Prompting Part XXXIV

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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FILL: A Trope too Far(7a/7)

[persiflager]

The bedroom in front of John looked and smelt exactly as it had when he left it. No more dust than usual, no whips, chains, dog bowls or doppelgangers. He crossed his fingers and went downstairs, where he found Sherlock eating the leftover Chinese from last night and reading a newspaper.

“Morning,” said John tentatively.

Sherlock grunted in response. He looked like he usually did first thing in the morning - rumpled and grouchy. “Not a single murder, and all the thefts are utterly transparent. What’s wrong with the criminal classes?”

“Well, they’re criminals,” said John, checking the contents of the fridge. “Not generally known for being helpful.”

“Mm.”

Sherlock carried on flicking through the paper while John wandered through the flat, peering at the contents of the bin, his desk, the internet search history on his laptop. Not a single thing out of place.

John grinned to himself, standing by the window in the pale morning sun. “There’s no place like-”

There was a large crash and he ducked instinctively, throwing his arms over his head to protect himself against the flying shards of glass from the window. Someone landed heavily to his left. John spun round and lunched himself at the intruder, tackling him to the ground.

He was a big man, dressed all in black, and struggled vigorously. John held him still with one hand wrapped tightly around his throat before landing an stiff uppercut on his jaw with his free hand. The man fell limp.

John climbed off with a groan, shaking his hand and was about to go in search of something to restrain the man with when someone else burst in through the front door with a shotgun. John dropped to the floor, rolled across the carpet of broken glass and grabbed the spare handgun from underneath the sofa. He rolled back over onto his back and raised one arm just in time to shoot the second intruder in the knee as he came round the corner. The man dropped his gun as he fell to the floor, shouting and clutching at his leg.

John slowly, painfully stood up. He was covered in hundreds of tiny cuts, his left hand throbbed from where he’d slugged the first intruder and he still had a sore head from the other bumps he’d suffered recently. He limped slowly across the room and picked up the shotgun.

“Home,” he said. “There’s no place like home.”