A/N Apologies, as always, for any American dialect.

Disclaimer: I hold no rights to either Twilight or Sherlock. Looks like I won't be requesting the removal of Twilight from libraries and schools anytime soon. Shame.



John looked up from his laptop. "Christ, Sherlock! Can't you just enjoy the peace and quiet for once?"

"Boring!" He called from somewhere on the kitchen. "I need a case! Or—,"

"No," John cut in sharply. "No patches. No seven percent. Nothing. Out of the question."

"John," Sherlock whined.


Sherlock rolled his eyes and stomped into the living room. "You are not my mother," he grumbled, moping as he collapsed on the couch. John raised an eyebrow. He wasn't still for long. "A CASE John! How do you people do this? Sit around, content in, oh, updating your blogs, and reading your newspapers!"

"Not that hard, really. Comes naturally to me." John sipped his tea and returned his attention to his blog.

Sherlock was silent for a little while—no more than a moment, really.



"But I—,"

"No, Sherlock." He looked back up at the detective, who'd somehow grown even more restless in the minutes passed. An idea crossed his mind. "Look...if you're so agonizingly bored..." He held his finger up to indicate one minute. Then, he disappeared up the stairs.

John returned a moment later with a book. A small smirk graced his lips. He threw the thick book in Sherlock's direction, who easily caught it.

"Twilight?" Sherlock scoffed. He turned the book over and over in his hands. "What is this rubbish?"

"It's a love story. About vampires," John replied, choking down a snort. Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. John shrugged. "Came in the post a while ago. Someone who reads my blog, I think." He glanced at Sherlock, who was now reading the inside flap, his face a mask of horror.

"You are not serious."

"Oh, I'm perfectly serious. In fact," John grinned evilly, "I dare you."

"Vampires! Vampires don't exist!" He opened the book to a random page and skimmed it. "Look at this, John!" The detective stood up, and rudely shoved the book in the face of his companion. As John read the text in front him, Sherlock added "And even if they did, they would not...sparkle." A clear note of disgust in his tone rang true.

"You said you were bored..."

"Not that bored," the detective muttered. He fell back onto the couch.

The doctor glanced at Sherlock and shrugged innocently. "Whatever. Tell me when you find a case." He looked back down at his laptop screen. The detective was no doubt shooting daggers at him now. Begrudgingly, Sherlock cracked the book and started reading. John smirked smugly and returned to his blog.

Every so often, Sherlock would grumble "vampire" this, or "sparkle" that. It wasn't until about ten minutes later that John went to make another cuppa, discovered the lack of tea in the kitchen, and went to buy some more. It wasn't until about twenty-five minutes later that the doctor returned to their flat, greeted by sight of smoke curling from the window.

It wasn't heavy at all, the kind of smoke you might get from leaving bread in the toaster for too long. However, with Sherlock, you could never be too careful. Ignoring a slight ache in his shoulder (damn the workers who stocked the tea on the highest possible shelf), John shoved the key into the lock. He sprinted up the stairs, leaving his key behind in the process.

He wasn't entirely sure what to expect—even so, his relief was audible as he opened to door.

Sherlock was sitting calmly in front of the fire place, poking something with a long, handled rod.

"For a moment, I was—"

"Worried, yes, I know," Holmes responded absently. "The scuff mark on the heel of your shoe indicates that you ran up here as soon as you saw the smoke. You left your key in the lock downstairs, I suggest you retrieve it before someone else does. Oh, and about your shoulder, I think we have some aspirin if it will help at all," he deduced without looking at John once.

Watson left and returned a moment later, his key tucked safely into his pocket. "Okay. That—," gestured to Sherlock, "-isn't fair. How'd you know about my shoulder? You didn't even look at my shoes...," his voice trailed off as he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Well, the shoulder is an obvious one. They stock the tea on the top bloody shelf!" He turned in John's direction, toward the kitchen.

"And as for my key? And my shoe?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You're predictable."

"Thank you. No, really. I needed that," John retorted. Sarcasm dripped from his words.

"You're quite welcome!" Sherlock called back cheerfully, undoubtedly mocking him. John rolled his eyes.

"What are you—," the doctor began. He came to a halt behind Sherlock as he peered into the fire place. "Oh."

He'd arrived just in time to see the white letters of the word Twilight being engulfed by flames. "Oh."

He glanced at Holmes, who caught his eye. They shared a brief Look before dissolving into laughter. Their chortles filled the room and no doubt filtered through the floor. After John recovered, still gasping for air, he managed to ask, "Burning it? A little extreme, perhaps?"

Sherlock took another moment, trying to catch his breath. Tears in his eyes. "Well..." He thought for a minute. "No."

And then they were in hysterics again. John was on the floor, banging his fists through their shrieks of laughter like a child might do. It continued this way until Mrs. Hudson appeared at their doorway and demanded to know what was happening.

And all the while, with Twilight in the fire place, it's pages curling and burning, readers everywhere had one less thing to worry about.

And for the moment, all was right with the world.