What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters or this world.
Summary: Sherlock takes Molly's advice when dealing with his dangerous flatmate.
AN: Sorry John.
Molly gave me a magazine. It has one hundred tips for figuring out your man. She said it is a bible amongst women. I will use it to solve the mystery that is John, or, as I like to refer to him, that mad-hatter who sits on my Union Jack cushion until it is flat.
I think John may be my boyfriend. It says here if a man is happy to sit in silence with you doing nothing whatsoever of an evening then you’ve moved on from dating and you may consider him your boyfriend. Not that John and I ever dated. Not much. I don’t think. I’ll go ask him.
John says we did not date. The source material does not elaborate on this point so I think I should just assume he’s my boyfriend so as not to hurt his feelings.
Molly’s magazine says I should take an interest in my boyfriend’s hobbies. John’s hobbies are:
1. Buying groceries.
2. Cleaning the flat.
3. Watching TV.
4. Typing with two fingers.
5. Trying to engage in sexual relations with women.
6. Following me about on cases.
I’ve already showed an interest in number six so I will work on the others.
Followed John to the shops today. It was dull beyond words. He spent a ridiculous amount of time deciding between organic and cheap vegetables. He finally decided on the cheap ones. I was nearly gasping with boredom but determined to take an interest. I questioned the produce girl about organic vegetation. She launched into a fifteen minute lecture. It would have gone on longer but I pretended to swoon. I ‘woke up’ when they paged a doctor and found John hurrying towards me. He just sighed and told everyone I was a mental patient.
I’m not going to shop there anymore.
I observed John picking up the flat. After eleven minutes and nine seconds he got all grumpy with me and said peevishly that I should help. I said I was just taking an interest and he went and dumped all my mold cultures into the sink and turned on the rubbish disposal.
The way he glared at me! I must remember that John is, in fact, a killer. In the first twenty-four hours that I knew him he shot a man and then he killed that circus bloke. I’m rather surprised Mycroft has not warned me off him.
I hid in John’s bedroom (under the bed) to take an interest in his latest sexual conquest. John engages in sex in a rather rambunctious manner that I’m not sure is good for his health. It also disturbs the dust under the bed and makes anyone lying there apt to sneeze.
John put his hands on me in a way that was not pleasant. He marched me down the stairs and stood in the middle of the living room screaming his bloody lungs out. He didn’t appear to remember that he was naked except for a condom.
When I kindly brought this to his attention he took the condom off his penis and chucked it at me. Which is unsanitary. A doctor really ought to know better.
I kindly pointed this out as well and he said, “What the fucking buggering fuck? How fucking hard did you hit your last night?”
Honestly! The mouth on him.
I said I’d hit it pretty hard actually and that might explain why there are two John’s standing in sitting room shouting abuse at me.
He went half all melty with concern for me and half girding his loins to put his professional doctor hat on. It was bizarre. He sat me down in a chair and procured a pen light from somewhere. I am not joking. It was just magically there. So John either keeps a pen light secreted in his arsehole at all times or I really did hit my head hard. I flinched away from it a bit because I do not like instruments that have been stored in the anus to come near my eyes. John pulled my hair to hold me still and got all up in my face with himself. His breath smelled like beer.
I’m not fond of beer but I wanted to taste it. I settled for kicking him in the shins while he probed my eyes.
Molly says that the eyes are the window to the soul. I wonder if John saw anything in there? I think my soul would look like a spark dancing on the wind, alighting here and there, seeking out things to set on fire.
John didn’t tell me anything about my soul. He just sent me to bed and went to check on his sexual partner. He needn’t have bothered. She had scuttled out while he was throwing the condom at me.
Molly’s magazine says that if I’m concerned about my man’s behavior that I should sit him down and have a calm discussion about how it is affecting our relationship. I should use lots of ‘I’ statements.
Basically I just want John to kill people that aren’t me. Or Mrs. Hudson. Or Molly. Also Lestrade.
“John,” I will say, “I would like you to channel your homicidal tendencies towards people that are not in our inner circle of beloved friends.”
John marched into my bedroom with his laptop. He had my file open. The one that I saved as ‘This is private John don’t read it’. Honestly, is nothing sacred? He had all my notes on taking an interest in ones boyfriend open.
“John,” I said calmly, “I feel that my privacy has been invaded.”
John said some things then that I can only paraphrase. It sounded like, “Arse fucking bleeding buggering cunt fuck you sideways with a rusty pole Sherlock Holmes.” Again, I am paraphrasing.
I noticed (because I am nothing if not observant) that John was still parading around naked. I remained calm and used ‘I’ statements.
“John,” I said, “I feel you have forgotten to bring your pants to this argument.”
I think John needs an anger management course. If the laptop had been mine I’m sure he would have chucked it at my head. Instead he stormed from my room and from the flat and he hasn’t been back even though it’s three in the morning. I hope he didn’t go out nude.
Hmph. John paraded about the streets of London in nothing but a pair of boots and my coat.
John woke up at the crack of one o’clock in the afternoon to sit me down and talk rationally and calmly about the above events. Perhaps he found an anger management group that meets in the middle of the night and caters to naked men who steal their boyfriend’s coats? Or maybe Molly has also given John a copy of her magazine? That sly minx.
Anyway, John used lots of ‘I’ statements, which I approved of.
“Sherlock,” he said, “I feel that you think we are some sort of fucked up version of boyfriends.”
I ignored his foul language.
John says we are not boyfriends and that he doesn’t have time to explain why not to a man who is suppose to be a genius. I have retreated with dignity to my bedroom, barricading the door with a pillow and a book. If John wants to get in here, he can, but he will have to push harder. If he cares at all he will push.
John cares. He sat his wee self on my bed and put his hand on shoulder when I shoved my face into the mattress.
“Why do you want to be my boyfriend? It’s not something you’d want.”
“It’s important,” I said. “Being a boyfriend is important.”
“Sherlock,” he tugged gently at my hair. “You are important. Why do you think I let you drive all those girls away? You’re the most important thing to me. You’re my best friend.”
I sat up in a huff. “If we’re boyfriends it could lead to marriage. Everyone says it’s the next step. It’s what everyone strives for. Otherwise it’s ‘just friends’ and John, you’re not ‘just.’”
John was still and thoughtful for a long time. I let him be because John needs a long time with thoughts.
“Do you want to have sex with me, Sherlock?” he said after several years had passed.
“No,” I said. “Sometimes I want to taste what you’ve eaten. I think that means I want to kiss you, but I can live without it.”
John got all shaky. “Shall we try it? An experiment?”
I must have nodded or something because John was kissing me. He does this thing where he takes my bottom lip between his own and breathes in deep like I’ve hurt something in him. And then he does dirty things with his tongue.
“What do you think?” he said after an interval during which the moon waxed and waned and the sun did back flips and the galaxy swooned.
“I don’t know how the universe works,” I said. “I’m just glad you’re in it.”
John smiled and was quiet for a time.
“Sherlock?” he said. “There’s a ceremony for best friends. I think we should become official best friends while we see where this goes.”
“Is there?” I said, feigning ignorance.
“There is. I think Molly presides over these things.”
John slammed the copy of Molly’s magazine down on her desk.
“Hi, love. Sherlock and I are engaged to become best friends. You’ll perform the ceremony of course.”
Molly looked up expecting to find the eyes of sweet John. She saw the killer.
I really must sit him down one day and discuss this. It’s serving me well for the moment though.