December 13

John trudged up the stairs, shaking the snow off of him as he went. He was ready to put away the groceries, sit in his chair drink a cup of hot tea, and fall asleep soon thereafter.

"Sherlock, I'm here. Sherlock?" He rounded the corner to put the food items in their respective places. Sherlock was always surprising, that much was for certain. He wondered what he was up to now as he opened the refrigerator and maneuvered a can of olives around a cow spleen preserved in a large and obtrusive jar. There were some parts of this setup that John would never adjust to.

He sat at the table and read the table while the teapot boiled. So far, there were no major crimes at the moment (or any bizarre enough to attract Sherlock's eye.) After all, it was Christmas time, and Sherlock would consider a good crime more than a satisfactory Christmas present.

Presents.

John had been pushing the idea of purchasing a present for Sherlock out of his mind for some time now. Sherlock detested the idea of birthday presents (he had no idea why such an inane passage of time should be celebrated.) The teapot whistled and John was awoken out of his reverie. As he poured his cup, he decided very firmly that he would get Sherlock a present. But what would it be? He sighed and stirred sugar into his tea and mentally shrugged. Ah well, he had around 12 days to decide that, didn't he?

Bang! Bang! Bang!

"Sherlock! Are you shooting at the walls again? Sherlock! Answer me right now!"

"I'm BORED!"

However, there were more pressing matters at hand than Christmas gifts at the moment.