Ficlet: All peace and no work make Sherlock a dull boy
Title: All peace and no work make Sherlock a dull boy
Rating: G, but if you understand the references...
Disclaimer: None of it's mine
Warnings: None, they're just references to things that need lots of warnings
Summary: What happens when I write at 2am and decide that Sherlock should watch some of my favourite films
Word Count: 369
There was a typewriter on the table when John entered the flat. A stack of paper lay next to it.
“Sherlock?” he called. “When did we get a typewriter? And why?” No response. He was probably off sulking; it had been two weeks since he'd had a case. The horrors of mundane and calm life were surely getting to him by now. John bent to examine the half-filled sheet sticking out of the typewriter. One sentence, repeated over and over again. A glance at the stack of paper told him that they were also filled with the same words. All peace and no work make Sherlock a dull boy.
Oh bloody hell...
“Sherlock!” There was a noise on the stair, and Sherlock appeared a moment later, a very odd smile on his face. He was holding his violin.
“Hello, John. I've just been practicing.”
“Practicing what?” John's tone was biting.
“Just some of the old Ludwig Van.”
“Sherlock-” The consulting detective began to saunter through to the sitting room, swinging his bow like a weapon. He sang as he went. “I'm siiiiiiiingin' in the raaaaiiin~” John shouted over him.
“Sherlock, what've I told you about my Stanley Kubrick DVDs?” Sherlock stopped, tilted his head forward, grinned, and looked at John through his eyelashes. The effect made his eyes look enormous, and his expression was very, very unsettling.
“But John,” he said. “I haven't touched your DVDs. I watched them online, I promise. I've completely reformed!”
John massaged his temple and glanced upward as if praying for help. When he noticed something.
“Sherlock, why is the smoke detector light out?” He didn't receive an answer. John looked around the room. Which proved his theory correct.
“Did you seriously break every red light in the flat?!”
Sherlock's only answer was to trot through the kitchen, humming the chorus of 'Daisy Bell'. John rolled his eyes. This mood really must end soon. Hopefully somebody in London would decide to commit some of the old ultraviolence soon. Perhaps Moriarty would like to play a game.
“Mein John!” Sherlock shouted, throwing John's old cane at him. “You can walk!”