Sherlock Started A Joke

Chapter 1: Hickeys

John was happily making his tea one morning when Sherlock stomped into the kitchen, automatically invaded his personal space and demanded him to look at his neck. 

"Look!" Sherlock half-shouted and pointed at his neck. 

"Well, good morning to you. too. Just woke up?" John ran his eyes up and down his flatmate's figure and thought that the question was completely unecessary. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, "I said look!"

John did (because Sherlock was being an impatient arse) and examined his flatmale's long, pale neck and goodness... if he was a vampire, he'd be tempted. 

Uh, wait, what?!

Delete! That wasn't what he's supposed to be thinking. John shook his head gently and then looked at the red spot on the side of Sherlock's neck. 

The doctor cleared his throat, "Uhm, you got bitten by a mosquito? It's a bit swollen." 

Sherlock shook his head and scratched. making that particular spot on his neck redder. John pulled his flatmate's hand away and glared. 

"Stop. You're only going to make it worse with your scratching." 

The detective grunted, "But it itches, John! And it's not a mosquito, it's this!" Sherlock abruptly lifted his left hand up, thumb and forefinger holding something that John could not see just yet.

"Can't see a thing," the doctor admitted and Sherlock moved closer to show it to John, their forehead almost touching.

"See it now?"

"Hm, yeah. It's... a bug. What're you gonna do with it?" The doctor looked up and bumped his forehead with Sherlock, though it wasnt that hard. 

"Nothing, I don't know..." Sherlock shrugged.

John smiled, "Heh. It looks a bit like a hickey though. Want me to put that away for you?"

Wait, what did I just say?

"No."

"Oh."  

John was about to move away and continue doing his tea when Sherlock suddenly reached for his nape, pulled him closer, and brought his left hand to John's neck where the little bug was. The doctor screamed and kicked and hit Sherlock's arm over and over, while the detective dodged and laughed like a fucking lunatic. 

"What the fuck! Sherlock! Agh!" John shouted when Sherlock finally let him go - or more when he successfully kicked the detective away from him. The fucking bastard was on the floor (fell on his butt) clutching his stomach, laughing hysterically. 

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuck!" John said in a high-pitched voice he didn't know he had, and clutched his neck. Sherlock was still on the floor, laughing his arse off and John just couldn't fight the urge to kick the bastard's leg.

"You cock! You fucking cock! Why the bloody hell did you do that!?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock burst into fits of laughter again.

"Ugh! God. I hate you." 

"No, you don't."

"Yes, I do."

"It won't last for long though. Help me up?" The detective held out a hand, asking John to pull him up and the doctor did. Harshly. 

"Sorry," Sherlock said sweetly, but John knew it was false and he wasn't really sorry. 

"Whatever," the doctor reached a hand to his neck and started scratching. "Ugh! God!"

"Don't! You're only going to make it worse."