Hi guys. This is a new multi chapter story. I thought it would be funny. I will continue if I get a good response to it.

It's about the times when our two characters behaved like children [I still haven't made up my mind whether this should be a five or a five plus one].

And for those of you who are following my other story [when there's nothing, we still have each other], fear not for I haven't forgotten about it and I will update it whenever I can.

Now, on to the story and I hope you like it. If you do, please read and review.

Ta,

Laila.

John and Sherlock were slumped on the couch. John, because he was tired and Sherlock because he needed to think. It had been quite an ordinary but tiring day (at least for John).

Sherlock had solved a case which had been baffling the Yarders (no surprise there), John had given his medical opinion, Lestrade had stood there open mouthed, Donovan had insulted and Anderson had been insulted.

John was just making up his mind to drag himself off to bed, too tired to even eat something, when Sherlock spoke.

"John"

"Hmm?"

"I don't want to sleep."

"Why not?"

"I need a case."

"You just solved a bloody case!"

"It was barely a two."

"I thought you said it was a seven."

"Well, it was ridiculously simple after I solved it."

With a huff of impatience Sherlock got up and made his way to the coat rack, only to find his way blocked by a particular angry army doctor.

"Move, John. I have to put on my coat. It's cold outside."

"Why the hell do you want to go outside, when you've just gotten back?"

"Going to Scotland Yard, of course. Lestrade might have a case."

"Sherlock bloody Holmes, you haven't slept enough, haven't eaten at all and have been surviving on the tea and biscuits I've been forcing on you, for the past four days. You need food and rest. Not a case. So if I tell you to rest, you bloody well will rest."

With that John frogmarched Sherlock and forced him onto the couch from which they had just vacated, the latter groaning complaints all the way much to the displeasure and annoyance of the former.

Once Sherlock was seated, John made his way to the kitchen in the hopes of salvaging something eatable lest a particular detective keels over, when something hit his back.

Turning around he perceived a pillow lying near his feet. With a sigh he looked up and saw the detective sitting with his arms crossed and a scowl firmly in place. However, John being John also noticed a hint of a smirk dancing around Sherlock's lips.

Bending down to pick up the pillow, John made as if to put the it on the armchair beside him before a smirk of his own crossed his lips. Quick as a flash he threw it across the room, the pillow hitting it's intended target as it landed smack on the scowling detective's face.

The surprise and confusion on Sherlock's face was so comical that it had John leaning on the chair beside him as he forced himself to contain his laughter.

That soon changed when the next missile caught him in the crotch. It was not particularly painful, but the shock instinctively made him cover his vulnerable parts.

Glaring at Sherlock who was trying to explain himself in between bursts of laughter, he grabbed the pillow and making his way over to the detective who was now helplessly rolling over on the ground, hit him with as much force as he could muster.

Sherlock still helpless with laughter, brought up his hands to shield himself from the attack. Then reaching out he wrestled out the pillow from John's grasp and reciprocated the attack.

John now left without a weapon of attack, cast a desperate glance around and spotting another pillow partially hidden under Sherlock's armchair, leaped over the coffee table and gathering the 'weapon' held it in front of him like a shield.

Sherlock jumped up and with the pillow held up, rushed to where John was standing and proceeded to hit him with it.

John for his part, rallied efficiently and dodged a majority of the attacks while landing a few solid hits of his own on Sherlock's now red face.

Hic. "Sto ... Stop that, John" giggle.

Giggle. Snort. "Take that, you ... ".

Sherlock momentarily lapsed in his attack to catch his breath and had his pillow plucked out of his hands. He stared in surprise at his empty hands and looked accusingly at John now holding two cushions and grinning triumphantly.

"That's not fair. You took my weapon!"

John's grin and Sherlock's eyes widened.

Mrs. Hudson was watching telly. It was crap. But still, telly. All she wanted was a peaceful night. Just her, her cuppa and the telly. Apparently that was not to be.

She barely had time to raise her eyebrows in surprise at the footsteps thundering down the stairs when her living room door burst open and bounced off the wall.

A drawn out wail of "Mrs. Huuuudsooon" later she found a giggling, sparkly eyed and red Sherlock hiding behind her armchair.

"Sher ..." was as far as she got before a certain flatmate of Sherlock's came bursting through her living room, his appearance much the same as that of Sherlock's, except for a pillow clasped in each of his hand.

The pillows, however, seemed to have seen better days. They were covered with dirt and had lost most of their stuffing. She had the suspicion that if she were to make her way upstairs, she would find the missing stuffing covering the floor and living room of two truants who were currently waging a war in her room. At night. While she was watching telly. When all she wanted was a peaceful night.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. Really, she ought to be used to this by now.

Again "Boys ... " was as far as she got before John launched himself at Sherlock with what she assumed was a war cry.

She had hardly any time to stand up before Sherlock jumped up with a shriek and stood in front of the poor landlady. With John at her back and Sherlock at the front, she resigned herself to the fact that she would not be watching any telly now, rather, it seemed like she would be subject to missed hits from John's pillows and a night of two children running around her flat, throwing pillows at each other.

The clock chimed midnight.

All was quiet at Baker Street except for the quiet snores of a consulting detective and an army doctor.

Mrs. Hudson smiled as she caught sight of her boys sprawled together on her carpet, the pillows used as 'weapons' previously now beneath their heads as they slept on, dead to the world.

Smiling, she shook out a blanket and covered them.

Making her way to her bedroom she mused what she had done to gain such grown up children. They were certainly a handful.

And she wouldn't have it any other way.