"SHERLOCK!" John came barrelling out of the bedroom, hair mussed, chest bare, dressing gown thrown over his shoulders in an effort to cover everything his red-and-white pants didnât. "You had better not be be shooting at the bloody wall with my gun, or so help meâŠâ he hollered.
It was an empty threat, of course; Sherlock had already placed three neat little bullet holes at the center ofâ
"LATE!"Â BANG! BANG! BANG!
"What?" The bullet holes now formed a perfect little ring in the middle of what appeared to be a blown-up headshot of a handsome teenage boy. "Sherlock, is that Luke?"
"SHE. IS. LATE!â Sherlock made to aim, but catching Johnâs facial expression in the mirror opposite, thought better of it and dropped his arm, clicking on the safety. âUnacceptable, John. Unacceptable.â
John sighed and checked the clock over the bullet-ridden photograph. He crossed the room and laid a palm on Sherlockâs bicep. âShe is not late, Sherlock. Itâs five minutes to eleven.â
"Well sheâs six minutes from being late, John. Itâs too close. I canât have it. I will not be having it, John!"Â
"All right, all right, steady on, yeah? Just sit down. Weâll wait for another ten minutes, and then weâll give her a ring." John carefully picked up his husbandâs hand, prying the gun from long fingers. He placed it in the nearby desk drawer; the one that previously had been locked. He sighed again. Heâd need to find new hiding place, then. Another one.
"Ten minutes is four minutes late, John. Is it difficult for you to tell time? Do you know what it means when the big hand goes four tics past the twelve, John? I do wish youâd told me how unbelievably incapable you are of the simplest tasks before I married you, John.â
"Thatâs enough, Sherlock," John barked. "Now, Iâm going to make us a cuppa and youâre going to wait patiently like the grown adult father you are. No more shooting at the walls and definitely no more shouting abuse at me. Clear?â
Sherlock huffed, twirled in a great swirl of blue dressing gown, and all but flounced his way to the sofa, upon which he threw his lithe figure in one giant, stroppy motion. âIf sheâs not back inââ He shook his arm until his sleeve fell behind his watchâ âtwo and a half minutes, that boy, that slimy, untrustworthy, good for nothing date of hersââ
"Shhh!" John strode the distance across the living room, stopping to hover over his husband, placing a hand over his mouth. "I hear them."
Faint laughter, both male and female, rang up from the stoop below. Nervous laughter; the kind of laughter that came before a goodnight kiss.
âLuke,â Sherlock pushed Johnâs hand away and scoffed. âWhat sort of a name is Luke anyway? Biblical. Bet his parents are religious nutters. Cults, all of them. Our daughter is dating a cult leader, John!â
John rolled his eyes. âMy name is Biblical, Sherlock.â
Sherlock popped up, crossed the floor, and peered out the window. âJohn!â He hissed. âJohn, I canât see from here! Itâs that blasted overhang. I canât see at all!â
"Good, youâre not supposed to see." John joined Sherlock at the window, placing a hand at the small of his back. "Sheâll be up in a moment, Sherlock. Sheâs had a lovely evening and sheâs home on time. Go on, go to bed. Youâre a bit wound up for this, yeah? Iâll be in soon."
Sherlock turned and looked down at his husband through narrowed eyes. âYouâll find out everything?â
"And youâll tell me everything?"
Sherlock sniffed. âYouâll be useless at it. Iâd take one look at her and know exactly what happened in less than a minute.â He tossed his head and stalked off toward the bedroom.
John laughed. âAnd thatâs why Iâm sending you to bed.â
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