Sadie: Gah, it takes me too long to get to these, but I always enjoy getting them!
“What. The Hell. Is That.”
“I don’t…” Sherlock paused, “…honestly know.”
John gagged and covered his mouth and nose with his sleeve and turned away before his breakfast could be revisited all over the lino, and wondered how something like…like that, could even exist.
‘That’, being the bright orange, sickly sweet and vaguely tarty-smelling mould that had taken over the second shelf in their refrigerator, and was creeping it’s wretched way up the back wall.
Christ, it was just…yeah, he hadn’t had a need to open the fridge in awhile (more like the past week…maybe closer to two weeks) what with never being home long enough to have a proper meal other than take-away, but still! How was it even possible for something like ‘that’ to grow that much in that amount of time?!
Sherlock was still bent over with his head stuck in the fridge, examining it. John didn’t know how he managed to not retch at the smell. “Clean it up, NOW.”
Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder.”Why me?!”
“Because I’m not the one always growing ‘experiments’ in there.”
Sherlock sneered; “You don’t have to say it like that.”
“I don’t care. You know the drill. Bucket. Hot, soapy water. Scrub brush. Now.”
“It’s not mine.” Sherlock turned back and leaned in further, looking for the source of the…growth. “It’s coming from underneath this pile of foil; I don’t wrap mine in fo-OW!”
A sharp rap against his bent-over backside cut him off, and as an awful burning sensation began to radiate from the point of impact, the detective shot straight up and reached back to cover his arse as he whipped around to face a very dangerous-looking John, who was still brandishing a long-handled, equally dangerous-looking wooden spoon.
“You…are going to clean that up,” John said, pointing the spoon at Sherlock’s face.
“But it’s not my–ah!!” Sherlock cried out again as the spoon lashed out again, faster than his eye could see, and cracked against the back of his thigh. He took a step back, keeping his targeted area out of John’s range. “It’s not mine!” he said again, the pitch of his voice becoming strained…damn, that thing hurt!
John took another step forward and, before Sherlock could retreat any further, snagged Sherlock’s elbow in an iron-tight grip. “No! More! Excusese!” he said, punctuating each word with a solid whap against Sherlock’s bum, wherever his hands weren’t covering. Sherlock yelped and danced around in a frantic circle, desperate to get away, but unable to pull out of John’s grip. “I didn’ do’it!!!” he wailed, tears stinging his eyes.
Around and around they went, with sharp cracks from the spoon and howl’s of protest, with Sherlock leading them in a rather painful parody of a Maypole dance as he hopped from foot-to-foot with each searing whack.
Not even Ms. Hudson, as familiar with her boy’s antics as she was, could ignore the heartbreaking pleas for mercy…especially considering they’d conveniently left their door open for her and the whole bloody neighborhood to hear. “What is going on?!?” she shouted as she ascended the steps and happened upon the arduous scene.
John landed another punishing smack the Sherlock’s bum and stopped, mildly out of breath and breathing hard while he held fast to the little detective’s arm. “Take a look in the refrigerator and see for yourself; maybe you can get a better answer out of this one than I can,” he huffed, glowering up at Sherlock.
Now that the assault against the delicate portion of his person had paused, Sherlock rubbed his backside like a madman and was near in hysterics while he pleaded at his Nana. “I-I-I d-did’n, d-did-dn’ d-do it,” he blubbered, tears coursing down his cheeks.
Ms. Hudson raised her eyebrow and went over to the refrigerator to see what all the fuss was about. She opened the door, and stared for a moment. “John…”
John swatted Sherlock again, causing a high-pitched shriek. “Don’t you worry,” he said, keeping his eye squarely on his little troublemaker. “This one’s going to clean up his mess, whether or not he can sit down to do it!…”
“JOHN.”
John finally turned to look at her. “What!?”
“…That’s the half a pineapple I gave you, three weeks ago.”
Everything went quiet. Even Sherlock stopped his sobbing, but continued to sniffle. “…It is?” John asked, uncertainty taking the edge off his voice.
Ms. Hudson turned to face them, her hands on her hips. “It is.”
“Oh.”
Sherlock pulled his elbow out of John’s grip again, and this time, John let him. “T-tol’ you,” he sniffled sullenly, sticking out his bottom lip and pouting at him.
John looked away and gave a sheepish laugh; “Guess I, uh, owe you an apology,” he said, and coughed.
Sherlock kept glaring and rubbing his backside.
Shit. He’d really stepped in it this time. “Sherlock, love, I’m sor–OW!”
Quick as a flash that defied her years, Ms. Hudson, Nana, had slipped up behind John, jerked the spoon from his hand, and cracked him across the arse with it. John whirled around, eyes wide, mouth gaping. “Oi!…”
“ ‘Oi’, nothing!” Ms. Hudson brandished the spoon in his face, a mere fraction of an inch from his nose, making him go cross-eyed. “You go clean your mess, before you can’t sit!”
“But I–yeeeow!” John squealed as five more rapid swats met the crease of his thigh, and he darted away. “Alright, alright, sorrysorrysorry!”
Nana stood and gave his the evil-eye as he scurried away to fetch all the cleaning supplies, then turned to the detective, who was now looking smug but tearful, and took his hand. “You come with me, dear…I was just setting up for tea.”
Sherlock took her hand and toddled along after his Nana and, just as they were leaving through the door, looked back to see John carrying a bucket with several rags and bottles of cleanser in it. He waited until he caught John’s eye, smiled…then stuck out his tongue and made a great, big ‘PTHHHHHBBBBT!’-noise at him before following his Nana down the stairs for tea and biscuits.
John glared after him, cheeks burning, then sighed and started to fill the bucket with hot water.
Why did these things always happen to him?
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