Hey Guys! First Sherlock fan-fic! Gotta love him, huh? Well, enjoy!
Why? Why me Lord? Dr. John Watson silently questioned, staring up at the ceiling. It was amazing the amount of swear words one could come up with when they were woken up at three bloody a.m. by the madman they shared a flat with. John groaned as another piece started up. Light and airy, really, far too happy for the mood he was in,
"SHERLOCK!" John yelled, glad to see at least his voice still worked even though his brain didn't. Much to John's surprise, the man actually stopped,
"Yes John?" his voice, smooth and melodious floated up the stairs,
"If you don't shut up, I'm coming down there and throwing that goddamn violin out!" There was a momentary pause from downstairs….followed by more music. That was the last straw. John leapt to his feet, threw the covers back and none too gently pulled the door open. He stormed down the stairs to the sight of the consulting detective laying flat on the floor, his hair messy, his eyes closed.
"Sherlock," John's voice was dangerously low. The detective's eyes opened and he considered his flat mate;
The older man's hair was tousled and he was dressed for the cold winter night, wearing several layers, "Good morning John," Sherlock said, after completing his assessment that the doctor was on the verge of hitting him. John took a steadying breath and kept standing where he was. He wasn't going to shoot Sherlock. He was NOT going to shoot Sherlock. "How are you?" Sherlock sat up slowly, still watching John and enjoying, as the doctor's cheeks got redder and his temper rose, "You look very tried," That was it for John. It had been a week since he'd been able to get a good night's sleep, which meant that very little else could be done, and staying awake at the surgery to diagnose someone had caught the flu was proving harder and harder.
Before Sherlock could even blink, John dived on top of him, knocking the violin from his hands, with a loud pling. However, Sherlock was just as quick, as he playfully shoved his flat mate off and got to his feet, before haring off through the door. John only stopped to yank his boots on before he was running after Sherlock. There go any plans for sleep, he thought, taking the stairs two at a time, probably waking up poor Mrs. Hudson.
Then they were both on the street as they continued their insane middle-of-the-night chase. And this time there were no crazy killers. Just a very angry John who needed to let his steam off and an over-active Sherlock, the latter leading the way through the empty London streets. John couldn't help the smile as adrenaline ran through his system and he didn't even mind the biting wind that cut at him. In fact, he was quite enjoying himself and laughed along with Sherlock, who stopped up ahead to wait for his companion, until angry voices reached their ears, and the sound that John was never going to forget ripped through the night. The sound of a gunshot bounced of the buildings, the smile on both his and Sherlock's faces fading, and then suddenly, Sherlock doubled up, grabbing his lower abdomen, from which a scarlet patch was staining the pristine white shirt he had been wearing.
So…what did ya think? Please tell?