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Sunday

"Sherlock, get up."

"Mmf."

"Sherlock, get up!"

"Mmmmf!"

"SHERLOCK! GET THE HELL UP!"

Sherlock rolled over onto his back to glare at John. "Go away! Can't you see I'm trying to sleep?!"

John sighed angrily and rubbed his face, only too obviously trying to keep his cool. His flatmate was trying. Especially on a Sunday, when Lestrade wasn't in to give him crime. Especially on this particular Sunday, where

~Lestrade wasn't in
~Mycroft was off doing some boring political thing halfway across the world
~Irene Adler was too far away to give him any trouble to cope with(which he loved)
~Molly Hooper was off work sick
~Moriarty had quieted down for the moment
~There was no more mention of this "Sebastian Moran" person for him to track down.

Even Anderson and Sally Donovan weren't around to annoy him. He was bored playing with chemicals(John had had to duck several vials of God-knows-what being thrown across the flat earlier), bored shooting the wall(John had narrowly avoided a bullet to the brain as he exited his room), bored wandering around London and being rude to people(John was actually glad that he'd gotten bored with that), bored playing his violin(he had, in fact, attempted to garrote John with the bow earlier), and just plain bored altogether. So now he simply lay on his face on the couch in his dressing gown, at 1:45 in the afternoon. And frankly, John was tired of it.

"No, you're not. You're getting up and going shopping with me."

Sherlock rolled back onto his face with a groan, but John was having no more of that. He grabbed the sinewy arm and yanked.

"No, get up."

He pulled hard and Sherlock rolled off the couch and onto the floor. John dragged him to his chair and threw his trenchcoat over him, disregarding the fact that he was wearing a ratty grey T-shirt and sweatpants underneath the dressing gown. He hauled him upright and stolidly began dragging him towards the door. Sherlock groaned and leaned backwards and dug his heels into the carpet, moaning, "No, John--I don't--want to! I'm not going!"

"Yes--you--will!" John grunted, freeing Sherlock from the door frame with a massive tug. Sherlock continued complaining and dragging his heels and acting like a petulant child as John steadfastly dragged him towards a cab.

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When they arrived back at Baker Street, Sherlock dumped the bag of groceries at the foot of the stairs, ran up, and flopped immediately back down on the couch, face down.

John sighed and shut the door with his foot, managing with difficulty to gather up the bag Sherlock had left. He staggered up into the flat and into the kitchen, while Sherlock remained face-down on the couch, stolidly ignoring him.

John dropped the bags on the table and sighed. He shot a glance over at his still flatmate recumbent on the couch and pulled out his phone. He texted:

MH

Where are you? Sherlock is getting annoying.

Almost instantly, a reply popped up.

Oh, I got home early. I've been home for maybe a week now.

MH

John stared at the text in his hand. He took a long, deep breath, struggling to control himself, though he really wanted to kill Mycroft.

Then. Get. The. Hell. Here. Now.

You should try to be more polite, John.

If you are not here in ten minutes, I'm getting out my gun.

I'm on my way. Not very friendly.

John took another slow breath and wondered if he should pull out the gun anyways.