"WHAT have you done this time—?!"
Sherlock glances up from examining the interior workings of a borrowed, iron-crafted revolver, tilting his head backwards on the sofa's armrest.
"The dishes," he replies blandly and purposely slow to John's horrified look from the den. "You said they were getting filthier and filthier by the minute being left out, so I decided—"
"To clean them with my pet?!" John shouts, gesturing angrily with a large, green ball.
Sherlock frowns thoughtfully.
"John, I do believe that's a sponge…"
"It's a marimo ball from Japan, and it's a living organism, Sherlock!" John shouts again, the enlarged, purple vein on his forehead throbbing.
"Yes, of course," Sherlock says, humming and flipping open pistol's cylinder as he lodges a slender bullet between his teeth. "A moss sponge that you can pretend to take care of. Boring."
This earns him a face full of wet, spongy ball.
Sherlock isn't mine. We need more hilarity in our lives right now. We really do. Thanks for reading and any comments/thoughts appreciated! Thank you thank you!