221B

Chapter 1 - The Great Game

Two gunshots ring out, I jump and instinctively grab my gun from the drawer of my nightstand.

Two gunshots rings out a moment later.

"Sherlock?" I call, quickly and quietly walking down the hall to the living room.

"Bored." I hear Sherlock say quietly in the living room.

I heave a sigh and stash my gun away. "Not again." I mutter before walking into the living room.

Sherlock, wearing sleepwear and a blue robe, is sprawled low in his chair with his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He points the pistol towards the smiley face and without looking in that direction, fires two shots. He turns his head to look at the face, fires another shot at it, then another a second later.

"For Christ's sake!" I yell over the gunshot. "Again? Really?"

"Bored." Sherlock replies.

"Yeah, I can tell." I nod.

"What the hell are you doing?" John yells, I turn and see him just a few feet behind me.

"Bored." Sherlock replies sulkily.

"What?" John asks a little more quietly, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

"Bored!" Sherlock says loudly.

He springs up out of the chair and John and I immediately step backwards. John covers his ears with his hands.

"No..." John says.

Sherlock switches the pistol to his right hand and turns towards the smiley face. He fires again, then swings an arm around his back, and fires another time.

"Bored! Bored!" Sherlock says angrily.

He brings his arm back around I walk towards him quickly.

"Here, give me that bloody thing." I say, taking the pistol from Sherlock's hand. Even though he continues to glare at the smiley face on the wall he lets me take the pistol from him and slide the clip out of the gun. Sherlock walks towards the sofa.

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

"So you take it out on the wall." John says.

"Ah, the wall had it coming." Sherlock says, running his fingers along the painted smile.

He turns sideways and dramatically flops down onto the sofa on his back, his head landing on a cushion at one end and his bare feet digging into the arm of the sofa at the end closest to the windows.

"What about that Russian case?" John asks, taking his coat off.

Sherlock pushes with his feet to shove himself further along the sofa and into a slightly more upright position.

"Belarus." He answers. "Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time."

"Ah, shame." John says sarcastically before walking into the kitchen. "Anything in?" He asks. "I'm starving." He heads towards the fridge.

"Oh, John, there's a-" I start.

"Oh, f...!" He slams the fridge door shut as soon as he opens it. He appears to be unable to believe what he just saw inside, and he slumps against the fridge door for a moment, his head lowered.

"Yeah." I say, grimacing. "There's something in there that no one would ever really want to see-especially in the fridge."

He looks up. "It's a head." He straightens up and opens the fridge door again, staring in for a couple seconds before closing the door again. "A severed head!" He calls.