Written for the prompt: Sherlock comes home to find Anderson sleeping on the couch.
Sherlock had just finished a case and arrived home, exhausted (not that he would ever admit it to John), ready to collapse on his couch.
Except there was already someone there. A very specific someone.
And Sherlock felt like he couldn't breathe for all the stupid in the room. It was practically suffocating.
"JOHN!" he bellowed, taking satisfaction in the fact that the previously sleeping figure on the couch startled, practically falling off. He smirked. It served him right, sleeping on his couch, in his flat. How the bloody hell had he even gotten in-
Of course. John.
"John!" he repeated. Noting, disappointedly that the figure barely stirred.
John came stumbling down the hall (bathroom, his brain provided) and he glanced at the clock, blindly wondering what time it was. 10:36 pm. Not so late. So why was Anderson, the plague of all things remotely clever or unboring in the universe, doing sleeping on his couch in his flat?
He demanded an explanation from John. Not with words, words were entirely unnecessary, just a glare sufficed.
John wearily rubbed his face with his palms. Sherlock noted the look of 'oh god I'm gone and done it and now I have to explain it' smugly. Yes. Yes he would have to explain.
So, throwing a disdainful look in Anderson's direction, without actually look at his face or making eye contact, he threw himself into his chair and beckoned to John to sit in his chair.
John slouched into his chair, scowling.
"Hewasnearbyandhewas-" he mumbled, stopping only when he saw Sherlock's infuriated look.
He sighed loudly, and started again. "He got mugged. I was coming home from Tesco's," he paused to wave vaguely at the bags, still partially packed (he only bothered to unpack the things than needed to be refrigerated) "And I found him bleeding in the street. So I picked him up and brought him here- " he plowed on, ignoring Sherlock's attempts at protest, "and looked him over. Concussion, a few lacerations, nothing that needed stitched. He's sleeping here so I can keep an eye on him. And no," he continued, eyeing Sherlock's opening mouth, "I am NOT kicking him out tonight. He needs to be woken up every hour and he lives alone. And don't give me any of that bull about him and Sally. He's staying, and that's that. So, go sleep in your bed for once. And don't tell me you're not tired, cause I can tell you're bloody exhausted."
Sherlock sulked in the chair after John finished his tirade and stormed off again. Sherlock would go to bed. And then be up nice and early to ensure Anderson's concussion wasn't too terrible.
He had some ideas in mind already. Starting with standing in the bright sunlight to toy with his violin. Something nice and cacophonous.