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“John. John. John.” The good doctor stared harder at his laptop screen, ignoring the persistent and whingey voice that came from over his shoulder.
“John. Bored, John. BORED. JOOOHN.” It slowly got louder, until John’s eardrums hurt with every word. He gritted his teeth and kept on typing, at least Sherlock hadn’t broken anything yet. After the first temper tantrum, John had taken anything fragile or valuable and locked it in a cupboard in his bedroom, as to not let Sherlock destroy it whilst on one of his boredom rampages.
John flicked an eye quickly behind him, it was better to know where Sherlock was at all times, and heavily sighed when he found him dangling upside down off the back of the sofa.
The doctor was trying to update his blog and do some research on something Sherlock wouldn’t deign himself to explain, but so far he had only managed to type out a couple of sentences. Behind him came a thud as Sherlock toppled gracefully of the sofa and lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
For a moment he was silent, but John knew it wouldn’t last long. In fact, after a few seconds Sherlock sat cross legged on the floor next to him, staring up at him in a calculating manner. John carefully scanned his hands for anything potentially dangerous to his wellbeing, as last time he had ended up having a needle jabbed into his leg to “test his sensitivity and reactions”. For that Sherlock had almost been kicked in the face and earned himself a week of no laundry, milk or help, until he, begrudgingly apologized when he ran out of clothes and someone to answer his annoying requests.
Declaring him weapon less, John continued to stare a hole into the computer screen, trying to figure out how to phrase a sentence. He jumped a mile when Sherlock’s chin planted itself onto his knee.
“Sherlock!” John growled.
The mad scientist looked up at him with eyes that shone with hope and innocence, much like a puppy, and John found himself blushing under that adoring gaze.
“No, Sherlock.” He managed to get out.
“Please, John, I’m bored.” Sherlock wheedled. John recommenced glaring at the screen, hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t move himself further north, and firmly shook his head. Sherlock looked at him balefully and slumped off, onto the floor, where he commenced studying the pavement with a pout.
He got to his feet, still pouting, to climb into his armchair, with his arms crossed like a child. He grabbed the telly control and switched the TV on, starting to channel hop like crazy.
“No. No. No. No. No.” Every channel he jumped to, he said no and flicked to the next one. These loud and intrusive no’s grinded slowly on John’s nerves, making him ever more annoyed. Considering the were roughly 150 channels on the TV, by the time Sherlock switched it off again, John was just about ready to choke him, but dug his fingers into the laptop edge turning his knuckles white with the strain of keeping them there and not around Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock chucked the control off to his side with a huff of annoyance and splayed out in the chair, long limbs dangling off the sides like a Jelly.
He had been like this since the evening before, starting just after he had solved a triple homicide in which a pink sheep had been the key.
Luckily, John had managed to placate him with a new chemical solution which Greg had given him earlier, until Sherlock’s post-case fatigue had managed to bring him down, at which point John had basically tucked him into bed. The chemical solution had managed to keep Sherlock more or less occupied for some of the afternoon as well, but after that he had nothing else to do. John had desperately looked for body parts or strange tubes for Sherlock to play with, but found none. Since then Sherlock had been a pest, demanding the gun and his cigarettes. For about two hours John had resisted, but now Sherlock was really pissing him off. He refused to leave the flat, not that John thought it was a good idea to release Sherlock into the general public, where he could cause havoc in less than five minutes, and Sherlock generally did anything possible to annoy the poor doctor.
Sherlock’s traitorous phone was silent as it sat next to John's computer, where Sherlock had tossed it in annoyance, and refused to ring for even just a small crime. As Sherlock whined in the background, John reached over to it and sent a desperate message off to Lestrade. As a negative for cases quickly returned with Greg's condolences, John rubbed his temples, trying to ward off an impending headache, failing miserably.
As he returned to the home screen on the phone, John had an idea.
Opening the app store, he quickly downloaded a couple of logic, time-wasting games, and strode over to where Sherlock lingered, bottom lip stuck out in a pout. John picked a random game and handed the phone to Sherlock, hands on hips. Sherlock took the phone, curious, then looked to John with a slight sneer.
“Why on earth would I want to throw birds at a faulty construction in a rubbish game, especially seeing as it’s something that even a child would find dully simple?” He demanded, curling his lip at the screen.
“Just try it.” John sighed. Hell, at this point he would have tried anything just to get Sherlock to shut up.
Sherlock turned to the screen with a critical look and drew the sling back with a finger, exaggerating his movements. His look turned quickly to shock as he failed the level. He angrily stabbed the retry button and did it again, giving out a frustrated squeal-like noise of frustration when it happened again. With a grunt that could be interpreted only as GAME ON, he threw himself at it again and again. Little snorts told John when he passed and small squeals when he failed. After not long Sherlock was curled up in the armchair with his knees to his chest and his phone inches from his eyes, looking much like a little kid with a new game console.
John tried not to snort with laughter, instead settling for an affectionate smile as he settled back into his seat and continued typing. About half an hour later he finished typing up his blog and grinned as he found Sherlock in the same position. Quickly and sneakily he took a quick snapshot of the genius-turned-child with his phone and tried to refrain from giggling.
He got up to make two mugs of tea, humming happily to himself, pleased by his genius as he pottered around the kitchen, pulling out the cups and putting the kettle to boil.
Just before the kettle started to whistle, John heard the shuffle of footsteps on tile behind him, and turned to find the detective holding his phone out to him in a silent question. John took it, wondering why he was handing it to him. He was surprised to find that Sherlock had completed all of the levels with 3 stars and was now looking a bit lost.
John exited the app, then clicked on another one that an old friend of his had recommended, handing it gently back to the big kid, who shuffled silently back to his seat. John watched all this with wide eyes, oscillating between bewilderment and hilarity.
The kettle clicked behind him and John returned to the present. He made the two cups of good old tea, movements slow and a big smile on his face, then returned to the living room, placing a mug next to Sherlock, before lowering himself carefully into the sofa.
He drank his tea slowly, savouring the relaxed air of the flat, listening to the small noises Sherlock was making as he played. Mug finally empty, he placed it on the low table and closed his eyes, melting into the sofa and slowly drifting off after the frankly exhausting day.
When John awoke several hours later, he found a blanket wrapped around him and a cushion under his head. Sitting up, blearily looking around, he realized Sherlock was still curled up in his chair with his phone, but now he was lightly snoring into his knees, phone threatening to fall to the floor from loose fingers. John’s eyes softened. He reached over and took the phone, plugging it into the socket at the wall, and slid his blanket around Sherlock’s shoulders, finishing by lightly running his hand through Sherlock’s curly, soft hair and caressing his cheek, before catching himself.
What was happening to him? John knew the answer, but didn’t really want to contemplate it, ignoring his feelings and instead straightening his spine.
Well, the phone was certainly a trick to be reused, as long as he could keep up with Sherlock’s speed. Maybe he could use it as blackmail, to make him behave. Now there was a thought. John grinned wolfishly, looking forwards to when Sherlock next played up. It wasn’t quite morning out, so John sat back down on the sofa, curling his legs under him, nodding off to the adorable sight of Sherlock asleep in his chair and a happy smile on his face.
As soon as he shut his eyes, Sherlock’s lids slowly lifted, his eyes sleepily watching John with a gentle smile, before sliding shut once more.