ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

The Universe's Conspiracy Against Sherlock Holmes

I realised everything is so dark and serious in this book

How about the fluffy alternative that brings joy to our lives

randomnerdybookworm here. you asked.

Okay peace go on with your lives

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

"John, it could get shot. Or choked. Or poisoned. I don't think I'd call our flat an ideal pet home."

"I wouldn't call our flat any kind of ideal home, but here we are."

"John," Sherlock cast two parallel palms in his unbearably uncomprehending flatmate's direction. "We are not getting a cat." He swiveled round on the spot, giving the flat a cursory glance as John responded. It was like he was asking the mirror for its opinion on who was right. Dear mirror, be our judge and jury. Isn't he an idiot?

"Why the hell not?" It was a cat, for Christ's sake!

"It's not important," stated Sherlock, like an over-achieving student at an examination. "...and is therefore unnecessary."

"Oh, and I suppose a skull is key when it comes to decor."

"Remember Magnussen, John? Charles Augustus Magnussen? You probably remember him as the man who made our fireplace his personal urinal, you really want to add a cat to the list?"

"Hoo-hoo," came a familiar hoot from the now open doorway. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"By all means, Mrs. Hudson, grace our dwelling with your insignificant presence," Sherlock frowned, pulling his sapphire dressing gown around his torso and sprawling on the couch with his feet in the air, eyes to the ceiling. "Two old ladies in a flat shouldn't be an issue."

John cast his eyes upward. Seriously, Sherlock? An old lady?

Mrs. Hudson seemed to see past the outward projections of the man sulking at the ceiling from his position on the sofa, and decided to turn to the exasperated doctor standing near his chair.

You two having a domestic? she mouthed to John.

He folded his arms and nearly rolled his eyes, giving his landlady a tired smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. It's fine. Sherlock's being himself.

Sherlock didn't break the silence even after Mrs. Hudson left with an entirely too conspicuous wink to John, leaving the army doctor slightly confused.

Then again, when wasn't he confused?

Not fifteen minutes later, Molly Hooper walked in with a hesitant and yet somehow very smiley "Hello, Sherlock. John."

John smiled at her.

Sherlock gave the ceiling all his attention. Like he had for the past half an hour.

"Did you go ahead and invite half the London population to tea?" the detective grumbled, shooting his gaze to John's. "Or is this a party I'm unaware of? If so, I'll be at the morgue if you need me."

Molly's cardigan seemed...misshapen, somehow, as she timidly took a seat, perching herself on the edge of Sherlock's chair. She squirmed under the detective's scrutinizing gaze until he allowed that minor act of audacity, huffing to no one in particular.

"My house is being hijacked by morons," he groaned again, turning his back to John and Molly.

Molly looked at John, as if silently inquiring if John was mentally stable enough to have a conversation with someone who...well, someone who wasn't Sherlock. Once that was established, she asked the real question.