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Description
"Sherlock, please, the wall!" John Watson emerged from his room, wearing his usual creamy-white sweater and a light blue shirt underneath.
The revolver let out another loud bang, which made John jump. Slightly.
He should be used to it. It had been only a few days since the last case, but none the less Sherlock was bored. And a bored Sherlock never boded well. He had started out by shooting at his usual wall, and then he had just been lying on the couch as he stared at the ceiling. And this morning he had been shooting at everything.
John had been patient, but when a bullet whizzed through his room, he'd known it'd have to stop.
"Sherlock, couldn't you please just..." John started, walking into the living room. But he'd barely crossed his own threshold, as another loud noise disrupted at 221B Baker Street.
John snapped his head around too fast, making his neck sear with pain.

"Sherlock! John! Hello!" Anderson called, as he and Lestrade entered the living room. He looked from John, standing in the middle of the living room staring at them, to Sherlock, sitting on the couch in his silk bathrobe looking at a lamp that appeared to have been shot. Several times.
He grinned, and looked knowingly at John. "Did we, umh, interrupt something?"
John lifted his hand to his neck, and made Anderson smile even more. He was getting good at this deducing thing. John was clearly embarrassed about something, and with Sherlock in that little clothes?
"Stop trying to.. Do that thing your doing Anderson." Sherlock said, crossing his legs and placing his revolver in his lap. Anderson opened his mouth, but Sherlock interrupted him: "Yes, and that too."
Anderson gaped at Sherlock, and spit out without thinking: "Well John is clearly embarrassed about something. The way he's holding his neck and..."
Sherlock made an offended sound, standing up. He strode over to the window, spinning his revolver on his finger.
"John is clearly not embarrassed. He snapped his neck when you barged in like that. His hand is subconsciously massaging in small circles to ease the pain. If you'd been smart you'd have seen this, but alas..." He turned, not even taking a second to aim the gun, and fired a bullet.
Anderson jumped, and even more that John had done only a few minutes earlier.

Lestrade cleared his throat, clapping Anderson reassuringly on the shoulder. "I'm sorry if we just barged in, but we were thinking of going out for a drink tonight. Care to join us?" He said politely.
John opened his mouth, but was interrupted as Sherlock opened his. "Molly made you do this." It wasn't a question, but merely a statement. He continued: "John wrote her 3 hours and 12 minutes ago and complained about me shooting the house down."
John glanced at the clock on the wall, and opened his mouth to interfere, but was interrupted. Again.
"The clock is 3 and a half minutes late. It ticks about a millisecond too slowly. I was meaning to mention it. Sometime. But I was busy." Sherlock scratched the back of his head casually with his gun.
John sighed. Looking at Lestrade and Anderson, he shrugged slightly. "Well, I'll go but.." He looked at Sherlock, who had turned around and was staring rudely in the opposite direction of their guests.
"I won't go. The noise at the bar is horrendous and uncivilized. John, make me some tea." Sherlock wrapped his bathrobe closer around him, and shot of a few bullets with the gun.
John sighed, looking apologetically at Lestrade and Anderson. "Later then, I gu-" He began, but Sherlock called him. He turned, and stared right at Sherlock who had the gun pointed towards him. He pulled the trigger.
"Bang." Sherlock commented when the gun didn't go off. Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

John said goodbye to Lestade and Anderson, getting a time and place to meet them later. As the door closed behind the guests, Sherlock said from the kitchen: "John, tea!"
John shook his head lightly, but went to make the tea. He picked up the cup of tea from the night before, and brought it with him to the kitchen. He knew Sherlock. He would demand to be served tea in that cup. And only that cup.

Description
"Sherlock, please, the wall!" John Watson emerged from his room, wearing his usual creamy-white sweater and a light blue shirt underneath.
The revolver let out another loud bang, which made John jump. Slightly.
He should be used to it. It had been only a few days since the last case, but none the less Sherlock was bored. And a bored Sherlock never boded well. He had started out by shooting at his usual wall, and then he had just been lying on the couch as he stared at the ceiling. And this morning he had been shooting at everything.
John had been patient, but when a bullet whizzed through his room, he'd known it'd have to stop.
"Sherlock, couldn't you please just..." John started, walking into the living room. But he'd barely crossed his own threshold, as another loud noise disrupted at 221B Baker Street.
John snapped his head around too fast, making his neck sear with pain.

"Sherlock! John! Hello!" Anderson called, as he and Lestrade entered the living room. He looked from John, standing in the middle of the living room staring at them, to Sherlock, sitting on the couch in his silk bathrobe looking at a lamp that appeared to have been shot. Several times.
He grinned, and looked knowingly at John. "Did we, umh, interrupt something?"
John lifted his hand to his neck, and made Anderson smile even more. He was getting good at this deducing thing. John was clearly embarrassed about something, and with Sherlock in that little clothes?
"Stop trying to.. Do that thing your doing Anderson." Sherlock said, crossing his legs and placing his revolver in his lap. Anderson opened his mouth, but Sherlock interrupted him: "Yes, and that too."
Anderson gaped at Sherlock, and spit out without thinking: "Well John is clearly embarrassed about something. The way he's holding his neck and..."
Sherlock made an offended sound, standing up. He strode over to the window, spinning his revolver on his finger.
"John is clearly not embarrassed. He snapped his neck when you barged in like that. His hand is subconsciously massaging in small circles to ease the pain. If you'd been smart you'd have seen this, but alas..." He turned, not even taking a second to aim the gun, and fired a bullet.
Anderson jumped, and even more that John had done only a few minutes earlier.

Lestrade cleared his throat, clapping Anderson reassuringly on the shoulder. "I'm sorry if we just barged in, but we were thinking of going out for a drink tonight. Care to join us?" He said politely.
John opened his mouth, but was interrupted as Sherlock opened his. "Molly made you do this." It wasn't a question, but merely a statement. He continued: "John wrote her 3 hours and 12 minutes ago and complained about me shooting the house down."
John glanced at the clock on the wall, and opened his mouth to interfere, but was interrupted. Again.
"The clock is 3 and a half minutes late. It ticks about a millisecond too slowly. I was meaning to mention it. Sometime. But I was busy." Sherlock scratched the back of his head casually with his gun.
John sighed. Looking at Lestrade and Anderson, he shrugged slightly. "Well, I'll go but.." He looked at Sherlock, who had turned around and was staring rudely in the opposite direction of their guests.
"I won't go. The noise at the bar is horrendous and uncivilized. John, make me some tea." Sherlock wrapped his bathrobe closer around him, and shot of a few bullets with the gun.
John sighed, looking apologetically at Lestrade and Anderson. "Later then, I gu-" He began, but Sherlock called him. He turned, and stared right at Sherlock who had the gun pointed towards him. He pulled the trigger.
"Bang." Sherlock commented when the gun didn't go off. Then he disappeared into the kitchen.

John said goodbye to Lestade and Anderson, getting a time and place to meet them later. As the door closed behind the guests, Sherlock said from the kitchen: "John, tea!"
John shook his head lightly, but went to make the tea. He picked up the cup of tea from the night before, and brought it with him to the kitchen. He knew Sherlock. He would demand to be served tea in that cup. And only that cup.