A/N A couple of reviewers have reported some unfortunate accidents that occurred while they were innocently reading this fic. In snort, the antics of Sherlock and Mycroft caused them to snort their beverage of choice. Their brave reviews, which reported this phenomenon, actually spared a third reviewer from suffering a similar ignominious, uncomfortable and potentially messy fate.

Therefore I feel compelled to issue the following warning.

WARNING DO NOT IMBIBE BEVERAGES WHILE READING FANFIC AS YOU MAY INCREASE YOUR RISK OF SUFFERING FROM A NASAL DOUCHE EPISODE. PROBABLY YOU SHOULD ALSO NOT OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY OR CLIMB LADDERS WHILE READING FANFIC.

Thank you, and AS ALWAYS, please read fanfic responsibly.

(ps I hold the Holmes Brothers responsible for the aforementioned nasal douche incidents. John Watson may be an accessory.

I, however, am innocent. I have an alibi. I was operating heavy machinery and writing fanfic at the time of the incidents and possibly climbing a ladder also. Actually a green ladder, if you must know. Therefore I cannot be held responsible.)

(Note, no beverages were imbibed during the writing of this chapter.)

(Well, I didn't imbibe much, and I was very careful not to snort my coffee while writing, especially when I was on the green ladder.)

CHAPTER 26

(No real warnings in this chapter except for language. Barely an M rating, but we'll just keep it there for future chapters, yeah?)

"What do mean, I have no clothes!" yelled John, clutching his hair for no good reason.

"Don't be an idiot, John," said the smug consulting detective. "I see no reason why I should have to repeat myself just because you were not attending."

John, the idiot who had moved into this flat on purpose, grabbed Sherlock by his finely tailored lapels. "You just said that you got rid of all my clothes. ALL OF 'EM!" said the distraught doctor, who was apparently destined to wear a blue silk robe for the rest of his natural life, and that was really going to make job-hunting a bitch.

"You did not attend! The cleaners, John. I said that your clothes were sent to the cleaners," said Sherlock, irritated at having to repeat himself. He glared down suspiciously at the blond. "Why aren't you happy? I thought…"

"You thought I'd be happy with no clothes?" interrupted John shrilly. He stared at the frankly confused face looming overhead. "You did. You honestly thought I'd be happy with no clothes."

He gave the lanky git a small shove to give himself some breathing room, because the ex-physician felt as though there was not enough oxygen in the flat. Also he didn't want to punch his flatmate just yet, and a little distance between the two flatmates seemed like a wise precaution.

John took a deep calming breath and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why?" asked John, calmly. He was very proud of his calm voice, in spite of all this insanity. "Why in God's name would you do that, Sherlock?"

"They were wet, John," stated the detective; he did not speak the word, 'obviously' aloud.

"Oh my God," muttered John. He considered going back into shock. It hurt less that way.

"What hurts, John? I don't understand," said Sherlock his head tilted in his attempt to understand the little blond's distress.

"Oh God, was I speaking out loud? Sorry. Sorry; it's just…shock. I'm in shock again," said John. "Look Sherlock, I can't afford the cleaners…"

Oh. Ooh! "The bill to the cleaners is paid monthly, by a relative. It's no problem!" said the younger man, smiling now that the problem was solved, and so easily too.

"Yes there is a problem!" said the former doctor, squeaking into the higher registers again. "I still have no clothes, Sherlock. My toiletries have gone missing. In fact, everything I own has gone missing…"

"Ah, your toiletries are in a box labeled, foot bones, located under the bathroom sink," Sherlock distantly, this conversation was becoming dull. "And you won't need clothes for the next several days. You should stay in bed and rest, so that you don't get…"

"Pneumonia," said John with a deep sigh of resignation. "Right. I am going back to shave, assuming I don't contract pneumonia first... Wait. Wait a minute. What did you mean by, 'the box labeled, foot bones'?"

Sherlock had apparently lapsed into a coma on the settee.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what did you mean?" demanded John. He wasn't fooled by the coma this time. The git was probably just in that mind palace thingy. "Sherlock, what did you mean?"

"Thinking, John," said Sherlock, dismissing the former soldier.

John gave up and threaded his way through the haz-mat site that used to be the kitchen.

The World's Only Consulting Detective was trying to piece together the final portion of the missing diamond puzzle. While Sherlock now had both the gem and the crucial letter, which confirmed the changes in the old man's will, he still didn't understand how the brother's wife's cousin was involved.

And he didn't understand why John was so upset. His clothes, which ran the gamut from plain and unfashionable to shabby and hideous, were, nonetheless, saved from ruin and at the dry cleaners… being cleaned. And at no cost and with no effort on John's part.

Maybe John didn't like the silk robe. John did look cold whenever he was out of bed. Maybe he should give John that new Turkish-cotton robe that Mycroft had sent. He would give John the terry robe as soon as he finished shaving. That decided; Sherlock should be able to concentrate on The Work.

Thirty minutes later the detective erupted off of the settee. He couldn't concentrate properly. How long did it take a short, blond man to shave? No, not short…compact. And what did that matter anyway in regards to shaving?

What could possibly take so long this time? Surely, Donovan hadn't snuck into the flat, not past the World's Most Observant Detective? Had the flighty little soldier cut himself while shaving? It seemed rather farfetched that a surgeon would seriously injure himself with a safety razor, but stranger things had happened.

Now Sherlock was completely unable to concentrate, and it was all due to John's ire still hovering around the flat. That and the niggling thought of John bleeding to death in the loo. It was terribly distracting.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed.

"What is it, Sherlock," said John, quietly. Sherlock observed the former army doctor, as he carefully stepped over debris while navigating through the kitchen.

John had cleverly found his only remaining clothes buried in Sherlock's closet. The detective nodded to himself, impressed with John's ingenuity. John wore his new fitted suit trousers and one of his new dress shirts. This fashionable outfit had been sabotaged, when John, predictably perhaps, layered a jumper on top. Somehow, John had also found a too large, too long, blue Nordic jumper that had been stuffed in the back of Sherlock's closet for years.

The soldier flashed Sherlock a blazing smile of victory, because he now had clothes to wear. Even his stuffy nose felt better. John happily finished folding back the too-long sleeves of the jumper.

"That's my jumper," said Sherlock. "And are those my socks?" The detective tilted his head as he studied the bit of sock visible beneath the perfectly tailored hem of John's expensive trousers.

"Yes to both; well spotted! I have none of my own, remember?" said John. "Luckily, I found my shirt and my new suit in your closet. I suppose you deleted the fact that you put them in there, yeah? And then, since it is freezing in here, I also needed a jumper. And look what I found gathering dust in your closet. A brand new wool jumper, tags still on them. Incidentally, why in God's name did Mycroft write 'To Sherlock Holmes Merry Christmas 2005, from Mycroft Holmes' on the tag? Does he always date the gift tags? And does he always have to put everyone's last name on the tag too? I mean, it's not like there's all that many Sherlocks and Mycrofts running around out there, are there? Anyway, I figured you wouldn't mind me borrowing the jumper since you haven't worn it in the past decade and since you got rid of all my clothes."

John smiled his best smile at the detective. Sherlock's breath hitched, and he sucked in his lower lip. That smile was really not fair.

"Keep the jumper. I never wear jumpers. HE knows I that never wear jumpers, and that is why he sent me one on Christmas," said Sherlock resentfully.

"It was quite a few years back, Sherlock. You should get over it," advised John. "Look was there something you wanted? You were yelling for me?"

"Did you mess up my sock index again," demanded Sherlock abruptly. He swept out of the room to check his drawer. John blinked. When had he ever mixed up Sherlock's sock index? Oh yeah, maybe when he borrowed that pair of argyles yesterday.

But what the hell was a sock index anyway?

John returned to the kitchen to make tea. He cautiously stepped around the broken glass and chemicals. Then he noticed a box on the counter. It looked like a new electric teakettle. He leaned in closer to examine the box. Maybe it's a bomb, the former soldier thought suspiciously. John narrowed his eyes while he considered his next move.

"It won't blow up, John. It's just a tea kettle," said Sherlock leaning against the door jamb.

Although Sherlock's mind-reading was a bit disturbing, John set all that aside in favor of un-boxing the delightful kettle.

"Sock index alright then?" the blond politely asked, greatly pleased with the kettle. Sherlock noted that the little soldier actually caressed the kettle once.

"Fortunately, I was able to fix the index," answered the detective. "And your kettle is satisfactory?"

"What, it's not mine…"

"Of course it's yours," replied the younger man, the word 'idiot' was left unspoken. "There are rolls and croissants in the bags on the counter. Luckily they escaped damage during the skirmish."

"Oh, very nice," said John, resolutely blocking out any thoughts about the morning skirmish. He rinsed the kettle once, just to be sure. "It's like Christmas, isn't it?" He added with another dazzling smile to the handsome detective.

Sherlock smiled back. John may be a tad bit quick to anger, but he was also ridiculously easy to please. Sherlock returned to the settee to complete his ruminations on the diamond case. It was easy to concentrate now, and he was soon rewarded with a hot cup of tea and a plate of baked goods, all within arms reach.

John had finished cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. Sherlock had been too busy to help. While the consulting detective busily contemplated the diamond case and the cracks in the plaster, he had also resolutely ignored the compulsive cleaning blitz, complete with the God-awful, lemon-stench cleanser. All of this cleaning did of course confirm that John suffered from OCD.

Now John was celebrating by making more tea. The kettle was filled, and he switch was flipped, and then the mugs were plunked onto the counter. A pause, and then a box of tea was opened. Sherlock was pleased that he was able to completely ignore his flatmate while he resolutely studied the ceiling.

The domestic tranquility could not last. Trouble began when John discovered that the disagreeable odor in the kitchen was caused by the decomposing eyeballs, which Sherlock had binned the night before.

Yet again, Sherlock was surprised by the moody little man's ability to become so angry for no reason.

"Why in God's name would you put bio-hazardous waste in the kitchen bin?" asked John, his forehead formed a roadmap of his ire.

This sounded like a mere variation on the argument from earlier, and therefore it was dull. "Dull, John," complained the detective. "Anyway, you told me throw them out."

"But not in the bin…"

"You did not specify," replied Sherlock. "John, you are ridiculously difficult to please. If this is your response, I shall not attempt to clean again."

There was silence in the kitchen. Sherlock tried to relax and return to his contemplation of the ceiling, but the silence was somehow…ominous. He looked up; John Watson was staring into the bin transfixed. Perhaps the doctor was going to sick up. The mess was fairly malodorous. The detective felt his stomach flutter oddly, even though he had done nothing wrong.

"John?" asked the detective.

"John?" the consulting detective sighed. "FINE! If it is that important I will take out the rubbish like some plebian…"

"Never mind, Sherlock. It doesn't matter," said John softly, too softly. This was definitely ominous. "In future, Sherlock. I would appreciate it, if you would not toss my things in the bin." John straightened to attention and pivoted smartly. "You, Mister, need to learn to respect other people's property. It wasn't enough that you went through my bags and sent off all my clothes to God knows where. You tossed my mugs…"

"They were broken," complained Sherlock.

"They were mine!" snapped John. "They were given to me and I…"

"Sentiment," announced Sherlock scathingly.

"Yes, Sherlock, sentiment." The furious soldier's hands were white as they tightly gripped the smelly bin . "Mary…Mary gave me one of those mugs, and my mother gave me the other one. I felt sentiment…yes bloody sentiment for those stupid mugs… just like I feel sentiment for that stupid chair and your stupid silk robe and this stupid jumper. And…and I don't give a bloody damn if you don't like sentiment, because I do!" John stuck his chin out belligerently.

"Sentiments make one weak and vulnerable."

"Sentiments make one human."

"Then take the stupid mugs out of the bin…"

"My stupid mugs are smashed into pieces now and covered with necrotic waste, you…you…you mug smasher!" John delivered the final damning epithet and stomped out of the room and down the stairs with the objectionable bin.

Sherlock dropped back bonelessly. He'd been expecting some insult but not mug smasher. He'd been expecting the usual-freak or machine or insensitive, unfeeling monster but not mug smasher. He couldn't really gauge the depth of the insult since it was so unfamiliar. However, in John's tiny little brain, mug smasher was probably on a par with freak or, perhaps, even worse.

As usual, Sherlock was fucking up a relationship. Would the new robes help? He wished that he had John's Browning back to give as a peace-offering. Ah, the phone, the new phone would help. Certainly it would help.

His mental distress was increasing as Sherlock resumed his thinking pose. Maybe John would never return? Maybe John would prefer to live with the psychopathic criminal mastermind instead of a mug smasher? Minutes later he heard John returning.

"And I don't give this," John snapped his fingers in Sherlock's startled face, "for your so-called 'I don't do emotions' and 'sentiments make me weak' crap. You may try to hide your sentiments all you like, but I've seen them and I lov…I like them. Just like I like you, and…that's sentiment too, so there. I can get new mugs but not a new flatmate so…Yeah." John had blushed a brilliant carmine and then retreated to safety of the clean kitchen.

"John, in fact, I don't do emotions and…"

"Shut up, Sherlock," called John from the kitchen. "Have ya ever thought that maybe you're just out of practice with emotions?"

"John, I don't think..."

"Wrong again, I think you think too much. And I think you just got into the habit of hiding your emotions and pretending they don't matter. And you know what? I don't bloody care if you hide your bloody sentiments. Go right ahead. I know what I know. And I know what you don't know. And I know what I like and…and yeah…" The tap was running, and John's muttering slowly tapered off. The switch on the electric kettle was flipped, and John Watson was making yet more tea.

Sherlock was bemused by his flatmate's assertions, but rather than feeling insulted, he was cautiously pleased. To begin with, John was not leaving.

And if, John attached undue sentiments towards those mugs, well then Sherlock would replace them, almost immediately. And John had claimed that he was sentimental about Sherlock's silk robe and jumper? That implied that John was sentimental about the owner, didn't it? John liked Sherlock's hidden sentiments, (surely John hadn't been about to say that he loved them?) So that too implied that John liked Sherlock, didn't it? Apparently it did.

Well then. Well. Sherlock retreated to his mind palace to add these new findings to his John Watson collection. 'John liked Sherlock' was placed on a banner and received pride of place at the entrance to the John Watson wing. Maybe there was some room for sentiment after all.

A/N Sorry for the long A/N at the beginning of the chapter. Still, the warning is needed. We must put an end to fanfic induced nasal douches. LOL.

Seriously, thank you for reading, following or choosing this fic as one of your favorites.

Thank you for all of your wonderful reviews, 107602, anyrei1, Erenem, Quiet Time, DrGregor, EJ 12212012 and SamuelE8688. Your support and advice are priceless.

Disclaimer I do not own the rights to Sherlock, and I hereby decline any liability for people who suffer ill effects when they read fanfics while enjoying the beverage of their choice, while operating heavy machinery or climbing ladders (green or otherwise).