A/N: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, and I've never even been to 221B Baker St., unfortunately. All I own are my prompts and my silly stories.
For this story, there is a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman nose-to-nose. I think it must have been an outtake or something. Anyway, the prompt was to write 221 words on that picture. Google it; there's no mistaking it.
Sherlock was not in the mood to be having this discussion, and he was frankly rather perplexed as to why John insisted on bringing it up. Again. They were once again in Chinatown, in the middle of a case, surrounded by bustling shopkeepers and red and gold balloons. There were other things that needed his attention.
"Why not?" John was smiling. Amused. Enjoying Sherlock's irritation.
"The flat is completely unsuitable. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't allow it."
"I've already asked Mrs. Hudson. Already given us the go ahead. Wants to help pick out names."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbed John by the shoulder of his seafoam plaid suit. Awful. Sherlock thought, then softened. The green really did bring out the dark blue of John's eyes. Sherlock tried to bring himself back to the matter at hand – putting a stop to the silly argument and getting back to the case.
He pressed his nose to John's, tried to look imposing.
John's smile only widened.
"Will it help you focus on the case, John, if I say yes?"
Sherlock tried to keep the frown on his face. Failed. Kissed John, once, quickly. Attempted to remain stoic. Failed again. Wouldn't admit he was vaguely excited at the prospect of a new addition to 221B Baker St.
"Very well. We can get a puppy."