This is NOT a sequel to A String of Pearls. It's kinda the same concept, (almost, not really) but Sherlock is his manly self here. I'm thinking this may be 3-5 chapters. Not sure yet.

There are some interesting things about Sherlock Holmes that John could never have guessed applied to the man. One is Sherlock's pet peeves -if it can be called such a boring name- about folding the pages of his books, or any book for that matter.

This one is very strange, in John's opinion. Sherlock will toss his book about the house, not caring where they land. He bends the covers and spines of paperbacks passed their limit, and even used a select few a coaster. Granted, he'd never, ever abuse one of his first editions or classics in this manner, but it still baffles John that Sherlock is so particular about the pages of the book themselves.

John had the unfortunate luck to be on the receiving end of Sherlock's outburst firsthand. John had borrowed one of Sherlock's medical textbooks -from his extensive collection; more extensive than the actual doctor's- to freshen himself up on radial fractures and whatnot. It was a battered copy of a book published, in the 80s most likely. It's cover sported a few coffee and tea rings, and the spine was cracked and crinkled. It was safe to say that this out of date book had seen better days.

John, pausing to take a break from the thrilling pages about gangrene, dogeared the page he was on, and moved to stand from his chair. Sherlock, who was across the room, bent over his -John's- laptop, doing research on this and that, snapped his head up and glared, actually glared, with the intention of instant death to its target and all, at John. John froze in his half-seated position, wondering what on earth he could have done now. Was he too loud for His Majesty to concentrate? He doubted it, but was still worried that he had actually done something to upset the man.

Sherlock's gaze flickered down to the medical text, and then back up to John's. John glanced over at the book, and returned to Sherlock's intense gaze, confused.

Sherlock, noticing John's befuddlement, looked more pointedly at the book and asked, "Just what do you think you're doing to my book?" His deep voice was as intense as his gaze.

John, even more confused than before, looked to the book again, as if it could tell him the answer. As far as he could tell, it wasn't resting in any foul substance, and he had placed it down gently upon the table, far more gently than Sherlock has ever done himself. Eyebrows pinched together, John, again, turned to look at Sherlock questioningly. "What? I haven't done anything to your book."

"You folded the page down to mark your spot. That's sacrilege! That is an insult to the information within those pages; information freely given to you, and you feel that you can mistreat it? No no. Fix. It. Now." Sherlock had begun his diatribe in a deadpan tone of voice, but it had steadily gotten deadly.

John was wondering if he should be concerned for his life in that moment. Sherlock typically never becomes this volatile towards John, especially over something as inane folding down a page in a book. This outburst of calm anger is extremely surprising when connected with Sherlock, the man who claimed his body was just transport. If he were to care for his body as he obviously cares for the pages of these books, John think he would definitely not look as gangly as he does.

Trying to ease some of the tension in the room, John responded, raising his arms in a mock defensive pose, "Alright, alright. No need to get your panties in a bunch, I'll fix your beloved book." John did just that, and finally stood up to head towards the kitchen. "I was just going to put the kettle on. Tea?"

Mood and expression changing quicker than the blink of an eye, Sherlock said, "Yes, I'd love one thanks. No milk."

John, used to this kind of Sherlock -the quicksilver mood changer- rolled his eyes muttering, "Yeah, yeah, I know how you take your tea, you tosser."