A study in friendship-Johnlock

The morning after (a crime)

John woke up the next morning to the sound of a violin. He lay in bed, listening to the music, and was pleasantly surprised at how good Sherlock actually was. Well, he assumed it must be Sherlock. It wasn't a tune he'd heard before-but it was beautiful, and calm, and soothing, and before he knew it, he was asleep again.
****
When he woke up again, the music had stopped. He got out of bed, pulled on his slippers and dressing gown, and wandered out of his room and down the stairs to the main apartment. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
He went to the kitchen, and made himself a coffee and some toast, before settling down in the armchair he sat in last night. Last night! That was insane. He'd gone to the crime scene, then been kidnapped and offered money to spy on Sherlock, (which, oddly, he'd turned down. He wasn't really sure why.) Then Sherlock made him text a murderer, they ran through London, and turned up in the middle of a drugs bust back home. Sherlock disappeared, he traced the phone signals back to an old school, and saw Sherlock about to take poison. He couldn't let that happen. And then... Then he'd shot that man. That cabby. Admittedly, he wasn't a very nice cabby, but all the same. Sherlock had told him the police probably would let him off, but he wasn't prepared to risk that, so now he was the 'mystery gunman' according to the Times. And his limp. Cured, just like that. It HAD been psychosomatic. He shook himself mentally, and stared around the room. There was clutter everywhere, but it was friendly, homely clutter. Actually, very little of it was his. The keeper of his rooms back at his old place had brought round two boxes filled with his few possessions, most of which were in his room.
Suddenly, the door banged open. Sherlock staggered in, carrying a box, kicked the door shut behind him, and dropped it in the floor. Inside the box were... 'Feet?!'
'Feet. It's an experiment.'
'Oh.' John wasn't really sure what to say about that.
'Lunch?' Sherlock carried the box into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and jammed it in.
'Mm. Sounds good. Just let me go get dressed.'
Sherlock looked up, surprised.
'You are dressed!'
'No, I'm not. Dressing gown. Slippers. Pyjamas, Sherlock. I'm not eating lunch like this.'
Sherlock shrugged, as John left the room. Normally he didn't like talking to people, but this man... John was different. Tolerable, at least. Pleasant company, almost. He took off his scarf and coat, which he threw over his chair. He then crossed the kitchen, and picked up a loaf of bread. He smelled it, and grimaced. Off.
He opened the fridge, and counted 3 pickles, a broccoli, and a box full of feet. Not exactly lunch material.
He shit the fridge door as John re entered the room.
'No food. We could order something?'
'Sure' John agreed, looking a little surprised. Sherlock didn't seem the kind of person who dealt with foody things. Or any housework, to be perfectly honest.
Sherlock picked up the phone. 'I know a good pizza place?'
John shrugged 'I don't mind.'
Sherlock smiled, and dialled the number.
****
*Rap rap rap*
'Oh, that'll be the food.'
'I'll get it.'
'Cheers.' John sank back into his arm chair, across from Sherlock's. There was a small television in the corner, which was playing some sci-fi thing, and it was all very comfy. He stood up as Sherlock entered the room, with two steaming boxes, and pulled a table between their chairs. Sherlock dropped a box on the table, and sat down with another. He pulled it open, and smiled. 'Pizza. Weird, isn't it, that some food we eat with tools, other food we eat with different tools, and some food is eaten with the hands. Bizarre.'
John thought about it. It was true, he supposed. 'Human nature. Once we do something once, it becomes habit, then a cultural norm. Ever wondered where the tradition of shaking hands comes from?'
'Yes, actually. Where?'
'Haven't the foggiest.'
'Oh.' Sherlock looked disappointed, and pulled at his pizza.
After a few minutes of slightly awkward silence, John looked up. 'You okay?'
'Hmghph?' Sherlock looked up, startled.
'Sorry, you just looked... Tired.'
'Oh. Yes, yes I suppose.'
John shut the empty box, and set it on the table.
'Heard you playing the violin earlier. What time was that?'
'Oh, could have been any time between... Midnight, and 6:30?'
John looked stunned.
'Why'd you play so long?'
'Thinking.' Said Sherlock, also rising to his feet.
John could see the lack of sleep in the younger man's drawn, pale face, and the big, dark circles under his eyes.
'Do you have trouble sleeping?'
'What? Oh no, no I'm fine. Just-' he yawned. 'Thinking. Like I said.'
'What piece was that? It was... Good.'
'Oh, one of my compositions. Did you really think so?'
'Yeah, yeah it was brilliant.' John sat back down, feeling slightly awkward.
Sherlock dropped back into his chair, across from John. 'Any plans for today?'
'Me?'
'No, the skull.'
'Oh.'
'Of course you! The skull doesn't usually reply.'
John looked embarrassed. 'Not really.'
'Neither.'
'Good.'
'I'm sorry? What's good?
John looked startled, and embarrassed. 'I just said good. Good food. The food. Was good. Mm mm.'
Sherlock look momentarily confused, before standing up, crossing the room, and pulling out a box. 'Cluedo?'
****
'Sherlock, it is impossible for the victim to be the suspect! Not. A. Suicide!'
'But John. There's no other explanation. Think about this rationally. They were all in different rooms, with different weapons. He had the revolver, in the library. There's no way anyone else could have done it! Anyway, look at them all! What's the motive?'
'Sherlock. You're thinking too much, this isn't a crime, it's a game! A game! For fun!'
'Well, we're having fun, aren't we?'
'NO, WE'RE NOT!' John shouted. He got to his feet and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
When he got to his room upstairs, he immediately felt childish. He'd just gone off in a hissy fit, over a board game. Was he 10? He sighed, and sank into his bed, his head in his hands. It was difficult. He wanted Sherlock to be his friend-but he was infuriating at times, he had found that out after only 48 hours. He rose to his feet, and slowly went back down the stairs. When he opened the door, Sherlock was sitting in the chair, exactly where he had left him, not moving.
'Sorry.' He muttered.
'Wait, what?' John was thrown off balance. He wasn't expecting this surprisingly human show of emotion from his friend. He had said yesterday: high functioning sociopath. 'I came to apologise.'
'Yes, I know. I said sorry.'
'Oh.' John stood there awkwardly. He though now would be a good time for some kind of forgiving hug, but Sherlock was sat down, so he patted his shoulder. 'I shouldn't have blown up like that. It was childish.'
'I shouldn't have gotten so wound up. It was supposed to be fun.' Sherlock looked stony.
'It was. Seriously, mate, it's fine.'
Sherlock was taken aback. Mate? Him? John's mate? He smiled.
John sat back down. 'How about chess, next time, eh?'
Sherlock shrugged.
Suddenly, the door flew open.
'You boys okay? I heard shouting, thought you were fighting!' Mrs Hudson looked worried.
'Oh, no. It was nothing.'
'Lover's tiff, eh?' Mrs Hudson smiled knowingly as she turned and left the room.
'Mrs Hudson! I'm not gay!' John shouted down the stairs after her.
'It's quite alright, dear!' She yelled back.
He sighed in annoyance. 'Does she do that to you, too?'
'I'm sorry?'
'Does she say you're gay, too? Have you ever actually had a girlfriend round. Or boyfriend?'
'Not really my division.'
'Oh. So you're asexual?'
'How should I know? Boring stuff, for boring people.'
John pondered this for a while. 'Right.'

****
Hey guys! (If anyone's actually reading this. Please read it! Please!)
So yeah, I have one reader, on the first chapter. That's it. :(