The Girl Named Sherlock Holmes

Chapter One: Bored

    John ran up the stairs and flung the door to the flat open. “Sherlock!” he yelled, stopping right inside the door. “Not again,” he groaned. “Mrs. Hudson is going to evict us.”

    Sherlock hung upside down off the sofa, his eyes closed. “I don't care.” He raised his gun and fired at the wall just above John's head.

    John ducked. “Sherlock!”

    Sherlock pulled the trigger again, but the gun just clicked; all of the bullets emptied into the wall. He gave a huff of exasperation and threw the gun across the room without opening his eyes. It collided with a vase on the mantle, knocking it off.

    John dove for it, just barely catching it. He set it back on the mantle gingerly, then turned to Sherlock who now had his feet propped up on the wall.

    “Sherlock, seriously...” John sighed.

    “Seriously Sherlock what,” Sherlock mumbled.

    John shook his head. “Nothing to do?” He took the gun off the mantle and dropped it into Sherlock's chair. He sat down in his own and picked up his laptop, opening it.

    “Obviously,” Sherlock scoffed. “I'm in the midst of a huge, wonderful murder case. I'm hot on the trail of the criminals, but I decided to take a break in the middle of it and lounge about the flat in my dressing gown and shoot the wall.”

    John rolled his eyes. “That was more or less a rhetorical question.”

    “Then why did you ask it?”

    “Because... oh, never mind.” John shook his head again and pulled up his blog, planning on ignoring his moping friend.

    “Boredboredboredboredboredbored,” Sherlock grumbled.

    John looked up at him. “Then find something to do.”

    “Like what?” Sherlock suddenly flipped over and stood on the sofa. “There is nothing to do. Nothing. No crimes committed, no cases, no nothing.”

    “No nothing is a double negative, Sherlock. You must really be bored, you're making grammatical mistakes now.” John tried his best to hide his grin as Sherlock huffed and grumbled something unintelligible.

    A ring at the door of the flat echoed through the room. John looked up, relieved and hoping for Sherlock's sake- and everyone's- that it was a client. Sherlock flopped over onto his stomach and let his face fall into a pillow.

    “Tell Mycroft I'm busy.” His voice came out a bit muffled from the pillow.

    John set aside his laptop and walked across the room towards the door. He shook his head. Why on earth did Sherlock think it was Mycroft? He went down the stairs, and opened the door... and found Mycroft standing there, leaning against his umbrella.

    “Mycroft,” John said, unable to hide his surprise- both at Sherlock's deduction, and Mycroft coming to the flat- a rare occurrence.

    Mycroft nodded. “John.”

    John decided to completely ignore Sherlock's instruction to tell his brother he was busy. “Won't you come in?”

    Mycroft nodded and followed John up the stairs.

    John walked into the room, finding Sherlock in the same position as when he'd left.

    “I told you to tell him I'm busy,” Sherlock mumbled.