John Watson prided himself on being an intelligent man. He was not particularly a clever or witty man, but he was a doctor, and they most definitely do not let your common morons become a doctor.
John knew his intelligence was nothing compared to that of his flatmate. It could be infuriating, sometimes, to know that by society standards you were smart - but by Holmes standards, you were nothing more than perhaps average.

These thoughts played in John's head as he stirred his tea. He glanced to where Sherlock was lounging about on the couch and turned back to the tea. Sherlock had laid there for days. They were in between cases, but instead of even making an effort to entertain himself, Sherlock merely sat and shouted insults to crap television shows. Occasionally a shot would be fired at the wall. He hadn't picked up his violin or gotten up to eat, and John was fairly certain he hadn't slept either - not that John knew this for a fact, but he hadn't seen Sherlock sleeping, so he was operating under the general assumption Sherlock hadn't slept. The only relief he found was that Sherlock hadn't so much as asked for a cigarette, and John had thoroughly checked the flat for drugs. However bored he was, Sherlock hadn't yet turned to anything illicit to alleviate it, and for this he was so very thankful.

John briefly prayed for something, anything, to come up soon. Four days with Sherlock like this was beginning to test his patience. And then it seemed his prayers were answered when Mrs. Hudson knocked on the doorframe before letting herself in.
Sherlock sat up, suddenly animated, facing Mrs. Hudson with an expression of glee; John wasn't sure why, but he guessed Sherlock had deduced something.
His guess was, of course, right.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, switching off the television with a wave of the remote. "What do you want to ask us?"
"Hello, John. Sherlock dear, didn't I ask you stop putting holes in my walls?" She ignored his question completely, inspecting the wall of 221B.
Sherlock grimaced in frustration, rolling his eyes as if this was a pointless remark. John apologised quickly, wondering what, if anything, Mrs Hudson had apparently come to ask of them.

"I'm sorry, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's been - well. Bored."

Mrs Hudson tutted and shook her head, setting down some bags of shopping, making small talk, shooting a quick grin in John's direction as Sherlock got increasingly annoyed with the both of them.
"What do you want, Mrs Hudson!" He finally snapped, properly standing (for the first time in days) and crossing his arms.
Mrs Hudson smiled pleasantly, ignoring Sherlock's rudeness. "I was wondering if I could ask a favour of the two of you."

"Of course, anything," John replied as he systematically stacked food around various experiments in the fridge.

"As you both know, my niece is coming to stay over the summer. However, unfortunately, for a week of her time here...I'll be elsewhere. I was wondering-"

Sherlock collapsed backwards onto the lounge, closing his eyes with a dramatic sigh. "Boring."

John shot Sherlock a look. "We'll- I'll be glad to keep an eye on things while she's staying at your flat."
"Oh, thankyou, John." Mrs Hudson helped him pack away the last of the groceries before leaving. At the last second, she paused in the doorway. "The bullet holes are coming out of your rent, Sherlock."
"They always do," he muttered in reply.

John sat down opposite Sherlock, tea in hand. It had cooled to a pleasant temperature while they'd been talking. He drank it slowly, watching the consulting detective as he switched the telly back on.
"What do you suppose Mrs Hudson's niece is like?" John asked finally.
"I don't know, John. Don't care." Sherlock's eyes remained closed. "Unless she brutally murders anyone, I'm not interested."