A Fish Called Greg

Chapter 3

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This chapter is so short!! Don't be to disappointed, I just figured it'd be a cute little chapter, plus I can't resist the Johnlock feels ;D but in the same token not to much Johnlock, because after all this is a Mystrade Fanfiction for the most part! ;)<3 Hope you guys enjoy my horrid fluff XD Alright enjoy loves <3

The next morning John awoke to Sherlock, his arm's wound tightly around his waist. Still rather fumed over their little spat last night, John untangled himself from Sherlock's arms, rolling his body too the far edge of the bed, avoiding any further contact with him. He wasn't quite ready to act maturely on the situation yet. He was still rather hurt and annoyed at Sherlock's incapability to actually speak nicely and rationally to him, instead of just flying completely of the handle, and impatiently scolding him, insulting his mind, because he didn't understand. Sherlock's eyes flicked open in discomfort, his nose twitching, as he groaned coming to. "John?" he called out feeling across the bed for him, his hand grabbing John's lower back.

He arched in discomfort as he pulled himself away, "Piss off Sherlock!" he hissed annoyed, as he gather himself up from the bed.

He threw on his trousers, concealing his bright red pants, followed by his shirt, and stormed his way out of the room. Sherlock rolled over a small yawn escaping past his bow parted lips, "John, tea!" He mumbled as he tried to accumulate the strength to lean up.

"Make your own bloody tea!" John shouted back, the front door slamming shut, sending vibrations through the entire flat.

Sherlock pressed his lips together running his hands through his soft dark curls, he could tell John was in another one of his moods, unnecessarily dramatic as always. He let out a small laugh, funny how John always criticized Sherlock for being a drama queen, when in reality he as just as much dramatic as him. He let out a bored sigh, and threw his feet over the bed rubbing his eye, no time for laying about. He had a busy day, convincing Lestrade too join in his efforts to find Mycroft companionship, and now figuring out a way too calm John's quills down, and settle the uneasy tension between the two of them. He rolled his eyes, relationships were difficult, why on earth did he ever agree to put himself through this. He stood to his feet, grabbing his raggedy blue dressing down, wrapping it tightly around himself as he stumbled barefoot into the kitchen yawning, he was most definitely regretting pissing John off. Now who would make him his morning tea? "Oh well," he sighed to himself, "John doesn't think I can function on my own. I am more than capable of making tea on my own. I'm Sherlock Holmes, it doesn't take my intellect too put water into a kettle and boil it until it howls.

The kettle ragged, it's blaring whistle shooting right through Sherlock's mind. He cringed, throwing his hands aggravatedly over his ears, "SHUT UP!" He growled at the inanimate object on the stove, forcibly doing it's job.

He grunted, rushing to the stove, frustratedly trying to turn it the hell off! He managed to turn the water off, burning the corner of his hand in the processes. He took in a sharp breath of air, cursing under his breath, "God damn, fucking cock!" he grumbled tucking his hand to his chest.

He was growing rather restless of playing games with this silver little devil. Lestrade would be on his way over to the flat soon and Sherlock was still dressed only in his loose and baggy, pajama trousers, and the blue dressing gown. He glared angrily at the pot on the stove, screw it, tea wasn't that important to him, he'd be able to function properly without!

He rushed to his room, swiftly changing into his usual attire, before popping back out into the kitchen. His lips pressed together, on the other hand, tea would be rather nice. What if Lestrade wanted tea? He'd have nothing to offer him, and perhaps it would better help him persuade him to work under him if he had provided his guest with a beverage. His lips wavered as he tried to figure this out, why was it so difficult! It was just bloody tea! He had seen John do it a number of times before! He wrapped his hand around the steaming metal handle of the pot, quickly redrawing his hand back to his chest, "God damnit! Christ sake, why the bloody hell is this such a process! YOU DON'T GIVE JOHN THIS KIND OF TROUBLE!" he yelled at the kettle, taunting him.

"Should I perhaps come back at another time when you aren't having a row with cookware?" Greg asked clearing his throat from the doorway.

Sherlock glared in his direction, his hand still tucked too his chest, "No it's fine. Come in....I was just, making tea....."

"Didn't sound like making tea." Greg laughed stumbling his way into the flat.

"Oh shut up Lestrade," Sherlock grouched, his face slipping into a deep pout.

"I'm here to help you Sherlock! Remember that!" Lestrade threatened his brows perking up as he scowled at Sherlock.

He rolled his eyes, this was going to certainly be a challenge for him.