Sorry this one took so long. I have been having some personal problems and then we have been on and off writing this. Here it is though. My apologises more than anything.

Also I swear Rayne just wants to make all the Sherlock jokes. They keep making me crack up.

Opening his wardrobe, Sherlock was pleased that John, nor Mrs Hudson for that fact, had not touched his clothing. His sock index was perfectly in order. Running his fingers along his shirts he soon stopped on his favourite deep purple one. It did wonders for his skin colour. Something he thought the press would enjoy. Not that that bothered him. The newspapers and TV stations would just be a quick and simple way of getting word spread quicker. That way he would be able to continue taking on cases soon after. Just like the good old days.

He picked out a fitting black suit. To be fair, he really only liked black suits. It was whilst he was picking these out that he saw the deerstalker in the corner. Picking up it, he tore open his door, not even in his towel, and threw the deerstalker at John's head. "Burn that useless excuse of a hat."

Upon shutting his door, he dressed quickly and threw his towel into the washing basket still located at the end of his room. Glad to know nothing had changed. Even though he had yet to sleep in his bed, he noticed that the sheets had been changed. By the looks of it numerous times. Mrs Hudson's doing by the looks of the corners.

Sherlock glided out of his room, sweeping past John. The patches on his arm were beginning to kick in. Good, this news conference was an annoying inconvenience.

"Sherlock," John looked up from his paper, "look."

He pointed to a small column, 'Teacher Needed'. The advertisement was about a lecturer needed to teach elementary science to a group of posh old men.

"Why don't you apply?" John asked, "You'd be a good teacher. It might even stop you from being bored."

"Elementary, my dear Watson." Sherlock giggled at his own joke, "It'd bore me to tears. AND I would never be able to pursue the criminals in my cases."

"Ah," nodded John, "okay."

"What are you doing today?" Sherlock suddenly asked.

"Waiting for the press conference. And then going." John shrugged, "What have you got planned?"

"Experiments. I need to test some theories I have." Sherlock glanced into the kitchen. "I might be able to use them later on."

"I'll know to avoid the kitchen. Don't burn the ceiling. I only just got that blasted black mark off of it." Leaning into the kitchen Sherlock saw that the mark had indeed disappeared. He wondered how long the experiments would take him. It was barely eight in the morning and they were both prepared. Maybe if he bothered he would be able to go about the street and see what happened to his 'delightful' neighbourghs. Didn't matter but it gave him something to do at least.

"We need milk."

"And? You know where the shop is. What happened to it anyway? You got some the other day." John complained. It was nice he bought the milk. Even if it was just once.

"Remedy."

"What?" John replied, giving one of hia signature facial expressions.

"For the brusies. Own remedy. Works a treat." John groaned, picking up his wallet.

"Fine. I'll be five minutes."

John shut the door to 221B Baker Street and walked out into the cold. He shrunk into his jacket as the air attacking his bare skin. He walked quickly down the road into a small Tesco Metro. There was a queue. John sighed and picked up two pints of semi-skimmed milk. He joined the queue and waited for the next till to become available.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. He thought for a second before jumping up and running around the room. He picked up several packets, jars and vials. He placed them on the living room table and laughed to himself. John was going to go ballistic if this went right.

John's face when he got ballistic was rather amusing. His brow frowned and the lines around his eyes moved in the most entertaining manner. Normally other people getting infuriated bored him easily but John always had a different array of reactions. Recently they had been more tame. Disappointing. Hopefully this one would do to cause a decent sized yell before three o'clock. Sending John, pointlessly, to the shops was stage one. Stage two was knowing, perfectly well, John still had issues with the self checkout and refused to use the human run checkout. Third stage was blowing up the kitchen. Anything for a bit of excitement. Sherlock abhorred being bored. It was almost repulsing.

Manoeuvring his way around the flat, he began to organise the things he had not yet gotten the chance to. Firstly, he started by bringing his skull in from his room and placed it neatly on the end of the fireplace. He ran his finger along the end of the Mandible bone in a soft action. As if he was able to deduce the entire workings of 221B since his absence just by a momentary glance. Although the skull did not talk to him, he seemed to have required his information and went about in search for one of his devices until his eyes drew attention to the wall. Although it had lost two of the original bullet holes due to a butch plastering job, it had gained several more already. The angle suggested a man much smaller build with him and based by their position, the aim was perfect. John. For sure. It did not matter. He needed to regain his wall. However he was unsure where his pistol was held.

So the hunt began for the desired pistol. Judging by the holes, John had not used his own gun. He had used Sherlock's. The intend it made confirmed that. Just another one of his experiments. Seeing as his gun was not kept in the usual place, nor was it laying around the flat, Sherlock dove into John's room.

By the time he finished his whirlwind tour of it, the room was fully searched and the results unfruitful; save the discovery of several magazines and DVDs all which had women on the front. Sherlock took a peak into one magazine, inside were articles on various sports and pictures of women that were arranged in various positions. All of whom were naked.

"John," Sherlock muttered to himself, "this is not good reading."

He put the magazines back, along with the DVDs, and walked out of the room. The blue scarf had once again missed his glare. He would just have to find something else to entertain himself.

John walked down the road, the human traffic around him battering him as he struggled to get back to the flat. There were a few cars on the road, some looked like they weren't sure where to go. Must be a diversion, John reasoned. He turned the corner and in front of him stood a police block, people stood in small groups outside of it. There was a low buzz as people spoke quietly, guessing what had happened - their wild theories nothing like the truth - and speculating what would happen next.

John searched the crowd for the familiar face, where was he? John looked at the men inside the block; police and firefighters. An elderly woman was being given a blanket and a young police woman was talking to her. John stepped forwards and started towards Mrs Hudson, intent on learning what had happened to Sherlock.

"Excuse me," came a voice, "you can't pass here."

"I live here." John said, looking the man in the face. Brown hair, brown eyes, black moustache, brown, bushy eyebrows, youngish - thirty something at the most - and pale.

"Hmm..." The man nodded John through. "Go."

John stepped forwards and was suddenly within ear shot of Mrs Hudson's conversation.

"It will be nothing, dear. Nothing he can't handle himself. Ooh he best not have burnt my ceiling again." John almost ran over to her. Soon as she saw John she began muttering under breath and shaking her head. "I tried to tell them, John."

"What's he bloody do- Where is he?" John couldn't decide what was the more important question. How he had decided to wreck the flat or where he actually was. Currently, either would satisfy him.

"Still inside, dear. He refuses to move." Before Mrs Hudson got a chance to continue, John was darting past the police officers and up to 221B. He ignored the yells and the attempts to pull him back. He'd get up to that flat and find Sherlock and if he was still alive he'd bloody strangle him.

Stepping through his front door, he saw Sherlock perched inconveniently on his black chair. He was yelling orders at the fire crew and telling them about the many faults they had apparently committed. Not wanting to turn around, John realised the fire had been in the kitchen. Though, by the jars on the table, it could have easily been the living room. The window was ajar for ventilation, he presumed. One of the fire men was staring down at Sherlock, giving him a lecture about causing chemical fires in a kitchen. It laid on deaf ears, John was certain.

The man turned around and eyed John, who mumbled something about living here too. The man looked at him with a look that could have resembled pity, and for a moment John didn't blame him. "I'm afraid you'll be needing a new refrigerator," He stared again at Sherlock. "And a new kitchen table."

John glared at the man sitting in the black chair. He had already stopped hurling criticism at the fire crew and had gone back to one of books. By the look of the cover, to John, it was Crime And Punishment. "Sherlock! What on earth were you doing?"

"Experiment. Nothing I couldn't handle. Mrs Tyler? Turner? rang the fire department." His voice laced with fury. John wanted to strangle him.

"I go for five minut-"

"Ten. You had a row with," Sherlock glanced over at John. His hands mostly. "Ah. The machine this time."

John shoved his hands behind his back. This wasn't the time for arguing. Some of the fire crew were still there. "Wh-" John started. Anger making it a struggle to communicate. "Why?"

"Bored, John." Sherlock placed his book down and strolled over to the window. "I also calculated that by two o'clock you, Mrs Hudson and I shall be the only ones left. The fire department would disappear. After that it would only be a matter of occupying myself with an experiment before half past when we would leave for the Yard."

Unable to speak, John just stood there with his mouth slightly open and eyes closed. Lines of frustration etched on his head. He slowly walked over to his chair, dropped the bag he had been holding and slumped into the soft armrest. Welcoming the way it moulded to his back.

Without a single doubt, Sherlock Holmes had most certainly returned to Baker Street.

The fire crew now gone, Sherlock sat in his chair, John looked up from his laptop occasionally to make sure Sherlock was still there. Yeah, he was. A smug smile on his face at times or, at others, an angry frown. Nothing on Sherlock Holmes' face could be anything but perfect, John decided. A smile crossed John's face, despite the stress of today so far.

Sherlock looked at John, who was now looking at his laptop.

"John," he said, "please don't look at me like I'm going to blow everything up."

"I-" John was taken aback. "I never thought you would." He looked up, a wrinkle formed between his brows, and watched Sherlock carefully.

"Good." Sherlock nodded. "Good. What's the time?"

"Um... It's almost- It is- it's-" John stuttered, unsure of the time himself. "Two."

"Two?" Sherlock laughed, "Then I shall begin my experiments."

"Just be careful." John sighed. "I don't want to see another fireman for a few weeks."

"Can't promise anything, John."

"Sherlock, they only left fifteen minutes ago."

"So?"

"Just... I give up. You're buying the table and fridge, by the way. They lasted three years without you." John couldn't bare to look at the kitchen and kept his gaze set on the laptop screen. "And no experiments in the kitchen."

Sherlock produced a sound that almost signified a groan. As if no experiments in the kitchen was the end of the world. "Well I can't work at the kitchen table."

"And who is to blame for that?" Sherlock waved the pathetic question away with a flick of his hand and jumped up back out of his seat and into the kitchen.

John sighed. Hopefully the next half an hour would fly by.