A two-part comedy fic I wrote ages ago and forgot to upload. Hope you enjoy.
I haven't written a disclaimer for ages: Sherlock isn't mine. If it were, Series 2 would be here by now!
Today was the day that Sherlock Holmes had never expected to come around. In all his stubbornness and astuteness he had predicted (rather incorrectly) that the events of the day were not going to occur.
It was a Saturday. Of course, that wasn't what Sherlock was incorrect about. Saturday had followed Friday as it so often does. No, it was not just any old Saturday. Today was John Watson's moving day.
Sherlock lay in a foetal position on the sofa, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. His head was shoved firmly into the back of the sofa, in an attempted to block out the footsteps and clamour that had begun at 8 o'clock that morning. He wouldn't help. He refused to. Why should he exert his energy on packing when it was much more therapeutic to sulk?
Sherlock heard voices in the hall; Mrs Hudson chatting excitedly with Traitor Watson, or What's-his-name, as Sherlock had decided to call him, from the moment he left the house for good. Why were they laughing? This was not good news. This was not fun or exciting, it was noisy and laborious, and Sherlock was adamant that What's-his-name would regret it. As adamant as he had been that he wouldn't be moving out in the first place.
It wasn't that he was going to miss John (What's-his-name), Sherlock decided firmly. Sure, he laughed at Sherlock's jokes (and sometimes when he hadn't even been joking, which was odd.) And when Sherlock said 'Jump', John would not ask 'How high?' or even 'Why?' like the Scotland Yard morons, but 'From where?' and 'Can we jump again?'. It was all good fun. Had been good fun. Now he was moving out. Selfish bastard.
Sherlock was grumpy, and not because What's-his-name was ditching him for a woman (Dull!) but because John always did the hoovering, and took the rubbish out, and answered the phone. Who was going to do those things now? Sherlock mused over the thought that, if he suddenly offered to help with the packing, John might pop in once a day to put the kettle on or bring the post up from downstairs. He couldn't bring himself to move, so he didn't bother.
Instead, he listened to the dull thuds of a suitcase being dragged down the wooden staircase, and Mrs Hudson's laugh at something that Watson bloke had said. Stupid Watson bloke, stupid Mrs Hudson, stupid staircase.
John had entered the kitchen and begun to rummage around in the cupboards. Sherlock lifted his head from the sofa, a frown etched on his face.
"That's my wok!" he bellowed his first words of the day.
"Uh, no it isn't," came the response from the kitchen. Sherlock huffed loudly, and then again in case it hadn't been heard.
"I think you'll find it has my name on it," Sherlock said in a surly tone. He was pleased with it. John scoffed and shuffled to the living room, wok in hand.
"Who writes their name on their wok...correction, someone else's wok?"
"I do," he said curtly. "To save confrontations such as this one."
John stood with his mouth open defensively. He sighed.
"You don't even cook!" Sherlock blinked at him. "Fine, do you know what Sherlock, you can keep it. My gift to you." He slammed it onto the coffee table. Sherlock turned his head away and curled up again. "I'm sure Sarah has one anyway," John said as he walked away. Bastard.
Sherlock stayed there for several hours, pretending to sleep as he listened to John struggling to carry boxes down the stairs. Mrs Hudson was in the kitchen having a wipe around. He thought he should probably warn her about the acid he'd spilled a couple of days before. He couldn't be bothered.
Eventually Sherlock heard feet walk slowly to a halt at the living room door. John was lingering there in hesitation as he looked around the room. It was still full of stuff, just not his stuff. Sherlock Holmes was the King of Stuff. John sighed loudly.
"I know you're awake."
Sherlock gave a grunt.
"I'm heading off now."
"Here..." Sherlock didn't look up but he felt John move nearer to the sofa and he knew he'd placed his key down on the sofa arm. Sherlock gritted his teeth. Now he'd have to go downstairs to let him in if he ever came over. Selfish!
"I've put some ready meals in the fridge for you. You need to cook them before you eat them." Patronising bastard. "Oh and here, before I forget..."
Sherlock lifted his head at the sound of rustling paper. He turned at glared at John as he held out a wad of notes.
"What's that for?"
"How dare you! Who do you think I am?" Sherlock growled but snatched the money and shoved it into his dressing gown pocket. John gave a small smile. He was so predictable.
"Well...bye then." Silence. "I'll call you later."
"Don't bother," Sherlock mumbled into the sofa. John sighed loudly and headed to the stairs. Sherlock heard him saying his goodbyes to Mrs Hudson who was snivelling and throwing her arms around What's-his-name. Sherlock didn't want to remember his name anymore. It was time to make more space in the hard-drive.
Footsteps trotted down the stairs and Sherlock heard the door bang, followed by a taxi door. For a brief moment there was peace until Mrs Hudson entered, her voice high with annoyance.
"Honestly, Sherlock! That was so rude of you. The poor boy was saying goodbye. He's going to miss you."
"Urgh!" A pillow was pinned to Sherlock head with both hands. "He'll be back when he's realised how dull she is."
"Sherlock, it's been three years. They're finally going to make a go of things. I think it's nice."
"Urgh!" Nice. What a mundane word.
"Pull yourself together," Mrs Hudson said, her tone clipped. "I won't have you sulking around the house all day."
"Go away then."
"Fine, but you'd better be dressed by the time I get back. Oh, and your tea will be ready at 6."
"I'm not hungry." She began to walk away, and he lifted his head to regard her, his hair unkempt from idle lounging. "What are we having?"
"Lasagne," she told him as she walked away.