Written for a lovely Nonny on tumblr who prompted: 15 minute prompt: Laundry baskets. Go! 15 minutes of writing whatever comes to your head!

Took about 20 minutes if you count brainstorming.

Tuesday is washing day at 221B. Ideally, John will take the laundry baskets down the road at exactly eight in the morning, pick through the newspaper while he waits, and have the laundry folded and back home by eleven.


If he doesn't find anything…interesting…in the laundry basket.

He's told Sherlock a thousand times: The laundry basket is not a proper place to dispose of biohazards. But that hasn't stopped him from finding fingers, toes, scraps of mottled flesh, and the occasional broken beaker filled with God knows what tossed in amongst his clothing. He never finds things like that in Sherlock's laundry basket, so he can only assume the Consulting Detective does it on purpose.

Today looks like it's going to be a hazard free day, right up until he gets to the last basket. He lifts one of his favorite jumpers and stops mid-motion. There, cuddled up on top of his dirty underwear, is a tiny English Bulldog puppy.

His phone rings. Fishing it out of his pocket he glances at the caller ID before answering. "Morning, Sherlock."

"John, where is your laundry basket?"

"It's Tuesday, Sherlock."

"Where is your laundry basket?"

"Well, seeing as it's Tuesday, I've taken everything to get washed. Because it's Tuesday and I always do the washing on Tuesday."

"Since when?"

"Since I moved in…"

"Irrelevant. I'm coming to you. Whatever you do, do not dump the washing in without looking."

Glancing down at the sleeping puppy, John decided to indulge in his mischievous streak. "Bit late, mate. Done it already. Hope it wasn't something for a case."

The line goes dead.

Sighing, John picks up the puppy, wraps it in an old jumper, and tucks it onto the bottom of an empty basket. He just finishes loading the last of the wash when Sherlock comes flying through the door.

He doesn't look at his flatmate, but flips open the washers and begins throwing wet clothes over his shoulder in his haste.

John fights to hide a smile. "What did you lose?" he asks.

"Gladstone!" comes the panicked response, followed by more clothes being tossed haphazardly onto the floor.



Carefully concealing the laundry basket containing "Gladstone" with his legs, John wheedles his friend a bit more. "What's a glade-stone?"

"Not glade-stone, John! Gladstone! The dog!" With each unsuccessful attempt at rescuing the puppy from a watery death, John sees Sherlock's face become more frantic.

"Oh! You mean this dog?" he asks, reaching behind him and producing the yawning puppy. It opens its eyes at the sound of Sherlock's voice and proceeds to whimper.

"Gladstone!" Sherlock snatches the puppy from the basket and brings it to his chest, breathing a sigh of relief. Assured of his tiny friends good health, he turns a baleful gaze towards John. "You knew he was safe."

"I did."

"You tricked me."


"…Well played."

"Thank you."

Gladstone squirms and twists and turns, oblivious to everything around him, until he's completely facing Sherlock, and then proceeds to throw up on his shirt.

John throws his head back land laughs. "Don't worry mate. It's all comes out in the wash."

Sherlock frowns. "This shirt is dry clean only," he says. Adjusting his grip on the puppy, supporting its bottom with one hand, Sherlock thrusts it out to his flatmate.

John glances at it, confused. "What do you want me to do with it?"

"Tomorrow's Wednesday," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Which, if John stopped and though about it, it really was. "And?"

"Happy Birthday, John."