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A smile spread across John's face and he laughed.

"Good for you! He deserves it more often than naught."

You smiled back and began to unlock your flat door.

"(YN), would you like to join me for dinner tomorrow at six?" John asked abruptly.

You wheeled around to face him.

"Why?"

He shrugged.

"I want to get to know my neighbor better," he replied unconvincingly.

You eyed him shrewdly.

"Will Sherlock be there?"

Quickly John shook his head.

"No, he's going to be off on a case. It'll just be you and me," he said bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Against your better judgement you said;

"Alright then."

And entered your flat.

It was a sparsely decorated apartment. The main room that led to the hallway was both the kitchen and your work room. The kitchen had an oven, fridge, microwave, coffeemaker (you practically lived on that heavenly machine), and even a small counter with two barstools. That was all situated in a compact way. Not cramped, mind you just very symmetrical and neat. Almost like a very meticulous, Belgian man had once lived there (AN: if you get this reference YOU ARE AWESOME).

On the left side of the room there was just a small white desk complimented by a matching chair. Over on the wall above the desk was a billboard tacked with pictures of your parents, your cat named Loki (He had green eyes and a black coat you couldn't help yourself), movie stubs, your plane ticket to London and a map of Middle Earth.

Almost as soon as you shut the door you collapsed onto the comfy, white chair and slumped down wishing that you had not agreed to socialize. Even thought it was tomorrow night, you were still not looking forward to it.

A vibration in your pocket startled you. Groaning at the thought of having to talk to your mother or father for an hour as they hound you about your life in the UK you pulled the infernal device out of your pocket.

You peered down at the number in surprise. It wasn't anyone you recognized.

You had a couple close friends back in the States but it wasn't them and there was no one else that you had given your number to.

So who was this?

Cautiously you slid it open and read the message.

How is unemployment suiting you, (YN)?

A scowl made its way onto your face as you saw the initials on the bottom.

-SH

Superior Hothead. Otherwise known as Sherlock Holmes. The thorn in your side. THAT NEVER LEFT.

Growling, you resisted the urge to chuck your phone across the room into the bin and forced yourself to text back.

It appears you have the wrong number.

You shut your phone and sat up. It was getting late and you wanted some grub before bed. Just as you were reaching for the fridge your phone buzzed.

Again.

You looked at it with a glare deadly enough to kill. Maybe if you glared long enough it would explode into a million pieces or better melt into a puddle of T.A.R.D.I.S. blue mush. On second thought you didn't want your favorite case melted. So with a heavy sigh you reached over,  grabbed the hateful machine and peered at the message.

Evidently not. (YN), if you wished to make me believe I had the wrong number you would have merely ignored my text. However you did not which shows how daft you truly are.

-SH

That did it.

Your phone hit with a smash against the opposite wall. You heard a very satisfying crack as it fell into your metal wastebasket.

That ought to fix-

Your phone buzzed feebly and with a scream of rage you raced over towards it armed with a paper weight from your desk.

After a brutal beating and smashing, your phone resembled the Death Star after Luke Skywalker shot his proton torpedoes into its thermal exhaust port.

With a tired sigh you collapsed beside the trashcan, your back against the door. A noise startled you and you peered around. Shaking your head you leaned back against the door only to hear it yet again.

What the-

Then you realized what it was.

It was Sherlock Holmes.

LAUGHING.

You cursed him silently as you let your tired head sag onto your shoulder. As your eyes closed you promised yourself that he would pay for it. Maybe you could toilet paper his room when you went upstairs to visit John tomorrow. It was only going to be him and you after all.

Right?

"Flat Buddies"Where stories live. Discover now