A/N: I forgot that I finished this and I probably won't be able to update at all until Sunday so I figured... bonus short chapter. Enjoy?

Word Count: 420

Pairing(s): discusses John/Sherlock

Warning(s): I really dig this setting, inexcusable fluff, cheeseballness

Home

Harry wrinkled her nose as she peered through the entrance of 221B. She hadn't been invited inside - partially because John didn't want her to and partially because there was approximately two thirds of a dead body on the kitchen table - but that wasn't going to stop her from making a synopsis of the apartment.

"Honestly, John," she mused. "Don't you ever get tired of living in such a dump? I mean, you've both got money now, haven't you? Now that you've combined your funds and started taking more money for cases, I mean? You could always move out."
John blinked and supposed that, yes, that was true. He thought of the flat. It certainly wasn't Buckingham Palace on it's own. There were bullet holes in the wall and other various vandalism on every piece of furniture. It was constantly cluttered with case files and evidence, half-finished cups of tea, and various who-knows-what from experiments. Even if they were to clear out the clutter, which John suspects that they never will, they've left crude, permanent signs of their existence everywhere. There was a huge coffee stain on and around the armchair, concealed only by a cleverly placed blanket and the angle of the coffee table. Countless bloodstains and chemical burns could be found throughout the kitchen. All of the kitchen appliances had to be replaced almost monthly after being victimized by Sherlock's various experimentations, sparing only the teapot which John guarded with the ferociousness of a mother bear who was also not a morning person. The shower constantly smelled of mildew and the hot water supply was limited (although there were bonuses to this, since Sherlock would often just jump in with him in the morning). There was a patched hole in the ceiling from where hanging two body-bags had turned out to, in fact, be too much weight for it to hold and the framework of the wall had never quite recovered completely after the explosion; the woodwork was discolored to the point that it was almost charming. There was an inexplicable hole in the floor that Sherlock swore to Almighty-and-also-Einstein-OK-happy-now that he hadn't caused; that was actually true - John had been the cause as he had accidentally knocked over one of Sherlock's older acid experiments, but he would never admit to this. Sherlock's bedroom was a disaster zone that warranted no discussion.

All in all, it was hardly the classic home.

John met Harriet's disapproving stare with a smile and a shake of the head.

"It's home."

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