"And really, you know, it wasssn't even a GOOD case affter awl," Sherlock slurred, leaning heavily across the freshly-cleared kitchen table. "Jusht because we got paid alott, doesn't mean I'm not BOREDDD." He gestured with his glass, spilling the sparkling champagne onto the doily Mrs. Hudson had put on the table with the morning's tea tray.
John patted Sherlock's shoulder bemusedly, gently pushing him back upright into his chair. "Come on, Sherlock, looks like it's time for you to go be bored in bed. The other bottle can wait until you've finished a case YOU like."
Janeway tried her third attempt at the curry, this time taking great precaution to watch the replicator carefully before the whole thing went up into smoke again. Finally, the sauces were simmering just right, and a pleasant aroma was wafting around her quarters. Adding a few more spices to the mix, she poured it over wild rice and prepared to bring it to the mess hall. She silently DARED Neelix to call this concoction "bland."
John glanced up from his blog and was startled to see the savage expression with which Sherlock was staring at him. "Sherlock?" he called across the coffee table gently, bringing the detective out of his focused trance, "Was something wrong?"
Sherlock quirked a brow, debating how honest to be with John. "Oh, I was just wondering how hard I could bite your neck before you cried out." The doctor sat for a second, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly as his cheeks slowly flushed a bit brighter.
The Doctor smiled as Amy paused to admire the Androzanian lillies, the blue blooms reflecting a pale light against her face as she gathered one up to sample its fragrance. She plucked the alien flower from its stem and nestled it into Rory's hair with a giggle, eliciting a bemused eye-roll from Mr. Pond. The Doctor too collected a lily, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket for safekeeping. He'd have to see if the TARDIS remembered Androzani like he did.
It almost made him miss his celery.
John nearly wretched at the smell as Sherlock came upstairs, his trench coat drenched in motor oil and mud. He rushed to open a window, coughing into a sleeve as Sherlock stood dripping in the doorway, nearly oblivious to John's discomfort. After letting the room air out a bit, John took Sherlock's coat and tossed it into the bathtub with soap and hot water. "What in god's name were you thinking?!?" He nearly shrieked at Sherlock, who had settled himself into an armchair with his violin and two nicotine patches, "Those fumes can be deadly if inhaled in great quantities!"
Sherlock only shrugged into his violin, as though pointing out he weren't dead. It couldn't be helped, not when Moriarty's henchmen insisted on dragging him into a refinery.
John scowled at the empty bag in the cupboard. His stomach growled softly, almost as though in conjecture with his mood. He knew that this bag had previously contained the dozen snickerdoodle cookies he'd brought home from his favorite new bakery.
It was no great mystery what had happened to them, as Sherlock had recently solved his latest case and had suddenly started eating again. John sighed and resigned himself to a bagel as a writing-mate as he composed the blog summary of the latest ordeal.
John slowly wandered downstairs at the smell of something burnt wafting around 221B. Peeking his head around the corner into the kitchen, he was amused to find Sherlock, dressed in Mrs. Hudson's apron (probably stolen), meticulously inspecting a pan of what would seem to be the scalded remains of eggs. The furrowed brow on the detective's face made John chuckle, as Sherlock inspected the eggs as though trying to find a cause of death.
John shook his head at the state of Sherlock's trench coat. It had several rips in it, the hem was soaking wet, and there were burrs and thorns stuck in all along the sleeves. "It'll take a tailor more talented than me to fix this, Sherlock," John sighed, placing the near-ruined coat on the couch next to him. "The next time you think it's absolutely necessary to go running through briars, remember that I'm only experienced in sewing sutures."
John was rather frustrated with Sherlock's uninterested request for help. How had he gotten himself wrangled into unpacking his flatmate's trunk? He hadn't had any of the fun on the trip to wherever it was Sherlock had gone. John's musings on a revolt against the lazy man-child detective were cut short when his hand withdrew a black, lacy piece of lingerie.