His Great Game (Sherlock x Reader)

Chapter 8: Guns and Explosions

(Your POV)

The two of us rushed into 221B and up the stairs, covering our ears as more gunshots rang out. I didn't hear any sounds of people struggling or crying out. What the hell is he doing up there? John threw open the door, and the two of us froze on the landing.

"What the hell are you doing?!?" John yelled, removing his hands from his ears. I simply stood there amused, taking in the sight of Sherlock in his sleepwear and a blue robe. I think the British term is dressing gown or something. He held a pistol in his hands, and kept it steadily pointed at the wall above the sofa.

Sherlock scowled. "Bored." He said sulkily.

I laughed, ignoring Sherlock's momentary icy glare. Sherlock was certainly a loose cannon. Was this a normal thing? John squinted at Sherlock "What?" He asked quietly, clearly in disbelief.

"BORED." Sherlock switched the pistol to his right hand and raised it up to fire more shots.

"No-" John's voice was cut off by more shots.

"Bored!" Another shot. "Bored!" Another shot. John and I rushed in, and Sherlock stopped, glaring at the wall. He continued glaring as John ripped the gun out of his hand and tossed it to me. Out of instinct, I quickly took the magazine out of the gun and shoved both of them into the safe on the dining table.

I turned back around to face the men again, amused. "What did the wall ever do to you?" Instead of a response, all I got was the same glare as the wall. I sighed- Sherlock will never change. He changed the subject, ignoring my question.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes." He said sulkily. "Good job I'm not one of them."

"So you take it out on the wall?" John crossed his arms, clearly unamused with Sherlock's behavior.

Sherlock ran his hands over the yellow smiley face that had been spray painted onto the wall. Bullet holes riddled the wall. "Ah, the wall had it coming." He gave a dramatic flop onto the sofa. I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. John took off his coat and hung it up.

"Drama queen." I muttered. No response.

"What about that Russian case?" John inquired, referring to the case Sherlock had this morning.

Sherlock shifted position on the couch. "Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time." 

"Ah, shame!" John's voice was riddled with sarcasm as he turned to walk into the kitchen. He stopped next to me and threw up his hands in despair at the mess on the table. I chuckled at his reaction and he threw me an amused smile before heading for the fridge. "Anything in? I'm starving."

"You just ate!" I laughed, turning to face the kitchen instead of the living room. I'd rather talk to John than deal with Sherlock right now, anyways.

"Ah, well, I'm always hungry." He replied, with an added flair to his voice. I shook my head in amusement and turned back around to see Sherlock sitting up on the sofa, glaring at me. Again. He didn't seem too happy with the conversation that had just taken place. I raised my hands and shrugged, questioningly. "What?" I mouthed. He just continued to glare. He deserves an award for most time spent glaring at people. Someone alert Guinness World Records and tell them we have a new one. I silently chuckled at my own joke, a small smile tugging at the edge of my lips.

I heard the fridge open. "Oh, f-" The fridge closed. I whipped around to face John again, curious as to what had happened. He was standing, disgusted, his back against the fridge. "It's a head." He said quietly. He continued at a yell. "A severed head!" I raised my eyebrows in amusement and concern. I don't know what I had been expecting, but a head was certainly not on the list of normal things to keep in a fridge.