John startles from his nap on the sofa.


He jumps to his feet and heads towards the kitchen, wondering what Sherlock is destroying now. Is he exploding the microwave? Letting acid eat through the table and floor? Co-opting the toaster as a weapon of mass (kitchen) destruction? Again?

John stops dead, because the fridge door is open, Sherlock is holding a large black garbage back in his hands, and he seems to be completely emptying the fridge - experiments and all. John runs a hand through his hair, relaxing a bit because at least nothing is exploding or acidifying or on fire.

This time.

John wants to ask what Sherlock thinks he is doing, but by this point in their relationship he knows better than to phrase his questions in such a way. If John isn't specific, Sherlock will just roll his eyes and give him the most obnoxious answer possible. In this case, something along the lines of: "I am disposing the contents of our fridge, John. Obviously."

'Why' questions are always more important than 'what' questions with Sherlock, anyway. Sometimes John wishes he was a telepath so he could read Sherlock's mind. Then he comes to his senses and frantically takes the wish back. He loves Sherlock, but he doesn't ever want to be in his head.

"Why are you throwing away all our food?" John asks. Sherlock tosses a carton of eggs into the bag, and John winces as he hears them crack. Well, no omelets for dinner tonight, then. He'll make Sherlock take him out: John feels like Indian. He thinks Sherlock did a favor for the owner of the Indian place down the street, anyway. Who can turn down free samosas?

"Mrs. Hudson directed me towards literature on proper gestational nutrition," Sherlock informs him, calmly dropping a container of eyeballs into the bag. John has to admit that he isn't upset to see them go: it is downright odd to have human eyeballs staring at him every time he opens the fridge. He almost thinks it would be better if they were attached to a head. Ah, and there go the fingernail clippings.

He makes a mental note to have a discussion with Mrs. Hudson about giving Sherlock reading material. She should know better than to show him anything not vetted by John first. Last time John got angry enough at Sherlock to give him the extended silent treatment and stay at Harry's for the night, Mrs. Hudson gave Sherlock a book titled something ridiculous like 'Romancing Your Omega: 101 Ways to Show You Care". John came back to a flat covered in rose petals: literally covered. They were everywhere, and on the floor they stacked at least an inch deep. John doesn't even want to contemplate how much all the roses cost. Not to mention the clean-up took forever.

Though he has to admit it was oddly sweet.

For Sherlock, anyway.

"I'm pretty sure that proper nutrition involves actually eating, you know, food," John points out, maybe just a tad snidely. No one can blame him, though: Sherlock just tossed the pint of milk. John is going to have to go to Tesco's tonight, and he hates fighting with the chip and pin machine. Sherlock scowls, continuing to toss a mix of food and experiments into the garbage. When the fridge is completely empty, he moves to the cupboards.

"You need to eat healthy food," Sherlock tells him, throwing out the peanut butter. "Also, the nutritionist I hired was appalled when she saw the body parts. Decomposition can contaminate food."

"As I've told you a hundred times," John mutters to himself. He wonders how long this experiment-free kitchen will last. Maybe he can convince Sherlock to get a second fridge to hold his experiments in? "Wait - what nutritionist?"

"Oh, she visited this afternoon while you were at lunch with Harry," Sherlock says blithely. There goes the jam, the beans, and the mold cultures. John has been trying to get Sherlock to throw those out for two weeks now. Well, at least this disposing spree is good for something. "She created a meal plan appropriate to your situation. The groceries I ordered are due to be delivered within the next two hours."

"...this is you nesting, isn't it?" John breathes, slumping against the wall. "Are you going to be like this for the next six months? No, don't answer. I'll have to deck you."

"Don't be overdramatic, John. It doesn't suit you," Sherlock informs him calmly, tying off the garbage bag and dropping it out the window to the skip below. John sighs, because of course Sherlock can't take the garbage out like a normal person.

"Oh, I'm overdramatic," John mutters, walking towards the stairs. There's no way to stop Sherlock when he's in a mood, and apparently Sherlock is currently in a cleaning mood. Odd, but not anywhere near as dangerous as Sherlock in a blowing-shit-up mood. So John will just leave him to it and continue his nap in the upstairs bedroom, hopefully far enough away from Sherlock's racket that he will be able to get some more sleep before dinner. "Wake me up in an hour or so. I want Indian tonight."

Sherlock doesn't even look up from where he is now spraying the fridge with disinfectant. He just waves at John absentmindedly and starts scrubbing. Scrubbing.


Cleaning mood.


Well, at least it's better than shooting the walls. Or obsessively watching John's every movement. Sherlock got that into his head last week, and John couldn't even go to the loo without Sherlock following him. If Sherlock gets that bad again, John will just have to escape protective confinement and call the cavalry. Mycroft will make sure Sherlock stops hovering long enough for John to have some breathing room. He's smart enough to know that otherwise Sherlock will be joining the food and experiments in the skip - via the window, as well.

He's sure Mrs. Hudson will agree to be John's alibi, if it comes to that.