John sighs, clenching his hands and teeth. Sherlock's tantrums has taken such a dramatic. downwards spiral that the doctor wants to throw his flatmate out of the window, genius detective or not. He should be flattered that the consulting detective had become so attached to him that Sherlock freaks out at the idea of John leaving. But it is hard to be flattered when he's trying not to be late for his plane when a certain flatmate has decided to be difficult.

"Sherlock, give me my bloody gun! I need it!" John orders, standing in the middle of the living room. His rucksack sits at his booted feet and John wears his camouflaged uniform with pride. A few months of grueling training had seen him fit to return to active service. Thanks to scrambling after Sherlock on his cases, John had found the boot camp only exhausting, not impossible.

Much to John's growing annoyance, Sherlock remains still on the couch. His pale, thin fingers are steepled under his angular chin. The afternoon light bounces off the now reasonably clean coffee table and reflects light onto Sherlock's deep purple dress shirt. The purple hue plays off the lines of Sherlock's neck and face. It gives him the illusion of serenity and innocence-John would protest to such an idea.

"Sherlock. My gun. Now." John Watson forces out between his teeth. It would do nothing productive to blow up before the annoying consulting detective. But it might be satisfying and soothing to the doctor's ever souring mood. Sherlock does not stir. The only movement from the big arse is from the gentle rising and falling of his chest. John considers tearing apart the flat, but decides that Mrs. Hudson would be furious-as furious as their wonderful and gentle landlady could be.

John and Mrs. Hudson had managed to keep the consulting detective out of the flat for a few days, thanks to Lestrade and a very confusing case in Scotland. It had taken a few days for Sherlock to solve it. Both of them had taken the opportunity to purge, scrub, and then organize the horrible mess Sherlock forces his flatmate to live in. It makes the soldier part of John twitch.

"Sherlock, I can't leave without it!" John cries, exasperated. He throws his hands up before poking around the furniture. It couldn't be too hard to find-right? The doctor never knows with Sherlock. The man hides things like he's a child. Because grown men don't do petty things like playing hide-and-go-seek with their friend's possessions. Not when John is sick of playing.

Sherlock studies him with half closed eyes. The lazy way he takes in John's ever frustrating moods without reacting reminds the doctor of a cat. A really, really annoying cat. John entertains the idea of flipping Sherlock off the couch.

"I'm about to hit the ceiling, Sherlock!" John shouts at him, not caring whether or not he'd bother Mrs. Hudson with his yelling. Sometimes just using volume could work with Sherlock. On the days that the clouds form just right. This does not seem to be that time.

"Mmm…" Sherlock replies, closing his eyes again. The situation clearly bores him. "Do you need me to get a stepladder so you can reach it?" He quips in perfect monotone.

John can't help it anymore. He yanks his flatmate off the couch by his foot. Sherlock lets out a very undignified yelp at John's rude behavior. The doctor-now soldier, too- glares down at him with as much fury he he could muster. Which would be quite a bit, considering the recent events.

John spots his weapon on the couch just as Sherlock lunges for it. The consulting detective snags it before John could with his shorter appendages. Sherlock tries to keep the gun from John even as the doctor all but tackles him for it. Mrs. Hudson finds her two tenets fighting like children in the living room.

"Boys!" She scolds with mild severity, separating the two of them. "Sherlock, this is no way to act! Give John his gun back, please." Mrs. Hudson turns her admonishing gaze to the doctor now. "John, you know better than to act like this!"

Sherlock hands over the gun, looking smug while John has the decency to look embarrassed. The arrival of Mycroft Holmes in 221B Baker Street cuts of any arguing between the two. Now Sherlock glares at his older brother.

"Are you above knocking, brother dear?" Sherlock snaps, his feline like eyes snapping with detestment. Mycroft nods to Mrs. Hudson before turning to John.

"I've a limo waiting for you, John." Mycroft addresses him, ignoring Sherlock with typical poise. His ever present umbrella rests in his hand. John-not for the first time-wonders why on earth Mycroft hasn't been ever seen without it. Sherlock claims it's for personal defence, but has never elaborated. That would have to wait for another time. Besides, what could an umbrella possibly do?

"Mycroft, thanks for the offer, but I really don't need a limo to get to the airport. A cab's fine." John stampers, not used to all the attention he receives. Sherlock is pouting about him, Mrs. Hudson is fussing over his uniform, and Mycroft Holmes has ordered him a limo. The doctor and now soldier finds all the attention unnerving after being known as Sherlock's 'sidekick.' Despite what some people like to think, John enjoys most of the time when Sherlock shines over him. except when Sherlock himself ignores his flatmate.

The eldest Holmes smiles at him, that small smile that means well but one that never reaches his calculating eyes. With someone so high up in the government, such detached habits could be impossible to break. John searches for the sincerity in his eyes and finds some. As much as Mycroft has managed to convince others, the doctor knows this Holmes is human, just like Sherlock.

"I am sure you could have no problem getting a cab, Dr. Watson. But I think all your friends want to be with you, yes?" Mycroft gestures to the door with the tip of his black umbrella. John raises an eyebrow, but decides not to question him. He's gotten enough evasive questions from the two Holmeses for a lifetime. John sighs, and then swings his ruck sack over his shoulder. The heavy, yet very familiar weight settles onto his back with ease, even after a few years back in England.

Sherlock, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson all follow Dr. Watson down to the waiting limo, ignoring all of his protests. When John opens the sleek door, he stops and stares everyone within. Molly smiles at John while Lestrade nods in acknowledgement. Both of them lounge quite comfortably in the leather seats.

"What is all of this?" John asks, turning back to look at Mycroft. The elder Holmes just gives him another one of those smiles before motioning for John to get into the car. The doctor sits next to Lestrade as Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft all get in after him. All the occupants make sure to keep Sherlock and Mycroft as far away as possible from each other. John wanted at least to get the airport in one piece-with the car, thank you.

"You didn't have to do this," John addresses the group, looking just a bit too embarrassed for a soldier. In spite of all six of them sitting in one car, each person has more than enough leather seat to relax on. Molly sits towards the back with Sherlock on her right, the former looking delighted the blush that colors her cheeks while the latter sulks in his deep blue coat. Mrs. Hudson fusses-when does she not?- over John on his left. Lestrade sits on his right with Mycroft in front of him.

"Of course we did!" Mrs. Hudson cries, smoothing out an undetectable wrinkle on John's sleeve. "We can't let you get shipped off to god knows where without saying goodbye!"

"You're our friend, John." Molly chips in, smiling at him. John reminds himself to spend more time with her when-not if, because he WILL be back- he comes home again. She adores Sherlock and is a very faithful friend to both of them. Besides, Sherlock needs more practice socializing with other people besides his flatmate. People who care about him, at least. Talking to Anderson did count as socializing, but neither of them were civil during it.

"Er.. thanks." John manages to say, a blush coloring his cheeks. Not that anyone would notice besides Sherlock. He is a soldier, after all. Soldiers don't blush. Well… John doesn't think they do. They all sit in comfortable silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

When the limo purrs into the airport's entrance, Sherlock glares at the building like it has done him personal offence. His pale eyes snap and narrow further when John steps out onto the pavement, swinging the ruck sack over his shoulder. His blogger offers a small smile in the consulting detective's direction and holds the door open for him. Sherlock abandons the idea of sulking in the back seat. Besides, this is Mycroft's car.

"Sherlock, do get out of the car." The eldest Holmes gives him a condescending glance. His voice never strays from the cool and collected exterior Mycroft has created for himself. The younger Holmes groans and gets out of the car, much like a young child. The dramatic twirl of his coat adds to the sulking detective's disgust.

Much to Sherlock's ever souring mood, the party all follows John into the airport. Closer to John's future, but further and further away from the hospitable Mrs. Hudson and the arrogant Sherlock Holmes in 221B Baker Street.


I do apologize for the long wait, readers! I had to get acclimated to high school and all that jazz. My first term is over and I have gotten the swing of things. I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! 3