The afternoon is warm and drowsy, golden light slanting in from the two tall windows. John's curled up in his chair, a battered and well-loved paperback in his lap. Sherlock stalks by, carrying a vial of... something, and steals a glance at the cover.
"The Hobbit, John? Again? What is it about that book?"
John shrugs, studying the little novel. "It's a grand adventure! It's about someone who thought he was happy in his quiet, comfortable life, but when presented with a chance to do something exciting, he couldn't resist the opportunity."
Sherlock's eyes widen for a moment, a familiar gesture that John recognises as his realisation face.
"You feel a kinship with the hobbit character, don't you?"
"Yeah, I suppose I do. Does that make you Smaug, then? The strangely alluring, risky, ornery danger in my life?"
Sherlock huffs, a dramatic snort of air through his nostrils that does little besides confirm John's hypothesis.
"It's nonsense, that's what it is. Don't you have a medical journal or a monograph or something you could be reading?"
"Could be, sure. But it wouldn't be half as fun as this." John waves the colourful cover in Sherlock's face as he stomps off towards the kitchen. Smiling, John opens the book and resumes getting lost in the adventures of one brave little Bilbo Baggins.
Oh come now, you didn't think I'd pass up an opportunity like this, did you?