Disclaimer: I own nothing

A/N: Okay, writing Sherlock is WAY too much fun. I'm loving this fandom. : D


John sighed, but didn't look up from his computer. Sherlock had the uncanny ability to say a single word (whether that word be "tea" or "food" or "phone") and give it the intent of a demand. Usually these demands were directed at John, since he was more often than not the closest person around. John had long since gotten used to them, and gotten used to ignoring them.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said it again, "Bored."

And normally John would have only rolled his eyes and continued ignoring him, but then he remembered that the last time Sherlock had said the word bored in that tone of voice he'd started shooting holes in the wall. Noting that his gun was safely on his desk, John made the effort to look away from his computer screen and focus on Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what?" he said, with patience normally reserved for children at the surgery.

"You heard me," Sherlock said irritably. "I'm bored."

And there it was again, BORED in that petulant tone that clearly meant, "Well aren't you going to do anything about it?"

The answer to that being, no, John wasn't, because he was right in the middle of writing up their latest case (which had somehow left John and Sherlock stuck on The London Eye with a murderer) and didn't want to be interrupted.

Besides, he wasn't there to cater to Sherlock's every whim, despite what anyone else (Sherlock especially) thought.

"So read a book, watch some telly," John said. Sherlock was now staring at him, clearly disgruntled, but John was determined to ignore him. He wasn't going to give in. He wasn't.

But, of course, he didn't realize that by protesting Sherlock's demands he was giving his flatmate a new game to play, one that John liked to think of as: Stare At John And Raise Your Eyebrow In That Stupid Way Until He Finally Gives In And Does What You Want.

Oddly enough, Sherlock was exceptionally good at that game.

Breathing slowly through his nose, John closed his laptop and turned his attention towards Sherlock, who was now smiling smugly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, are you bored? How inconsiderate of me, trying to work on something while you're sat there with nothing to do. My apologies."

"Sinking down to the level of sarcasm, are we, John?"

"Right, because you're above all that," John said (sarcastically, because Sherlock was immature and stupid and made him sink down to that level). "It's been two weeks since you had a case. Go on your website, take whatever's there and move on with it."

"I can't," Sherlock complained. "They're all boring. Just cats stuck in trees and lost mobiles. It's all horribly mundane." Sherlock wrinkled his nose as if the last word personally offended him by existing.

"So rescue a damn cat! I'm not your nanny; I don't have to take care of you every time you're without something to do." Except, if John really thought about it, that was basically what he'd been doing for the last few months, but he'd already decided that he wasn't going to dwell on how he'd somehow become a consulting detective sitter in addition to a flatmate.

Sherlock seemed to be thinking along the same lines and he only raised an eyebrow at John (again). And without even speaking, his whole being seemed to radiate that stupid word: BORED. I'm bored, John, aren't you going to entertain me?

And the answer? Yes. Yes he was, because he'd been living with Sherlock for far too long and had gotten far too used to doing this sort of thing. John sighed and stood up.

"I'll see if there's anything at the cinema today."


As it turned out, there was nothing at the cinema that day (nothing good enough for Sherlock anyway, the snob). Nor was there anything on the telly, or any interesting cases, or anything interesting at all apparently. Not to mention that every suggestion of John's was easily shot down. John was beginning to suspect that Sherlock found the very act of making John do what he wanted entertaining, and that they could argue like this all day and Sherlock wouldn't mind at all.

"We could go for a walk," John suggested.

"It's raining."

"So? Don't you have an umbrella?"

"Used to, I dipped it in acid last week."

"Why would you...Never mind. We'll catch a cab to Angelo's, get some pasta."

"I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry!"

"Perhaps I would be if there were anything of interest happening. Ugh, it's all so hideously dull."

John was fairly sure he was about to blow his brains out soon, as Sherlock was being much more childish than usual today. Probably due to the weather, restricting his movements, forcing him inside. Finally, John sighed (long-sufferingly of course) and went upstairs to his room, an idea coming to him. Rolling his eyes as Sherlock shouted after him, he rifled through his few belongings until he came across what he'd been looking for. Ah, that might just work.

As John came downstairs, he didn't miss the way Sherlock's eyes flitted from his gun to the living room wall. John quickly stepped between his flatmate and his firearm, causing Sherlock to glance up at him. Holding up the unopened bored game proudly, John smiled, thinking that perhaps he had finally found something Sherlock would like.

"Cluedo?" Sherlock asked disdainfully.

"Christmas present-"

"From Harry."

John was so used to the man's ability to finish other's sentences that he didn't even pause. "Yeah, after she heard I moved in with you. Said I should try and beat you at it. She used to be champ at it, when we were kids."

"So because there are no intriguing cases in real life, you think a fake one from a board game will be better?" Sherlock asked.

And because the way Sherlock said board sounded suspiciously like the way he said BORED, John walked away and set the game forcefully on the kitchen table. Clearing away some of Sherlock's rubbish from his experiments, John began unpacking the game.

Sherlock watched him do it from the comfort of his chair, and soon John looked up and raised his own eyebrow at him, no room for argument in his expression.

"Come on. We're playing."


John obviously knew he wasn't going to win the first game. He wasn't a fool; he was well aware that he was playing a mystery game with the world's only consulting detective.

But God dammit, Sherlock didn't even take his first turn before glancing at John and saying, "Can I guess yet?"

John had scoffed, because really, no one (not even Sherlock Holmes) could get it on the first try.

And because Sherlock routinely defied his parameters on what people could and couldn't do, he got them right. He got all three guesses bloody right.

"That was fun," Sherlock said halfheartedly, leaning his cheek against his hand. Absently, he toyed with the small plastic wrench, probably thinking about what could be done with its real life counterpart of proper dimensions.

John scowled at his Professor Plum piece, as if it had somehow lost him the game, and began resetting the board.



You know what. John was a reasonable man. He was patient. He was good with people. And he was very good at handling stress (craved it, some would say, but that depended on how you defined stress).

But damn it all to hell, Sherlock winning three times in a row on the first turn was bloody ridiculous.

"How are you doing that?" he asked in frustration as Sherlock waved the three winning cards in front of John.

"You have tells, John," Sherlock said, having the gall to look both bored and amused by all this.

"What? This is Cluedo, there are no tells! You know what," John said as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. "Forget it. Let's play again," John said, reshuffling the cards (for a long time, so Sherlock couldn't do that thing where he followed them with his eyes).

"This can't end well, John," Sherlock warned.

John didn't reply, only kept shuffling. He wasn't being a poor sport or anything, but dammit, he was going to win this time.


In the end, they had to completely rewrite the rules in order to make the game interesting enough to keep Sherlock's attention for more than five seconds, and fool-proof enough so that Sherlock couldn't read any more of John's "tells" (or cheat, because Sherlock wasn't exactly above that either).

Now the two of them sat at the table, the board in front of them filled with scribbles and about twenty new cards added to the pile. The rulebook sat off to the side, also marred by Sherlock and John's scribbling.

Sherlock rolled the die and moved Mrs. Peacock, thoroughly engrossed in the game, much to John's pride.

"Ohh, run of bad luck there," John said as Sherlock landed on a space they had identified as Drugs Bust. Sherlock frowned at the board.

"I'm clean, for God's sake," he muttered (because the board obviously seemed unaware of that), but sighed and gave two of his cards back to the draw pile they had created in the middle.

John smirked. The problem (or the genius) of this version of the game, was that almost every space was filled with a punishment square, making the game that much harder. And that much more frustrating, but they were both enjoying themselves too much to mind.

John rolled and landed on a space Sherlock had labeled as…

"Date night?" John asked.

"Have to skip a turn," Sherlock said as he nodded approvingly of the punishment. John grumbled under his breath, something about "Sarah" and "having a good time" and "you're so ridiculous, Sherlock", but put the die back in Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock rolled and moved his piece through the pathways they'd outlined in Sharpie (though of course, one could jump over the path if they had access to the rooftop squares) and he instantly grimaced.

"Anderson," he seethed, glaring at the space on the board. Covering his eyes, Sherlock rolled the dice again.

"You got a two," John said to him. Sherlock, his eyes still covered, moved the piece to the library and was forced to guess without being able to look at his notes.

"Mrs. Scarlet, in the library, with the monoxide gas, to her husband, because of the affair," he said.

John looked down at the pile of cards in his hand (they'd needed to add a few new ones with the aid of the Sharpie and some paper lying around. They were even fully illustrated - Sherlock was a decent artist when he put his mind to it) and shook his head. "None of them."

Sherlock grinned and uncovered his eyes. "Excellent. As usual I've solved the case even with Anderson getting in my way."

"I still get another turn, Sherlock," John said, peeved that Sherlock was winning (again). "And we should really add some good spaces to the board; all the ones we've got now are punishment ones."

"No. We can't just add spaces in the middle of the game, John!" Sherlock said sharply, as if the whole idea was absolutely ludicrous. Blasphemous even.

"You just added the Double Homicide space five turns ago!"

"Yes, because that's where all the clues led me," Sherlock said, the duh apparent in his voice even if he didn't say it. "It fit the logic."

"That doesn't even make sense," John said after a moment. "And I can do whatever I want, I've got the gun," he said, holding up the miniature revolver.

Sherlock held up his candlestick in argument (sadly there were no riding crop pieces included in the game), but John ignored him and began drawing on one of the few empty spaces left on the board, all the while holding Sherlock at (miniature) gun point. "There. Takeaway spot, you get to move three extra spaces," he said triumphantly.

"That's all your creative mind could come up with, John? And here I thought you were almost gaining a sense of storytelling with that blog of yours," Sherlock said, pondering the board in front of him, probably wondering how he could use the recently added secret tunnels to his advantage.

"Okay, you make one then." John relinquished the marker and a moment later had to decipher Sherlock's cramped shorthand on the board.

"Serial killer?"


"…Serial killer."

"You get to put another victim into the confidential file," Sherlock said helpfully. "Adds a whole new variable to be deduced from the game; makes things much more exciting."

Putting aside the fact that Sherlock was making this game a lot longer than it actually needed to be, John protested, "Sherlock. Serial killers are bad. You don't use a serial killer for a good space because they're bad." He was explaining this as he would to a child, and was far too used to it for his own comfort. As if explaining the wrongs of serial killers was becoming a daily activity for him or something.

"Oh, I don't know, I've known some serial killers to be very amiable," Sherlock said, shrugging. "In any case, you only have one more turn before I win."

"Then I'll just guess now," John said defiantly, pulling his notes out and giving them a glance before turning back to Sherlock. "Alright. Mrs. Scarlet, in the conservatory, with the cyanide, to her husband, because he was blackmailing her."

Sherlock opened the confidential packet, revealing the winning cards, and grinned. "Not even close. While you powers of deduction are improving, John, I'm afraid you're still rubbish at it."

"What?" John seized the cards from Sherlock, sure he had gotten it at least most of them right…when in fact none of them were correct. Not one bloody card.

John took deep breaths and set down his cards, realisation dawning on him. "Sherlock," he said.

"Yes, John?"

"Have you been lying to me this whole time about what cards you were holding?"

"Only some, John. I was attempting to misdirect you while I solved the mystery with my own methods." Sherlock didn't look sorry at all, in fact, he was smiling a bit, pleased to have gotten away with the deception.

"Methods that involve cheating!" John argued. He was feeling a headache coming on.

"Well you never said we couldn't withhold information," Sherlock said, because oh, that was just silly of John to not have mentioned. How could he have forgotten?

John shoved the pieces away from him and stood up. "Alright. I'm done." He walked away and sat back down on the couch, away from Sherlock and away from that infernal board game.

"Oh come, John, stop sulking! It was just starting to get interesting!" Sherlock called, and John grumbled, because he was not sulking. He was actually debating whether or not anyone would believe this if he put it on his blog. Even knowing Sherlock, it was doubtful.

Sherlock sighed in defeat and started playing with one of his experiments, resigned to studying birthday candles and the rate at which they burnt human hair instead of solving fictitious crimes.

"John," Sherlock called again, after less than ten minutes, just when John was starting to feel calm again, despite the smell of burning hair coming from the kitchen.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John snapped, cursing consulting detectives, rainy days, and stupid board games with stupid serial killer squares.

"I may have set some of the cards on fire. And possibly the game board."

Before John let himself wonder how exactly Sherlock managed it, he leapt to the kitchen and started helping Sherlock put out the small fire.

As the smoke alarm went off and the fire singed John's eyebrows, he thought to himself, never again. Next time, they would play something nice and easy and boring. Like Risk. Or perhaps checkers. Anything but Cluedo.