Sherlock was someone who woke the urge to yell at him in frustration in most people he met.
John was no exception, in fact he was probably the one who experienced the most variations. There was silent frustration, furious frustration, amused frustration and many more. John was feeling a special kind of it right now.
He watched Sherlock, busy working on some kind of experiment with ink and various brightly coloured chemicals that had been going on for weeks, bent over something on the kitchen table, his marvellous bum sticking out into the room.
And suddenly John’s self-control snapped, he walked over from the sink – where he had been leaning against the counter, listening to Sherlock’s conclusions – and ran his hand over one lush cheek whispering “Bed. Now.”
Sherlock jerked, hit his head on the lamp, cursed and toppled over a vial in the process. The liquid spilled and etched a hole in the table that later on turned a deep shade of purple. Mrs Hudson was not amused about the hole, but she did like the colour.
“John. I am in the middle of an important experiment. And you just made me spill some of it.”
“If you do not make me spill something within the next five minutes, I am going to scream.”
Sherlock swallowed and grabbed John’s belt.