Work Text:
“John, it’s been three months.”
“I know how to use a calendar, Mary,” John reminded her impolitely, slamming his laptop shut. He moved to get up, but Mary blocked his way. “Can you move please?”
“I am sick of Sherlock Holmes running this house like it's his own!”
“What do you expect me to do? Kick him out?”
“Yes!”
“Mary, I can’t. Sherlock is in a bad place. Do you not understand that he is addicted to cocaine and morphine. He needs us.”
“Well, I need peace and quiet. I haven’t had a calm night since our honeymoon, which thankfully, he didn’t have a ticket for. If he did, that would have been two more weeks of nonstop craziness.”
“Why does it matter to you so much? It’s not like he’s interrupting any hot, angry sex,” John pointed out, raising an eyebrow at his fuming wife.
“I am due in four months, John. We are going to be having a baby. We don’t need the extra stress from Sherlock Holmes and his experiments.”
“His experiments haven’t hurt you, have they?”
“No, but-”
“Then I see no reason for us to kick him out. He can be helpful when the baby comes.”
“He’s not being helpful! He’s breaking apart our home!” Mary screamed, flailing her arms dramatically.
“Home? We don’t have a home, Mary! A home is a place where one can feel safe and comfort, but here, I feel none of that. I feel annoyance and hate. All because of you.”
“Why are you blaming me? It’s not my fault that Sherlock has been ruining our time together.”
“But that’s the thing. He’s not. Our relationship was a one time thing. Sex, purely. I don’t love you.”
“Oh? Then, who do you love?”
“Mary, shut up.”
*^*^*
Sherlock Holmes was indeed a strange man. He would admit it to anyone who asked. He loved experimenting his insane ideas. He loved writing what John called boring research papers, to which he’d say his blog would be his legacy, not Sherlock’s beautifully fact-written articles.
So, when John found him in his room, standing on his couch, spray painting the walls; he wasn’t surprised.
“Sherlock, what are you doing?”
“The color of yellow was suffocating me. I needed a new scenery.”
“Why are you spray-painting your room, and not just painting it?”
“Mary would have stopped me once she saw the bucket of black paint. I thought a spray-paint bottle would be less suspicious.”
“Sherlock.”
“Yes?” Sherlock glanced back at John, who grinned up at him.
“I knew there was reason why I loved you.”