You and Sherlock

Not My Divison

Back at 221B, you had a full intention of taking a scalding shower and then going to bed. But once more, your plans were bound to be derailed. Because once you walked into your flat, you could hear the footsteps in Sherlock's. And not just footsteps; furniture was crashing, things were being thrown, and you heard the sound of voices floating down to your flat. There was no way you'd be able to go to sleep.

Resigning yourself to the fact that you had lived the longest day ever, you walked back into the hallway, where Sherlock was saying that John invaded Afghanistan, and John and Sherlock were laughing.

"That wasn't just me," John pointed out mirthfully. Sherlock chuckled and then met your gaze.

"Y/N?"

John, not hearing Sherlock's query, continued. " Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway." Sherlock became more serious, waving his hand dismissively  John furrowed his brow.

"So what were we doing there?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, a note of discomfort in his voice.

"Oh, just passing the time." You shot a sharp look at Sherlock and he avoided your gaze, looking at John instead. 

"And proving a point," Sherlock said pointedly. You shook your head slightly, trying to figure out what Sherlock was referring to.

"What point?" John sounded bewildered.

"You." His limp, you realized as Sherlock whirled toward Mrs. Hudson's front door.  "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

You were considering taking it and freeing yourself of Sherlock's incessant pacing in the middle of the night. Casting a glance at John, you realized that you wouldn't wish your circumstances of Sherlock bothering you late at night on anyone else. 

"Says who?" John cried out, his voice indignant. Sherlock dramatically flung his gaze to the door. 

"Says the man at the door." 

On cue, three knocks sounded from the door. Thinking it through, you guessed it was Angelo come to return the cane. Sure enough, when John answered the door, Angelo was standing outside, cane and a bag in hand.

"Sherlock texted me," Angelo explained, gesturing vaguely at Sherlock, who was leaning his head against the wall dramatically. But that wasn't anything new; just about everything Sherlock did was dramatic. The only person you'd ever met that was as... extra ... as Sherlock was his brother. "He said you forgot this," Angelo held out the cane to John, which John took after a moment of surprise. 

"Ah," John threw a look over his shoulder at Sherlock, who grinned smugly at him. "Er, thank you. Thank you."  John made to close the door but then Angelo held up the bag in his hand and looked at you.

"I packaged you another serving of your pasta," he said, and you suddenly felt a surge of gratitude for the convicted criminal. As you reached out to grab the food, Angelo continued. "Sherlock told me to."

And with that, he turned and walked away from your doorstep. You shut the door quickly and turned to look at Sherlock but Mrs. Hudson was hurrying out of her flat, teary-eyed and flustered.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she wrung her hands.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock crinkled his brow, confused.

"Oh, Upstairs." Hrs. Hudson waved her hand wearily, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. Without a word, Sherlock whirled around and ran up the stairs, John following him. You looked at Mrs. Hudson.