No Sh*t, Sherlock

bored

"BORED!"

John nodded once. "Alright then, start with the living room. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

Sherlock looked at the army doctor, eyebrows furrowed, mouth parted, steel blue-grey eyes confused. "Sorry, what?" John could have laughed.

"Clean the flat. Isn't that what I just said?"

~

Big misunderstanding, no-nonsense John, bored Sherlock, and based on true stories from my childhood.

(cross-posted on Ao3 under Kadi_WatsonHolmes)

~

When John Watson entered his flat on this particular day that he didn't particularly remember, he was greeted by the sound of gunshots. Now, with his and his flatmates line of work, his first thought was a case gone wrong. Running up the seventeen steps to flat B, John threw open the door, completely expecting his friend to be in some sort of perilous situation. What he didn't expect was Sherlock Holmes lounging in his armchair, John's army pistol clasped tightly in his left hand.

Another blast sounded and John breathed a sigh of relief followed by a hot wave of anger. "What the bloody HELL is going on here?"

"Bored."

"What?"

Sherlock jumped off his chair and attacked the wall with another round of bullets.

"Bored!"

"BORED!"

John took a deep breath, struggling to rein in his anger. It took a lot out of him to deal with a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopathic Consulting Detective.

"Alright then," John started, leaning against the doorframe. "Give me the gun and start on the living room. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

Sherlock looked up at the ex-army doctor, eyebrows furrowed, cupid-bow lips slightly parted, steel blue-grey eyes confused. "I'm sorry, what?" John almost laughed at the detective's unusual facial expression.

"Clean the living room. Isn't that what I just said?"

"No, you said," Sherlock cleared his throat, speaking slowly and carefully, "'give me the gun and start on the living room'."

"Yes. Now get to it." John motioned to the messy floor.

"...why?"

John smirked. "When I was a child, mum would always put us to work if we ever told her we were bored. Learned pretty quickly to find things that would entertain us during rainy days and well, in this house, I will not tolerate your whining. Now, clean. I will be in the kitchen making dinner."

~

Sherlock stood, silent and unmoving. He was still trying to process a) this new information about John and b) the orders he had been given. He heard the tale-tell sounds of John rummaging about in the kitchen, a loud sigh as John took in the experiments and such on the table.

Sherlock loathed cleaning, but a part of him desperately wanted to make John happy. Was this sentiment?

So wrapped up in his thoughts -a rare occasion for the detective- Sherlock never thought to warn his flatmate of his newest experiment: "A head. A severed head!"

"...if you're making tea... I'd take a cuppa."

"A head in the friend!" John sounded angry. Not good.

"Yes..."

"A bloody head!"

"Where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock threw his arms out to the side, an indignant look on his face. John stormed into the living room, stopped near his armchair, looked at Sherlock standing near the door, and ran a hand down his face. "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." Sherlock explained, letting out a low breath to calm himself.