𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄, sherlock holmes

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈 . . . NO MORE FAVOURS!

          JOHN HAD VACATED THE LIVING room as fast as his legs would allow, shutting the door behind him quietly as he meandered down the path from the steps to the low gate in the wall, letting it squeak as he pulled it towards him. The black wrought iron was clunky to move with only one hand, so he resorted to using two in effort to pry the squat little gate open. He swung it with a great deal of force in one last valiant effort, and the corner shot right onto the end of his foot. After, he yelled "Bloody hell" at a loud enough volume for it to be heard inside of number 34, and Poppy swished the curtains shut with her chin jutting out.

          Sherlock turned to look at her, still standing dumbly in the middle of the room, as the cream coloured curtains swished into place over the large bay window. "It's Saturday." She said and walked straight through into the kitchen. He followed her through to the room at the back of the house and opened his mouth to speak, but Poppy had switched on the hoover at the same moment and backed him out of the room with the machine nipping at his shoes. "Can you take your shoes off please?" She enquired, proceeding to scrub vigorously at the sink with a new scourer removed from the packet and a bottle of cleaner.

          "Poppy, can you just-" The sound of running water washing away the gathered bubbles down the plug filled the kitchen. Sherlock made a grab at Poppy's hand and, much to his surprise, caught it in one swift motion. Bewildered, he looked at it briefly, taking in the nail polish that had been applied and the backbiter running down the cuticle of her thumb. He looked at it closer. "You're nervous."  Sherlock had to duck out of the way to save himself from being hit in the face with his own hand as Poppy tugged hers away by jerking it towards him.

          "How very perceptive." She muttered, slamming the door to the kitchen as she left all of the cleaning products still out on the table and counter tops, bright pink rubber gloves abandoned in a crumpled heap by the corner of the door frame. Sherlock stood dumbly in the middle of the kitchen and blinked twice, trying to comprehend how stating something so obvious could have sparked such a reaction. He walked around the room with his shoes tucked under one arm, slowly going through all of the cleaning products and placing them on the raised shelf in the cupboard below the sink.

          However his vision went blank when he tried to stand up, the sound of the door bell piercing through the house startling him to hit the ledge of the sink. Sherlock heard Poppy huff loudly and open the front door, and say "Bugger off" rather loudly at the ringer whilst letting the door stay open for them to walk inside. The tread of the sole of the shoe along the carpet of the living room were unmistakable, the occasional press of an umbrella into the fibres undeniable. "Why didn't you tell him to take his shoes off?"

          Poppy huffed again. "Because Mycroft's shoes are clean." She said defensively, flapping her hands to get the younger of the Holmes brothers out of her kitchen and out of her house. Mycroft held up a hand in protest. "You need not air your dirty laundry infront of me, Rockefeller, I'll be perfectly content waiting outside for your little squabble to reach a definitive conclusion."