Knit Me A Pony: Status Message Here

Earthy in email: You know I am always up for anything Sherlock/John.  Which is more a statement of fact than a prompt.  *cough*

Fan in email: Which means that you should write something with John, Sherlock, and WHISKEY, Laurie. ;)

This didn’t end up S/J, hehe, but oh well.

John walked home from clinic duty and into a hurricane.  He could hear the shouting from the street and, on his way up the stairs, the unmistakable thump and wooden groan of Sherlock throwing himself bodily onto the sofa.

“Be reasonable, Sherlock.”  The tip of Mycroft’s umbrella was stuttering an unsteady and irritated rhythm on the floor; he shot an ugly look at John when he opened the door and came inside.  ”If you don’t mind, Dr. Watson, we’re having a family situation.” He leaned to one side, only just dodging the cushion flying at his head.

“I do live here, you know,” John said mildly, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a chair.  

Mycroft huffed and let him pass. “Fine.  See if you can talk sense into him.”  He threw up his hands and stalked towards the exit.  ”But if I find you’ve told Mummy, Sherlock, the consequences will. Be.  Dire.”  The door slammed so hard it rattled in the frame.  John pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to three before looking up again.

Sherlock was in quite a state; his shirt untucked, his shoes chucked across the room (no doubt at his brother’s head), and a bottle of whiskey balanced precariously on his chest.

“Hang on,” John said, tilting his head to read the label, “is that bottle mine?”

“It’s ridiculous.  Mycroft is ridiculous,” Sherlock said, lifting his head to take a drink straight from the bottle.

“I was saving that, you know.”

“And if not ridiculous, at least damned inconsiderate.”

“I actually hid it months ago.”

“He should’ve asked me before doing something so questionable.”

“In my bedroom.  While you were away.”

Sherlock seemed to realize John’d been talking for the first time. “What are you talking about?”

John flopped down in his chair and blew out a frustrated breath.  ”My whiskey.  You’re drinking my whiskey.”

“Oh.  Yes.  Only alcohol in the house.  You couldn’t expect me to go to an off-license after hearing that kind of terrible news, could you?”

“… what news?”

Sherlock gave him a rather bleary glare and then dropped his head back on the cushion. “Of course you don’t know.  How silly of me to think you could possibly work out something so simple on your own.”

John stared up at the ceiling for just a minute, steeling himself.  ”Yes, well.  How about you spell it out for me, just this once.”

Sherlock blew out a breath.  ”I put up cameras,” he said.  ”To spy on Mycroft.  Wanted him to see how it felt.”  

“Ah.  And he caught you?”  John looked puzzled.

“Actually, I caught him.”

“Oh?”

“Inflagrante.”

“…oh.”

“With Lestrade.”

“… … oh.”

“Yes.”  Sherlock turned the full weight of his sulk onto his roommate.  ”Why are you smiling?”

“Hmm?  Am I?  Never mind.”  John rescued his laptop from where it’d been tipped onto the floor.  ”I assume you confronted them?  What did Greg say?”

“Er.”  Sherlock said, fingers twitching to put air quotes around it.

“So it went well, then.”  John was trying not to smile again, really he was, but it was getting harder and harder to feel sorry for Sherlock.

“Can you believe he’d do something so… disturbing?”

“Honestly, after how bad that divorce was, I’m impressed he didn’t do anything actually self-destructive.”

“Like what?  What could possibly be worse than shagging my brother?”  Sherlock spit the words out with a sneer.

“Drinking most of a £100 bottle of your flatmate’s whiskey and leaving shoeprints on the wallpaper, for a start.”

“Oh shut up, John.” Sherlock rolled to face the wall, hugging the whiskey to his chest.  

John sighed and opened his laptop. He flinched at what was still up on the screen.  ”Damn it, Sherlock, you could have warned me you left the recording playing.”

“I didn’t record anything.” Sherlock said, sounding ill. “It’s a live feed.”

“Oh.”  John blinked and stared longer than was probably strictly professional before he closed the window.  ”Well.  Well done, Greg, I suppose.”