The Great Game [Reader Insert]

An Explosive Domestic

     You'd think that after the back-and-forth lifesaving between you and Sherlock, you'd start to get along after a while. Maybe even become friends. But so far, the chances of such a thing were very dim.

     The main problem was how utterly immature Sherlock was, especially compared to his older brother, Mycroft, who you were actually kind of friends with. Sherlock was always doing ridiculous, senseless things that you hated. Like the time he was so bored that he scooped up the yellow spray-can from the Black Lotus case and literally drew a smiley face on the wall. He probably had a whole mural planned out, but thankfully you came in before he could completely ruin your Aunt Hudson's wall. No, the furthest your relationship with him went was the occasional "why-the-frick-do-you-make-me-doubt-my-own-emotional-barriers-I'm-supposed-to-be-an-unfeeling-sociopath-I-don't-even-like-you-totally-not-I-mean-not-that-I-have-some-experience-with-love-but-just-because-you-make-my-heart-flutter-doesn't-mean-I-like-you" moment. Anyway, like previously stated, the dark-haired sociopath got up to things when he was bored. 

     This time, he must have been really bored, because he didn't just add some decorations to the wall, oh no, he decided that he needed to literally shoot it.

     It was dark outside and you were in your room writing out the details of the latest case when you heard the first two gunshots. You flinched and your hand jerked, sending the pencil across the paper in a very unattractive way. The poor t you'd been drawing now had an unnatural gash for an arm.

     You sighed, annoyed, and went to work erasing the unintended line. Then you started shading, and two more gunshots rang out. The same thing happened once more.

     You gave up and set down the pencil, then got up and threw on a hooded leather jacket and ran upstairs just as two more shots fired.

     "What are you doing!?" you demanded, entering the room covering your ears. Sherlock was lying in his armchair looking annoyed and disinterested with a gun in his hand.

     "Bored," he muttered sulkily.

     "What?"

     "Bored!" he repeated more loudly. He sprung up from his chair and you covered your ears again, anticipating the next burst.

      "No-" you tried to say, but were rudely cut off by his shooting the wall up.

     "Bored!" Sherlock shot again, as you do, this time swinging the arm with the gun 'round his back and firing. "Bored!" He raised his arm to fire again, but this time you rushed forward before he could fire and tried to take the gun from him. Sherlock took a step back to avoid you and raised the gun up high so you couldn't reach. 

     You scowled. You weren't going to embarrass yourself by trying to reach the gun. "Sherlock, give it to me." 

     He frowned and slowly placed the gun in your hand, then whirled around and plopped down on the couch. "Don't know what's gotten into the criminal classes," Sherlock whined, still sulky. "Good job I'm not one of them."

     "So you take it out on the wall." You glared at him accusingly. "You need a hobby or something that doesn't include drugs."

     "Oh, the wall had it coming," Sherlock muttered.

     You rolled your eyes. "Well, what about that Russian case?"

     "Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time." 

     You narrowed your eyes. "Shame, then. Where's John? He's supposed to be your babysitter, not me."

     Sherlock sighed loudly and slowly. "He's been at work. Should be coming back any second now."

     Right on time, the door downstairs opened and closed. Soon enough, John was in the living room. He stared at the wall. "Wha- you know what, I won't ask."

     "Yeah, best not," you said.

     "I was bored," Sherl grumbled. "I see you've written up the taxi driver case, John."

     John blinked. "Uh, yes." You gave him a questioning look and he explained, "On my blog. You should read it."

    "'A Study in Pink.' Nice." 

     John shrugged. "Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone – there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

     Sherlock picked up a magazine on the table beside him. "Ummm... no."

     "Why not? I thought you'd be flattered."

     Sherlock lowered the magazine. "Flattered?" He scowled. "'Sherlock and (Y/N) see through everything and everyone in seconds,'" he recited. "'What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant Sherlock is about some things.'"

     "Now hang on a minute," John protested in self-defense while you tried to hide a smirk. "I didn't mean that in a-"

     "Oh, you meant 'spectacularly ignorant' in a nice way!" Sherlock scoffed. "Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister, or who's sleeping with who, or..."

    "Or whether the Earth goes 'round the sun?" John offered. 

     "Oh, not that again." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not important!"

     "Not important..?" John shifted his position to fully face Sherlock. "It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?"

     Sherlock brought his hands to his forehead. "Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

     "Deleted it?" you repeated.

     Sherlock sat up and took a deep breath. He pointed to his head. "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Really useful. Ordinary people fill their heads with all kinds of rubbish, and that makes it hard to get at the stuff that matters. Do you see?"

     You narrowed your eyes. "Well, yes, that's true, but how do you delete it? That... should be impossible. Forcing yourself to forget things requires intense training."

     John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "I-It's the solar system!"

     Sherlock groaned dramatically and buried his head in his hands. "Oh, what does that matter!?" He looked up. "So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon"- he flailed his arms about to mimick a silly march-" or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference! All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots." He ruffled his hair and then scowled at John. "Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He petulantly shoved the magazine across the coffee table and lied back down on the sofa, turning his back to you and John and curling up into a little ball. John looked to you with a strained expression.

     John stood up, quite ruffled, and started marching to the door.

     Sherlock looked up. "Where are you going?"

     "Out. I need some air." 

     John left and Sherlock returned to his fetal position. You sighed and got up. "Well, I'm going back to what I was doing," you said, walking out just Mrs. Hudson walked into the room.

     "Oh, sorry, love!" She exclaimed. "Have those two had a little domestic?"

     You grinned. "You could say that."

     "Oh, I'll talk to Sherlock, dear.  Those two can't be mad at each other long; they'll get over it!" She patted your arm and continued on her way.

     You went back down to our room and kept working on the underwater scene you were drawing. You were making progress, actually, even despite the earlier setbacks from Sherlock's stupid firing. 

     Aaaaaand then the side of the house exploded.