Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: After all the angst from the last episode. I needed to write/read something fluffy to repair the hole in my heart Q_Q So, this is just an attempt to do that!

This was inspired by Sherlock's appearance in THoB when he came back covered in blood. He looked so adorable!

John grimaced from the pain shooting through his foot. He looked at his watch, for the hundred times then sighed. Sherlock was over 3 hours late. The texts John sent to him were ignored (at least that's what John hoped) and his calls were missed.

After the last case left John depended on his flatmate to do almost everything in the flat, well, John doesn't have to describe the condition the place is in. Mrs. Hudson was an angel dealing with both him and Sherlock with less complains. She refused to clean Sherlock's laboratory in the kitchen though, John couldn't blame her. God only knows what Sherlock been up to since there were no new cases or anything to occupy his mind.

Its been three days since their last case in which John fell off a table (he can't remember why he was standing on it in the first place?) and twisted his ankle trying to prevent his head from hitting the hard floor. Sherlock was the perfect gentleman with him after the incident (partly because it was his fault John was standing on that table) he did everything John asked with less complaints, but John knew all those smiles he threw at him were forced, except one.

John shivered remembering Sherlock's last smile. That twisted sexy smile of his. The one he reserves for the time he wants to drop John to bed (or floor or table or anything in their space) and drive him insane. Yes, John wants to see that smile now. But after his brain is recovered from whatever Sherlock would do to him, he'll kill Sherlock for being so late and worrying him.

He looked at his watch again. He'll give Sherlock another ten minutes before calling Lestrade and issuing a missing person report. A bit dramatic, but with Sherlock, everything should be considered. John turned back to his laptop trying to finish reading an article about how to stimulate your brain. If Sherlock saw him reading this, he'll smirk at him and go on about how is the only problem have is the stupid information they store in their minds. Damn it, John swore. He grabbed his mobile from the table and started to text Sherlock again when the sound of the building door being shut stopped him.

John sat straight preparing himself to yell at Sherlock as soon as the consulting detective walks through the door. Just as the words started to come out of his mouth, he shuts it. He stared at the figure standing by the door with wide eyes.

"Sherlock... What the hell happened to you?"

"A case." Sherlock's eyes stared back at John.

"You're," he liked his suddenly dry lips. "You're covered in feather."

"I am aware of that." Sherlock responded dryly.

"You are carrying a dead chicken."

"I am aware of that as well, John. Don't state the obvious."

John nodded. When did things like this become normal in his life? He looked at Sherlock taking all of his appearance in. He'll kill him later.

"Alright, what happened?" John asked when he realized Sherlock will not talk or move from where he stood.

"I told you. A case came up."

John glared at him. He will not let him off that easily, Sherlock should've known this. Probably he does and he just wants some attention from John!

"Sherlock... You've been gone for almost four hours. You didn't return my calls or my texts," John leaned forward to glare better at him. "And you come home covered in feather and with a dead animal in your hand. All I asked from you is to go and get some TEA!" He took a deep breath and waited for an answer.

Sherlock looked at him (which was both cute and funny in John's eyes because of the one feather hanging in the middle of his forehead) then moved to sit down on the couch.

"No you don't. Do not sit and ruin it." John said.

"It's my couch John." Sherlock looked at him incredibly.

"Our couch. If you're going to sit on it like this, you'll be the one cleaning it."

Sherlock muttered something then went to the kitchen. John heard him open the fridge door.

"And don't put that chicken in the fridge." A slamming sound was Sherlock's response.

A few minutes passed before Sherlock came back to the room. Most of the feather was gone, but some was holding tight. John couldn't help but to smile as Sherlock tried to brush them out of his tangled hair.

"So, what happened?"

"I was on my way to get the tea when Lestrade called. A new case. Stupid one if only they can work their tinny brains for more than a minute." Sherlock grumbled then flung himself down on the couch glaring at John and daring him to object. John decided he'll let it go for now, but he'll enjoy making Sherlock clean it later. He gestured for him to continue.

"A man was killed in his farm and everything points out to the wife who found out he was cheating on her with her friend. The only missing part was the murder weapon. It didn't take me long to find that she hid it in one of the chicken cages. I told Lestrade to look there, but his incompetent people took so long so I went in to get it," Sherlock lowered his voice a little. "Those birds are vicious, John." He was still staring at John who frowned.

"What did they do?"

"They attacked me. And I don't mean one or two of them. They all gathered and jumped me together," John tried not to laugh at the image of Sherlock being attacked my chickens. "Anyway, I found the knife hidden there like I said."

"Did you get into a pecking fight with the chickens for it?" He couldn't stop himself.

Sherlock glared at him. John didn't feel bad at all and he was not done.

"What about the dead chicken over there," John said pointing at the kitchen table where Sherlock's chicken was lying. "Was she one of the evil ones who attacked you?"

"Probably, I couldn't tell which is which." Sherlock was frowning like he was actually thinking, maybe he was?

"I'll ask this again. Why is there a dead chicken in our kitchen?"

"I remembered I needed one for an experiment. I asked Lestrade if I can take one and he didn't say no."

"You stole a chicken from a dead man's farm?" John's eyebrows hit his hair.

"Of course not," Sherlock shifted in his seat. "I asked the wife and she didn't say no."

John shook his head. "The same wife you pointed out as the killer!"

"Yes. It's not like she'll be needing chickens anymore," Sherlock shrugged standing up. "I need a shower."

"That, you do."

"Wanna join me?" Although John was tempted to tear both their clothes and jump under a hot spry of water, he declined in favor of saving it for a time where Sherlock was not smelling like a chicken farm.

"You're still going out to get the tea after your shower. And milk."