Sherlock’s sneeze punctuated the silence of 221B Baker Street. John looked up from writing his blog and saw his flatmate collapse onto the sofa and wearing his blue dressing gown.
“How do you cope John? Being ill I mean, it’s awful I can’t think.” He voice was muffled as his face was pressed into the cushion.
John chuckled, Sherlock had had a cold for a day and now he was acting like it was the end of the world. The door to the flat clicked open and Sherlock sat up whilst tightening his dressing gown around him.
“Hey boys I bring groceries.”
Your voice floated from the kitchen and into the living room. You put away the shopping in the cupboards that were not contaminated by Sherlock’s ‘experiments’. Your relationship with the genius was complicated; you were his friend always, equal sometimes and a source of major confusion frequently. As you walked into the living room Sherlock merely greeted you with a scowl a
Once safely up the stairs you began decorating. Soon the mantelpiece and the mirror above it were decked out with silver tinsel. The miniature Christmas tree was covered in red and green baubles and the sprig of mistletoe John’s latest girlfriend had bought over was hanging in the doorway.
As no one was home you sat on the floor writing cards and signing them ‘(Name), John and Sherlock.’ Knowing that the men would never get round to writing their own. Glittered brushed off from the cards and covered the floor and your jeans. Sherlock returned to find you singing Christmas songs and covered in varying colours of glitter, a look of puzzlement