"BORED!"

John nodded once. "Alright then, start with the living room. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

Sherlock looked at the army doctor, eyebrows furrowed, mouth parted, steel blue-grey eyes confused. "Sorry, what?" John could have laughed.

"Clean the flat. Isn't that what I just said?"

~

Big misunderstanding, no-nonsense John, bored Sherlock, and based on true stories from my childhood.

(cross-posted on Ao3 under Kadi_WatsonHolmes)

~

When John Watson entered his flat on this particular day that he didn't particularly remember, he was greeted by the sound of gunshots. Now, with his and his flatmates line of work, his first thought was a case gone wrong. Running up the seventeen steps to flat B, John threw open the door, completely expecting his friend to be in some sort of perilous situation. What he didn't expect was Sherlock Holmes lounging in his armchair, John's army pistol clasped tightly in his left hand.

Another blast sounded and John breathed a sigh of relief followed by a hot wave of anger. "What the bloody HELL is going on here?"

"Bored."

"What?"

Sherlock jumped off his chair and attacked the wall with another round of bullets.

"Bored!"

"BORED!"

John took a deep breath, struggling to rein in his anger. It took a lot out of him to deal with a self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopathic Consulting Detective.

"Alright then," John started, leaning against the doorframe. "Give me the gun and start on the living room. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

Sherlock looked up at the ex-army doctor, eyebrows furrowed, cupid-bow lips slightly parted, steel blue-grey eyes confused. "I'm sorry, what?" John almost laughed at the detective's unusual facial expression.

"Clean the living room. Isn't that what I just said?"

"No, you said," Sherlock cleared his throat, speaking slowly and carefully, "'give me the gun and start on the living room'."

"Yes. Now get to it." John motioned to the messy floor.

"...why?"

John smirked. "When I was a child, mum would always put us to work if we ever told her we were bored. Learned pretty quickly to find things that would entertain us during rainy days and well, in this house, I will not tolerate your whining. Now, clean. I will be in the kitchen making dinner."

~

Sherlock stood, silent and unmoving. He was still trying to process a) this new information about John and b) the orders he had been given. He heard the tale-tell sounds of John rummaging about in the kitchen, a loud sigh as John took in the experiments and such on the table.

Sherlock loathed cleaning, but a part of him desperately wanted to make John happy. Was this sentiment?

So wrapped up in his thoughts -a rare occasion for the detective- Sherlock never thought to warn his flatmate of his newest experiment: "A head. A severed head!"

"...if you're making tea... I'd take a cuppa."

"A head in the friend!" John sounded angry. Not good.

"Yes..."

"A bloody head!"

"Where else was I supposed to put it?" Sherlock threw his arms out to the side, an indignant look on his face. John stormed into the living room, stopped near his armchair, looked at Sherlock standing near the door, and ran a hand down his face. "I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death." Sherlock explained, letting out a low breath to calm himself.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock."

"It's an experiment." Sherlock said tentatively.

"Clean!"

"Fine!"

Sherlock stomped to his desk, anger rekindled, and threw all of his papers on the floor, thumped to the floor with a pout and began sorting said papers.

John huffed at his flatmate's antics, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. "I am going to the store. I need ingredients for the beef stroganoff I want to make. If I get back and the living room is not spotless, I will-"

"I don't want beef stroganoff." Sherlock argued from his corner.

John looked at him, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "Then what do you want?"

Sherlock gave a hesitant half-smile, his anger dissipating slightly. "Chicken Carbonara? John always asked his opinion- especially when the detective was willing to eat. Sherlock liked that about the ex-soldier; even when they fought, John made sure to put others before himself. Although sometimes, Sherlock had to help John put himself first.

John paused for a second, thinking. "We have all the ingredients..." He sighed and let his head fall to his chest, gripping the chair as he cooled down. "Fine." He finally said.

Sherlock did a mental happy dance. Mycroft glared at him in his mind palace, but Sherlock didn't care.

"Thank you, John."

John snorted, stalking towards the kitchen once more. "Clean the living room, Sherlock!"

Sherlock obeyed, not wanting to get a talking-to from his best friend, and began to organize, muttering and grumbling about how much he hated it.

The doctor banged about in the kitchen for a few moments until John called out: "Stop whining, Sherlock! It'll go faster if you do!."

Sherlock shut his mouth, but opened it right after. "I hate cleaning! I don't want to clean."

"Then when you're bored, you won't assault Mrs. Hudson's wall with my gun."

"You're mean." Sherlock closed his mouth as John laughed from the kitchen. The detective hid a tiny smile. John's laugh was one of those contagious laughs that could make someone grin from a mile away.

"I'm making you chicken carbonara, aren't I? And I think following you around on our 'weekly criminal chase' and the fact that my blog is where 90% of our clients come from-"

"Okay, fine, I get it!" Sherlock paused, setting down a stack of paper. "You're not mean. And you're less of an idiot than most people."

"...did you just insult me? Or was that a compliment...?" John teased. Sherlock blew him a raspberry and tried to escape into his room after moving a few miscellaneous objects around in front of him.

"Oi!" John yelled, stopping Sherlock in his tracks, halfway down the hall to his room. "You're not finished, mister!"

~

The next time John came home from work to inconsistent gunshots and a bored Sherlock, he walked calmly up the seventeen steps and silently opened the door.

Sherlock froze like a deer in the headlights the moment he noticed John standing there, pointedly staring at him.

"Sherlock. The kitchen could use some work, if you're bored. It's either that or-"

Sherlock dropped the gun and raced to his room without saying a word. "Sherlock!"

Five minutes later, John had collected his gun with a shake of his head and locked it away where he knew Sherlock most likely wouldn't find it, put away his bag in his room, and taken off his shoes. Another two minutes and Sherlock emerged from his room, fully dressed.

"Sherlock," John started.

"We need milk, right? Yes, yes, milk. That tea you like, gingersnaps for me and biscoff for you... Molly called the other day, too. Says she has something of interest. And of course, Lestrade. Texted a few moments ago saying he had some cold cases for a rainy day." Sherlock rambled. John listened, amused. Sherlock never rambled nervously. Nor did he offer to go shopping. The doctor also knew for a fact that Molly had not called in the past few days, Lestrade was out of town (the DI texting about cold cases could be true, although John doubted it) and they had both had plenty of milk and their respective tea.

Sherlock shrugged on his coat. "I'm going to Tesco's. Back by dinner."

With those final words, the detective practically ran from the flat and thundered down the stairs. John chuckled. Sherlock really did hate cleaning.

Well, at least he had the flat to himself and Sherlock wasn't shooting the wall. Well, he already had, but he wasn't now. And John was grateful he didn't have to deal with a bored Consulting Detective again.

All in a day's work, thought John as he pulled out the ingredients for the broccoli soup he was craving.