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Flappy Bird

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Tuesday mornings were John's days off, which he enjoyed because it meant he could spend the day being dragged around London by the one and only Sherlock Holmes. When John awoke on his own, without a consulting detective barging into his room and throwing clothes at him, telling him to get up, John was more than a little bit confused but nonetheless, enjoyed his lie-in.


He sauntered down the stairs into the kitchen, tying his robe around himself. The kitchen was empty, so either Sherlock was still asleep (unlikely) or he was lying on the sofa, in thought.


John put the kettle on and was about to ask if Sherlock wanted tea, then he heard a pained groan. He paused by the kitchen table, “Sherlock?”


“John.” Sherlock groaned again, this time more needy. John felt a flush of panic as he rushed into the living room, seeing Sherlock sitting on the edge of his seat on the sofa, hands cradling his head. His fingers were tightly latching onto his curls. John had never seen the other so distressed.


“Sherlock, what's wrong?” He asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.


“I can't do this John; I can't do it, this is too hard.” Sherlock gripped the curls of his hair tighter and groaned again.


John darted forward and knelt in front of Sherlock, “Can't do what, what is it? What's happened?” He tried his best to look at Sherlock's face, hoping to find the reasoning behind this sudden behaviour. Sherlock inhaled deeply, reaching out to grasp his phone from beside him. He handed it to John, who in return, accepted it with worry, unlocking the screen to find-




“This game, it's impossible!” Sherlock sighed angrily, “the atrocious excuse for a bird can't fly on it's own, no no, I have to control it. And, when I do, even if it's the most simplest of tasks, it's ridiculously impossible!”


John stared at Sherlock, then flickered his gaze down at the phone, then back up to the consulting detective. “This is it, this is the problem?”


“I can't do it, John! How on earth do you get a score higher than nine on this sad excuse for a game!?”


Jesus Sherlock!” John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Trust Sherlock to be dramatic over something so small. John thought it would have been something a hell of a lot more worth worrying over. “I thought it was something serious.”


“This is serious, I'm one of the smartest people you'll ever meet – my mind is a weapon in itself, I'm incredibly intelligent yet I can't even control a bloody bird!” Sherlock cried, rubbing a hand over his face. He looked so distressed and small, so angry and childlike – like a toddler who couldn't fit the plastic star shape into the rectangle hole.


John shook his head, anger coursing through him. Then he chuckled. Sherlock looked up at him suddenly, frowning, “what's so amusing?” He snapped.


You are one of a kind, Sherlock Holmes, you really are. “Nothing, nothing.” John cleared his throat, “tea?”


Sherlock looked to be debating this, “yes, thank you.”


John headed over to the kitchen and heard beeping and then a frustrated sigh. “And turn that bloody game off!” He called over his shoulder.