Bubble Wrap

One day, John was riding home after a trip to the store. THough it wasn't a long walk, he'd decided to take a cab, as the groceries were obtrusive. Getting in, he was first displeased, as someone had left some rubbish in the back. Upon inspection, though, he discovered it was plastic bubble wrap. THe kind one would typically found in packages. Absentmindedly, he picked up the article and remembered his childhood, when he would take great pleasure in popping the bubbles of air. He began popping the bubbles and continued through his trip to the flat, much to the annoyance of the cabbie.

He almost payed with the bubble wrap, but then remembered that peeps don't think of bubble wrap as currency. He frowned and handed over some $$$, or £££, as it's called in Britlandia.

As he made his way up the stairs, dumping the sopping in the kitchen, he wandered into the living room, where he encountered Sherlock perched like an eagle on the back of the couch, covered in feathers. John considered asking the reason behind this unusual costume, but thought Meh, I probably don't want to know. SO he sat down next to the feathered man and continued to pop the bubble wrap. SHerlock flinched dramatically every time an air pocket exploded, and after about ten minutes, he hit John in the back of the head with his fist. John, who was ignorant of Sherlock's flinching, yelled "What the snip-snikey-fur-face was that for, Sherlock!?"

"Nothing, Doctor Watson, except your ANNOYING POPPING OF MYCROFT'S CHILDREN IN MY PRESENCE."

John gave the whacko a blank look. "Wut?"

"His children, John. Keep up, would you!?"

"Wuuuuuut?"

"Child. Ren. As in offspring of. Do you need my dictionary?" SHerlock scolded, gesturing to the two-foot-thick book on his shelf. "The actual dictionary definition is "The plural of child," so you don't need a dictionary. I'm better. I've memorized seven different ones anyway, including an english dictionary written by swedes. They misspelled 'French.'"

John gasped. "SHERLOCK, YOU MEMORISED /SEVEN/ DICTIONARIES!? THAT'S AMAZING!"

"Well, I /am/ amazing." Sherlock said with an evil smirk. Very evil. Mycroft-worthy evil.

Speaking of, Mycroft chose that moment to come in the door. "Hello, SHerlock. Our mother has been murdered… BY MEEE!" The oder Holmes brother then cackled like a witch and dove out of the open window, leathery bat wings sprouting from his back. He started flying away, but Sherlock grabbed a shotgun from under the couch, cocked it, and shot Mycroft out of the sky.

The fat queen fell onto a table outside of a diner a few streets away, the table that Lestrade had taken his wife to in a desperate attempt to save their marriage.

"Oh, so now your boyfriend is falling out of the sky!? We're SO OVER." His wife yelled, oblivious to the many bleeding wounds of Mycroft.

Lestrade started crying, absentmindedly licking a napkin and starting to clean the blood from Mycroft's face as his wife stormed away.

Back in 221b, John was gaping at Sherlock. "Woah, can you grow wings like that too?" he asked.

"Of course not, John. Mine are crow wings."

"Can I see?"

"I'd assume so, as you have eyes."

"Fine, grammar Nazi. /MAY/ I see?"

"Pfft, of course not."

"Why?"

"I lent them to Anderson." There were cried of horror in the distance. Anderson slowly rose into view of the two in the flat by slowly flying up by their window, only his face peeking through, a manically happy grin on it and his eyes wide.

"Yes, Phillip, we're still on for tonight." SHerlock informed him, closing the blinds and plunging the flat into eternal and absolute darkness. Forever. Except for the screens of phones and laptops, which were the only lights able to penetrate the ancient and powerful shadows.

"Well, shit. You made me drop my bubble wrap, Sherlock. Now I'll never find it" John knew that anything lost in the darkness would never be found again. No one told him, but he had a strong enough feeling to just /know/.

"Bummer." Sherlock said, magically making his laptop, which was across the room, light up and illuminate his now normal outfit, the blue light illuminating his face and casting strange shadows on it from the many defined hollows and crap in it.

"Yeah, it is a bummer, Sherlock. I had just discovered my passion and unparalleled talent for popping bubble wrap."

"Hmmm… well that is a problem, Jacob. What are we going to do about it?"

"Jacob?"

"Yes, John is too boring. I'm keeping you fresh. Focus on the problem at hand."

"But I like my name."

"Too bad, I gave it to my new pet hedgehog."

"You replaced me?"

"No, I renamed you. The hedgehog is respected as my equal, unlike you."

"Oh, okay. I'll be Jacob for you, Sherlock. Because I lo-"

"Yes, we all know of your pitiful affection. Shut up, it repulses me."

"Okay. Iloveyou."

"I said SHUT UP, writer-monkey!" Sherlock stared around them into the darkness. "Now, I deduce from the forming stains on the wall and screams we're about to hear..." there were womanly screams of horror and pain from downstairs. "That Mrs. Hudson has discovered the zombie I left in her bathroom. Don't worry, I kept us safe by poisoning her before the zombie tore the flesh from her living body. Now it's poisoned too."

"Okay, thank you for keeping me safe."

"I did it to prove I could, not because I like you."

"Okay. Love you too."

"Right, now about your bubble wrap problem. I normally wouldn't care, but I'm compelled by the voices to solve every single problem presented to me, therefore, your moronic lack of bubble wrap."

"Thank you, wise sage."

"Yes." Sherlock took off all his clothes, pulling a sheet around himself. John began to search through the darkness, his good heart compelling him to fold the clothes that were now lost forever in the all-consuming darkness in 221b that was Sherlock's soul in a not-physical, but interactive embodiment. "John, do you have your laptop?" he asked.

"Yes, it's right here. Do you need it for something, my love?"

"Yes. Return to the chair to which you are shackled to and Google search 'virtual bubble wrap. If you use bing I will starve you for another three weeks."

"Kaykay."

John typed the words in one letter at a time, Sherlock vulturing over his shoulder and fixing the spelling errors John put in every word, scolding him in the most damaging way he could think of everytime John tped in a letter wrong. Of course, people tend to spell things wrong when they try and put Sherlock's name. 'i love you' and/or 'help me' into every word.

"There, click there. NO, THERE, YOU MORON!" Sherlock told him, pointing out one of the results.

John's screen opened to a sheet of virtual bubble wrap. "Sherlock, you did it! Thank you so much, my life finally has meaning beyond catering to your every whim and sacrificing children in your name, as you instructed I do every other Thursday! I can finally once again feel the joy of popping bu-"

"Case closed, problem solved." Sherlock said, snapping the laptop closed and throwing it like a frisbee into the everlasting darkness around them, causing it to go missing forever. He plopped on the couch. "Jacob, I'm bored. Injure yourself some more to entertain me, my knife is on the table in the kitchen."

"I'm afraid of the dark, but i'll do it for you."

"Mind the tacks i set out on the floor for you, make sure and step on each of the 24 of them. I want to hear your cry of pain for every one on them."

"Okay. I love you."

"That's not a scream of agony, Jacob."