at people who are half asleep."

"Could you at least knock instead of bellowing at the top of your lungs? It's far too early for such antics." Even after working with the consulting detective for several years, the aged-detective was never going to be used to that man's odd behaviour. "Well aren't you two bright-eyed bushy tailed bunch this morning," he continued in good humour taking note of John leaning against the wall clearly angry with the wild-man for obvious reasons. John just rolled his eyes and sighed in disgust with the whole situation.

After four more cups of coffee both John and Lestrade felt at least half way up to speed with Sherlock. How that man managed to function on an empty stomach and only a few hours rest habitually puzzled John. Somehow they magically appeared at the location the criminals would strike next, but they were a bit late for the criminals had already started their dirty work throwing the Scotland Yard officers into a scramble trying to contain the situation.

Sherlock at once raced after the leader, "Larry" who was desperately trying to escape with vital information, chasing him in circles around the building's first floor. "Should have picked a different place to meet or at least the ground floor...idiot...you're trapped since there's one way in and one way out." the consulting detective mumbled to himself in hot pursuit.

John, on the other hand, was busy in a fist fight with two men who were both twice his stature. The three struggled for the dominance, but John's military training soon overpowered their attacks. They were no match for him. Fist fighting was one matter, however, fist fighting one who's been trained is completely different. John easy pinned them down on.

Despite being chained to each other and feeling the heat of the cold guns trained on them, "Curly" and "Moe" worked unsuccessfully at unchaining themselves. Leaving the two buffoons in the capable hands of Scotland Yard, John ran off searching for his best mate hoping he hadn't done anything stupid yet. With Sherlock Holmes, one never knows what to expect...John learned that real fast.

"Sherlock! Where are you?"

Receiving no response John quickened his pace running through the rooms.

A-N: Thank you everyone that has been reading this story.

I appreciate any thoughts you write, and the time you take to write it.

Sherlock is just fine, don't worry!

Here's proof that there are happy parts despite a grim title. I hope you liked it!

TBC