Author's Note: All that follows is dedicated to CaughtOutInTheDark who not only inspired this story but also forced me to put it online for others to see. This is my first - and last - fanfiction and every word is dedicated to you, your violin and the deerstalker that you occasionally let me borrow.

John felt as if someone had spat acid on his brain. He could feel his heart beating behind his eyes and the tumultuous churning of his stomach. He stank of night old sweat and second-hand cigarette smoke. He was afraid to move for fear that if he did he might vomit up several of his organs.

Scattered fragments of the night before swirled in his mind like bilge water and through the residual fog of alcohol he remembered being in a club. He remembered the pulsating flashes of neon lights and the thumping sound of lyric-less music and then the endless lines of tequila shots...

He moaned at the mere thought of all the alcohol that he had consumed, of all the alcohol that was still pumping through his veins. He decided that the best course of action was lie as still as possible and to hope that he died before his brain had the chance to feel the full extent of his hangover. He had just been hovering between the realms of consciousness and sleep when something in the kitchen exploded.

His eyes slid open halfheartedly. He squinted in the semi darkness and listened, when the explosion was neither followed by the sound of the fire alarm or someone screaming, he relaxed back into the bed and tried to sleep. It was futile of course. Sherlock was awake and doing something monstrous in their kitchen and neither of those things were conducive to a peaceful lie in. Almost as if on cue another boom echoed through the flat.

"Sherlock." John tried to call but last night's consumption of acrid tequila had caused his throat to seize up painfully. He reached out and took the glass of water, that he had had the foresight to place on his bedside table the night before, and chugged it down. Once he had drained the glass he collapsed back against the pillows and groaned at the throbbing pain that was currently making small bursts of white light to dance behind his eyelids. Never again. He was too old for clubbing. Then again, he was also too old to chase a group of heroin smuggling transvestites down darkened alleyways but he'd still spent last Monday night doing just that.

The next boom was followed by the ear-splitting sound of shattering glass.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. There was no reply, of course there wasn't. He did, after all, live with the world's most irritating, inconsiderate fucking flatmate. He lay listening as the intervals between the explosions grew shorter before he finally gave up and threw the covers off his body. He strode across the room, his brain thumping around inside of his skull viciously. He yanked open his bedroom door and hissed loudly as strong sunlight smacked him full in the face.

Another boom sounded and as John approached the kitchen he could smell bacon burning. He rounded the corner and was confronted with one of the most disturbing sights he had even seen grace the rooms of 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock was standing by the kitchen table, a white sheet tied around him like he was some sort of dishevelled Roman Emperor. He was wearing a protective visor and the black locks of his hair were sticking up wildly as if an electric current had been sent through them. On the table in front of him there were a collection of boiling flasks – one of which was suspended over a lit Bunsen burner - a bowl full of, what appeared to be, human testicles and an open carton of broken eggs. On the stove behind him there was a frying pan full of practically carbonised strips of burnt bacon.

"Sherlock," John said as he wiped the back of his hand against his sweating forehead, "What are you doing?"

Sherlock, who had been about to crack another egg into a heated skillet, turned his head to look at John. He blinked at him from behind his visor,

"I'm making breakfast." He said as if the fact should have been obvious.

"Why..." John cleared his throat before gesturing in the general direction of the table, "Why are there testicles on the table?"

Sherlock cast a disinterested eye over the bowl of sexual organs before shrugging slightly,

"They were for a spousal domestic violence case where the wife was accused of murdering her husband. I was trying to determine what instrument she used to slice off his scrotum with. I ended up coming to the conclusion that she used rusty box cutters before I had had a chance to experiment on these cadaver testicles."

He seemed almost crestfallen as he stared at the organs with longing,

"I didn't know what to do with them."

"So you decided to use them as a hazardous form of potpourri?" John asked as he squeezed himself passed Sherlock and began rummaging around in the cupboard for some aspirin.

"What exploded?"

"Acetylene gas collected in balloons and then held over a flame."

"What case is that for?"

"No case," Sherlock said as he raised another balloon to the naked flame of the Bunsen burner, "just bored."

The balloon exploded and John thought that his skull had been split open, "Could you stop that?" He asked as he swirled two dissolvable aspirins in water.

"I'm bored."

"And I'm hung over. I need peace and protein and – considering you've burnt all the bacon and fucked up all the eggs – the least you could do is stop blowing up things in my ear shot!"

"Well what do you suggest I do?" Sherlock demanded as he shoved his way passed John and into the living room, "There's nothing, there's been nothing for weeks." He said as he began pacing. The action caused the sheet to slip off his shoulder, revealing an expanse of pale, sinewy shoulder.

"What about the transvestite case... thingy that we solved last Monday?"

Sherlock snorted, "Dull. How was that supposed to sustain me through this perpetual drought? The best part of that was watching you get out run by a man wearing nine inch heels. God! I can actually feel my brain disintegrating inside my skull."

"I know the feeling." John said as he chugged down his dissolved aspirin.

"That's different," Sherlock said with a distracted wave of his hand, "yours is self-inflicted."

"And yours isn't?" John asked incredulously as he sat himself down opposite the bowl of disembodied testicles.

"Does the bullet choose at what speed it is fired from a gun?" Sherlock asked as he stood on one of the coffee tables, kicking a pile of books off the surface in the process. They flew across the room and hit the fire-place with a loud smack.

John gritted his teeth and slammed his hand down on the button of the kettle.

"My mind moves this fast regardless of the stimuli that it's provided with. Without something worthy of captivating my interest my mind goes around in endless loops, snapping from one vacuous thought to another."

"Read a book." John said halfheartedly as he willed the water to boil faster.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Once you have grasped the basic archetypes of both character development, dynamic and plot structure every book is practically the same."

"Then write a book."

"There's nothing new to contribute. The world of fiction has been dead for years – it's just a matter of time before people start to notice. And besides, writers are too introspective, they spend far too much time in their own heads."

John snorted and buried his head in his hands. This was going to be excruciating. A bored Sherlock was worse than Sherlock suffering from nicotine withdrawals. It was liked being trapped inside a hermetically sealed box with a sulking teenager and a howler monkey.

The kettle clicked and John stood up to pour himself a cup of tea,

"Do you want one?"

"I want a cigarette!"

"Nope." John said as he decided to pour Sherlock a cup anyway, maybe he could slip some lithium in with the sugar and knock Sherlock out for a few hours.

"Considering I downgraded cocaine for nicotine I think that_"

"No Sherlock."

"Then what do you propose I do?" Sherlock asked as he pulled the visor off from around his head and threw it against the wall.

"Sherlock!" John hissed as the sound of the plastic hitting the brick wall sliced down his spinal column.

"I'm bored!" Sherlock said as he strode across the room and began rummaging around in the bookshelf.

"Don't even bother looking." John said as he extended a cup of steaming hot tea out to Sherlock, "I hid it along with the nine boxes of bullets I found scattered around the flat."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John but took the tea anyway. He sucked in a tentative sip before licking his lips,

"Why don't we play a quick round of "What Did John Do Last Night"?"

"Oh, no, there's a reason why people don't want to remember alcohol induced blackouts. I keep getting flashes of Lestrade's naked arse and I don't want to know why."

Sherlock seemed not to have heard him because he had placed his cup on the coffee table and had began to look at him with the cold, calculating way that he usually reserved for crime scene corpses.

"You went out drinking with Lestrade at around nine after we had our disagreement_"

"It wasn't a disagreement, it was an argument. I'm fed up of you using me in your experiments."

"I put one laxative in your tea and_"

"You put four laxatives in my tea Sherlock. I was shitting through an eye of needle for three days."

"That's why I slipped you those blackcurrant flavoured electrolyte drinks."

"Oh for Christ's..." John took a deep breath and then a large sip of tea, "I'm going to have a shower."

John took a final swig of tea before he stood up and headed towards the bathroom.

"John."

He sighed and turned to look at Sherlock who, although still in full deductive mode, was staring at him with a different look in his eye, one that made John feel uncomfortable.

"You went to two pubs and a club last night, six... no seven woman offered to go home with you and at least three men slipped you their numbers. I know what you're like when you're drunk, you get impulsive, careless and incredibly horny." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly,

"Why didn't you take any of them up on their offer?"

John stared back at Sherlock for a few moments, willing his face to remain relaxed and impassive.

"I wasn't in the mood."

"Yes you were." Sherlock said as he gestured towards the pale blue boxers that John was wearing, "You were wearing those last night; there are multiple pre-ejaculate stains down the seam, all of them several hours old which suggests that you were frequently aroused_"

"Sherlock, have you ever thought that sometimes you can be incredibly inappropriate."

"Of course, but that isn't an answer to my question."

John opened his mouth to say something but when no words came out he decided to simply turn around and leave Sherlock to his deductions.

"John_"

"I'm having a shower." John said as he walked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.

Thirty-five minutes later John emerged from the shower feeling almost human. His skin was still tingling from the combination of hot water and tea tree body scrub. He'd run out of shampoo two days ago and so instead had settled for using Sherlock's - which smelled like a strange blend of spice and fruit. The smell hung around him as he stepped out of the shower and he didn't know what he found more disturbing: that he smelled like Sherlock or that he liked it. He pushed the thought aside quickly as he pulled a thick white towel around his waist and picked up his dirty clothing from off the floor. He stared at his boxers for a few seconds and saw tiny patches of decolouration on the front – how on earth had Sherlock seen that? He crumpled them up into a ball and threw both them and his t-shirt into the wash basket. The second he opened the bathroom door he came chest to chest with Sherlock.

"Did you steal my violin too?" Sherlock asked as he blinked through the wave of steam that was rolling out of the bathroom.

"What are you talking about?" John asked as he clutched the towel tighter around his waist.

"Did you steal my violin?"

"Sherlock, I just got out of the shower."

"Yes, I can see that, you're currently dripping on my sheet."

John looked down and saw that several water droplets had fallen from his hair and had darkened the white sheet by Sherlock's knees.

"Did you steal my violin?"

"No, for the love of Christ, no I didn't."

"Then why can't I find him!?"

John stared at Sherlock for a moment, unsure if he had heard him correctly,

"Him?"

Some of the accusatory rage slipped from Sherlock's face and was replaced with shock.

"Pardon?"

"You referred to your violin as "him"."

Sherlock blinked before trying to shrug, "Many objects are referred to by gender pronouns, ships for example are referred to as "she" and "her"."

"Why is your violin male? Does he look masculine?"

Sherlock's face was like stone, "Don't mock me John."

"Do you have a name for him?" John asked, a shit eating grin slowly spreading across his lips.

"Don't be ridiculous." But even as he admonished him, John watched as a slight blush stained Sherlock's cheeks.

"What's he called?"

"Shut up." Sherlock said as he pulled his sheet tighter around him and stormed off in the direction of the front room.

"Come on," John said as he hurried after him, "I promise I won't laugh."

"Liar, you're on the verge of laughing already."

"Come on, at least let me guess."

"No."

"James?"

"No."

"Darren?"

"No."

"Roger?"

"This is completely_"

"Tiberius?"

"I find_"

"Ned?"

"No."

"Shanikqua?"

"That's a woman's name."

"Mel_"

"John!"

"What?"

"He's called John."

John stared at Sherlock and managed to maintain eye contact for a full four seconds before he burst out laughing.

"It's not that funny." Sherlock said petulantly.

"Why on earth would you name your violin after me?"

"I never said I named him after you, I simply said that I named him John. I know plenty of Johns."

"No you don't."

"I simply like the name."

"When did you name him?"

"What?"

"When did you name your violin John?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before he said,

"I think I want tea, do you want tea."

"What can I deduce from your evading the question?" John asked smugly as he followed Sherlock into the kitchen, "Perhaps that you named him John after you met me and thus you must have had me in mind while you were naming him?"

"That deductive mind of yours John astounds me sometimes, it's like I'm looking at myself in the mirror." Sherlock said as he placed two tea bags into the teapot.

"Evade all you will, it doesn't change the fact that you named your violin after me."

"I wouldn't take it as such a compliment. If anything, it simply suggests that I can play you easily, use you when I'm bored and then put you out of my mind when I have something better to do." Sherlock said as he poured steaming hot water into the teapot.

"Yes, but then you do get a lot of pleasure from fingering me." John joked. It was poor he knew - and Sherlock never responded well to sexual puns - but he was tired and hung over and he needed to use humour to soothe the sting of Sherlock's insult.

But Sherlock didn't take it as a joke. He didn't snort or roll his eyes in derision or do the things that he normally did whenever he thought John was being an idiot. He simply stopped moving. His hand – which had been stirring the tea with a teaspoon – froze mid stir and his eyes seemed to bore into the cup.

"I was... um... joking, Sherlock."

Sherlock was quiet for another moment before he suddenly snapped to life again,

"Of course, ha, ha." He said in a monotone as he continued to stir the tea with a little more force than was needed.

John watched him, saw the tension in his shoulder and forearm, "Are you alright?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock said, finally looking at John, his gaze was impassive; "I simply need a murder, a multiple murder, a murder that defies the laws of relative possibility. I need a serial killer, not one of those boring ones that are driven by pointless sexual need, but a real psychopath." A dreamy looked flitted across his face.

"I need to get dressed." John said as he began to walk towards his bedroom, "Please get rid of those testicles, Christ knows what Mrs Hudson would think if she saw them just lying there."

"What would she think?" Sherlock asked as he spun around and leaned his head against the kitchen cupboards, "Disembodied testicles are hardly some sort of sexual kink, where's the pleasure if they're not attached to a body. Do you find disembodied testicles arousing, John? Is that some sort of fetish or kink that you have?"

"Sherlock this is getting kind of weird."

"How so?"

"We're two men, both practically naked, staring at a bowl of human testicles talking about sexual kinks."

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and squinted at John, "Isn't that known as "guy talk"?"

"No."

He seemed to contemplate that for a second, "Is it only considered "guy talk" when the aforementioned guys are talking about their penises opposed to the other aspects of their genitals?"

John blinked a few times before he said,"Right! I'm going to get dressed."