Title: Of Doctors and Detectives
Chapter Summary: Sherlock has fun with John and a stopwatch.

"John!" The yell is loud, piercing and most definitely Sherlock.

Of course, John immediately thinks the worst and leaps out of his bed. He scrambles on the floor in search of the bare essentials and then races downstairs. His face is a comical shade of tomato red and his breathing is ragged and heavy.

Living with Sherlock is dangerous. John would even say it's as dangerous as Afghanistan. The Doctor had wanted danger back then and still does now. Of course John still has memories of war, they lurk in the back of his mind during the day and haunt his dreams each night. The deluge of blood, the deafening roar of guns and the screams of pain; the screams of death.

John had learnt a long time ago that although being with Sherlock is dangerous, it's a very different danger to that of Afghanistan. It's thrilling, the rush of adrenaline which courses through his veins as they run through the streets of London in seach of yet another villain...

Sherlock is sprawled across the sofa in the living area, his beloved skull cradled in the crook of his arm - it had took a week to get it back from Mrs. Hudson and he vowed never to let it out of his sight again - and a stop-watch in the palm of his left hand. He stops the timer the moment John speeds into view.

The stocky man glares accusingly at him; Sherlock struggles to hide his amusement.

"What on earth are you doing," John rages, clenching his fists into balls. He feels ridiculous stood infront of the Detective wearing nothing but his underwear and a solitary sock.

"I was timing how long it took for you to rush to my aid" Sherlock replies innocently. He acts as though it's the most obvious thing he could be doing in the morning. It probably is in his mind, John thinks to himself.

John crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child and walks towards the kettle. He flicks the switch and begins organising mugs and teaspoons while he waits for the water to boil. "How did I do, anyway?" He asks, curious despite himself.

"I was expecting better," Sherlock shrugs. "18.93 seconds - if I were in any real danger I'd probably have been dead by the time you got downstairs. You didn't even bring your gun!"

"You stole my gun when you were bored yesterday!" John retorts.

Sherlock pouts. "I could've died!"

"I send my deepest apologies to the family and friends of metaphorical Sherlock," John snorts with amusement.

Sherlock laughs with him, "I'll pass that message on later - right now we've got somewhere to be!"

"Well then," John exclaims quickly abandoning the half-made tea in favour of a crime scene, "Lets get going!"

"As amusing as it would be for you to head over to a crime scene wearing that, I do believe you'd be more comfortable wearing something else. People might talk," Sherlock smirks his eyes fixed on John's uncovered chest in a pointed manner.

"They already do," John chortles heading for the stairs.