Strange Coincidences: Johnlock AU

Chapter Eight

Two months in and John was hauling two bloody heavy wooden piano benches up the stairs. He panted and set them down on the fourth stair to take a short break. Really, he grumbled internally again, I have a crazy flat mate.

There were two things very wrong about that:

One: They did not have a piano.

Two: He had to walk three miles with these damn benches because they wouldn't fit in the tube and a cab wouldn't take him.

He shouted up the stairs to where his flat mate was probably lounging around, smoking cigars or some filthy habit. "Hey! Don't worry, I've got it!" John's voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Glad to hear it," came Sherlock's amused tone.

When he finally made it up, John's entire body ached and he was not in a particularly bright mood.

Sherlock looked every bit the impeccable detective dressed in his purple shirt and black trousers. He was typing calmly on John's laptop.

He glared at Shelock. "Why are you using my laptop?"

Said man on laptop only shrugged. "Mine was in the bedroom."

"It's password protected."

"Only took me two tries. Not exactly Fort Knox is it?"

John sighed and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock. He cleared his throat and when Sherlock didn't look up, he rolled his eyes and plopped the piano benches down with a thud. The collision of wood against wood rang out loudly and reverberated across the flat.

"What was that for?" Sherlock muttered, finally looking up at John with an annoyed expression. He was still typing rapidly, without a single glance at the keyboard or screen. John was about to inquire about that, but then remembered he was angry.

John took a slow breath. Count to three, he let it out. He plastered a polite look on his face. "Sherlock Holmes. You wake me up at five in the morning on a bloody Saturday and tell me to run out and get two piano benches. Then I go and take them both back myself. Walking on foot. So I'm going to try not to throttle you and ask a simple question. What. Exactly. Are. You. Doing. With. Them?"

"Case."

"Are you going to tell me about it?"

A devious smile rose up onto Sherlock's face. "I imagine so."

"No," John's voice rose higher. "You don't get to do the whole, cool mysterious detective with you-your cheekbones and coat collar. You will tell me without all the mysterious crap!"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he looked down at his outfit. "I'm not wearing my coat."

"Not the point," John hissed. "I am your friend. You need to tell me when there is a case instead of leaving me wandering and trotting behind you like a pathetic dog."