A Plan Of Radical Action

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By: Akiko, Keeper of Sheep

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Dr. John Watson was angry.

It seemed, to him, to be the perfect word. To most people, it would probably be insufficient to describe the sheer magnitude of his current emotional state, but to John, it fit perfectly. It just sounded right.

After the utter cock-up that was The Moriarty Encounter (yes, it got capital letters - nothing says scarred-for-life quite like a capitalized article), John had sensed a change in Sherlock. Not that he was suddenly a warm, fuzzy, normal person, God forbid. No, it wasn't anything that would be noticable to other people. It wasn't even a thing, really, just an aura, like the air around the lanky detective was warmer than usual, more inviting.

Then there was the texting. Sherlock had taken to texting John at all hours, even from just across the room. It wasn't usually important - one memorably irritating instance took place at four in the morning, when Sherlock had texted him asking to borrow his phone. John, however, was not blessed with precognition, and always read them straight away. You never knew when it would mean the difference between life and death, after all.

The texting was, in fact, the reason John was angry. As he paced the living room, neatly avoiding tripping over the stack of 1970s issues of Car that Sherlock had used to solve the case of the head in the glove compartment (and he was never going to look at flared jeans the same way again), John clenched his fist around his phone, glowering at the seven little words as though he was trying to make them burst into flames.

We're out of milk, John; buy more. SH

It hadn't been the tone of the text that had upset John. It wasn't that he'd been in the middle of a date with Sarah, who had reacted less-than-favorably to his usual knee-jerk reaction, which was to half-rise from his seat, preparing to jog to the store. It hadn't even been the presumption, this idea that Sherlock had that he could order John to do whatever he pleased, even if he had no reason not to, as John had never put up a fight. No, it was the milk.

It was always the milk.

Part of John wondered why they were always out of milk. He put it in his tea, and had even made hot chocolate a couple of times when the bone-cold of the nightmares needed chasing away. Other than that, he didn't touch the stuff - he'd never liked plain milk growing up, and though he'd moved past that fussy stage, he hadn't developed any particular fondness for it. So where, where was all the milk going?

Logically, Sherlock must be using it. But for what? Well, he drank it, John was sure, though he couldn't quite shake the niggling idea of finding curdled dairy in his wellies. The thing was, when was the last time he'd seen Sherlock drink something? Come to that, when was the last time the man had eaten? True, John had forced soup on him while the younger man was in hospital, burns wrapped in clean, crisp bandages, looking far more vulnerable and human than John was comfortable with. Had he eaten since his discharge?

No, that was a bad train of thought. He couldn't let his righteous anger be overwhelmed with concern. There had been days, weeks on end when it seemed as though Sherlock lived on air and thoughts alone, but John would rummage through the cupboards to find bags of crisps and other junk foods missing. He found it amusing that the consulting detective so despised giving the impression of mortality that he only ate surreptitiously.

He must have finished off the milk on the sly, as well, because John knew there had been a third of the carton left when he'd gone out. It had only been two hours, how much milk did a man need in two hours?

The knot of anger grew, and John paused in his pacing, eyes narrowed. This wasn't really about milk, though, was it? It was about Sherlock's absolute refusal to take on his share of the domestic duties. It wasn't as though Sherlock was the breadwinner in the household; they both worked. In fact, John worked more regularly than Sherlock, putting in hours at the surgery as well as assisting his friend.

It was intolerable. They were supposed to be a team, in the field as well as at home. They were supposed to be sharing this flat and all the chores that came with it, and yet Sherlock spread his...his junk all over every room, invading and overwhelming like conquering hordes, and John was left with his bedroom and all of the household upkeep. Well, not anymore, he thought, kicking at the pile of magazines and watching the top two skitter under the coffee table. The coffee table that was covered in files and Sherlock footprints.

With a growl, John stormed over and shoved the files off the coffee table, pushing until the table was next to the couch, rather than in front of it. Let's see him stomp all over it now, the irate physician thought viciously. With a satisfied huff, he whirled around and slumped down on the couch, determinedly not flopping onto it like a fainting lady like some people.

The grinning visage of Sherlock's skull stared at him mockingly.

"Oh, it's all very well for you," John muttered, fighting down the urge to stick out his tongue, "nobody expects you to fetch the cleaning and make sure no one's dumped acid down the drain and pick up the bloody milk."

The skull said nothing.

"I mean, is it so unreasonable to expect him to pick up some of the slack? I bend over backwards for him, and all I get is 'John, let me borrow your phone,' and 'John, you're an idiot,' and 'You don't mind if I fill the bloody fridge with fingers and spleens, do you, John?' Well, yes, I do mind!"

Launching himself off of the couch, John crossed the room and leaned against the mantlepiece as though he were at a bar, discussing yesterday's game with the bartender.

"You've never had to vault over rooftops or shoot cabbies or wrestle circus performers, have you? Well, let me tell you, if you had hands to carry groceries, you can bet that bastard would be sending you out for fucking milk, too.

"But no more," John declared, waving his arms in the air, very aware that he was somewhat hysterical. "From now on, Sherlock is going to start doing things for himself!"

Which was easier said than done. Blinking, John lowered his arms with a sigh, conceding that perhaps trying to make Sherlock feel some responsibility towards his harried flatmate was biting off a bit more than he could chew. Still, he was an intelligent man, no matter what Sherlock thought, surely he could come up with a plan.

How does one get a man with the mental acuity of a genius and the emotional maturity of a blueberry scone to do what you want?

Incentive.

John regarded the skull contemplatively, a grin working its way across his face. It wasn't a nice grin. He picked it up, holding it at eye level. "Nothing personal."

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Sherlock knew as soon as he stepped in the front door that something wasn't right.

It didn't take his faultless deductive skills to come to this conclusion. There were magazines and files scattered about, and...someone had moved to coffee table.

John, of course. Pressing his lips together, Sherlock glared at the offending piece of furniture. Why on Earth would John move the table? It had been sitting there since the shorter man had moved in, and he'd never seemed to have a problem with its location.

The haphazard scattering of certain of Sherlock's belongings suggested a small-scale temper tantrum. Analytical eyes narrowed at the thought. John didn't lose his temper, not like that. He yelled, certainly, and glared, though he didn't really have the face for glaring effectively. He was snarky when irritated, loud when angered or afraid, and coldly silent when he was truly furious. He didn't react with physical violence unless in self-defence.

Humming to himself, Sherlock allowed himself to smile briefly. He did like a puzzle, after all.

It was at that moment that he realized two things.

One: John was making his way down from his own bedroom.

Two: Sherlock's skull was missing.

"John, did you let Mrs. Hudson take my..."

Freezing, Sherlock experienced that most unpleasant of all sensations - confusion.

John stood in the doorway, smiling genially. Or, rather, attempting to smile genially, and achieving a terrifying grimace that would have been more fitting on the face of a tyrannosaurus. In one hand he held Sherlock's skull. In the other, he was clutching a small sledgehammer.

"John?"

"Hello, Sherlock! Did you have a good day? Great," he said brightly, not even slowing to allow his flatmate to respond. "I had a lovely day, too. I'm so very glad you're home now, because we're going to have a bit of a chat, mm-kay?"

Sherlock's complex brain had made several deductions during this speech. The first being that John was angry - he was smiling wrong, his voice was higher than normal, and his eyes were narrowed and burning into him with frightening rage. The second deduction was that Sherlock had done something wrong - he was turning his anger on Sherlock, and threatening a personal belonging of the detective's. This was directly related to his third deduction, which was that if he didn't appease John, his skull would shortly be in pieces.

Hopefully just the one in John's hand.

"Okay, John. What would you like to-"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John chirped cheerfully, hefting the sledgehammer in warning. Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, startled.

Smiling wider, John tilted his head to the side. "Now, this may look a bit odd, but I'm certain that by now, you'll have figured out the gist of this discussion. Yes, I am angry with you, but the good news, my friend, is that you can remedy this easily. All you have to do is turn around and pick up the paper on the coffee table."

Slowly, so as not to further upset this new, bewildering John Watson, Sherlock edged towards the coffee table and picked up the sheet of notebook paper. Glancing at it briefly, his brow furrowed.

To Buy:

- Milk

- Eggs

- Tea bags

- Oranges

- Bacon

- Sugar

- Batteries

Blinking, Sherlock opened his mouth, only to be cut off again.

"No, Sherlock. It's not time for you to speak yet," this maniacal version of John said in the same chipper voice. "This is what's going to happen. You are going to go to the shops, buy the items on the grocery list, and return to the flat within the hour."

The consulting detective squirmed internally. He detested shopping, it was so...pedestrian. It reminded him that no matter how far above the majority of humanity he was, there were still those forces that sought equalization - hunger, exhaustion, illness.

"Do you know why I'm sending you shopping, Sherlock," John asked softly, his smile slipping a bit. Of course, he saw his friend's discomfort and his caring nature began to override his choler. He could use this to his advantage.

"No, John, I don't understand," he said in his best Be-Nice-I'm-Adorably-Bewildered voice.

There was a moment where Sherlock could see his salvation flicker across John's face. Just the tiniest seed of compassion, that's all it would take to tear apart the foundation of John's ire.

Sadly, it was at that moment that John's gaze landed on Sherlock's scarf. Or, rather, John's scarf, because Sherlock's was still damp from being washed. He hadn't thought much of borrowing John's - they were friends, according to the smaller man, friends shared things, right?

Something about sharing his scarf seemed to stoke the fires of his rage, because John's expression tightened before melting back into the not-quite-right smile.

"Allow me to explain, then," he said, holding the skull a little higher. "I am angry, Sherlock."

Obvious, Sherlock thought, but for once he held it in.

"I am angry because I am, apparently, the only person in this flat who is capable of pulling his own weight. Do you know what that means, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I-"

"I put up with the eyeballs in the microwave. I put up with being dragged back and forth across London, following blindly where you lead. I put up with the four o' clock texting. I put up with being called an idiot every time I turn around. I put up with doing your housecleaning, your cooking, your plumbing, your dry cleaning, your home repairs. I put up with it all, Sherlock, because despite the fact that you're an emotionally crippled, narcissistic, self-absorbed douchebag, my relationship with you is possibly the most enjoyable and rewarding I've ever had."

Sherlock had not realized it was possible to be offended and flattered at the same time, but he had stopped being surprised at John surprising him very shortly after they'd met, and simply filed the information away to be contemplated at a later date.

John sighed, tapping himself lightly on the shoulder with the sledgehammer absently as he regarded his friend. "But there is one thing I will no longer put up with, Sherlock, and that is doing the shopping. You see, I think it's time that we start dividing up the domestic responsibilities more evenly, don't you?"

He didn't, but for the sake of his safety, he nodded.

"Oh, good, I was hoping you'd agree," John responded sweetly as though he hadn't be waving a heavy, blunt object at him threateningly. "So, here's what I propose. You will take that shopping list, go down to Tesco's, purchase the items on the list, and return to the flat within an hour. If you are not back with every item on the list in that time, you'll never see the skull again."

Here he hefted both items, leaving no room for doubt as to what would befall Sherlock's inanimate friend should he fail in his assignment. He clutched the list to his chest, eyes narrowed on his traitorous flatmate.

What had happened to cause John to lose his mind, for it was quite clear to Sherlock that this was what had occurred. They had been living together for a year, and in all that time, John had never tried to make Sherlock go shopping. He had seemed a bit exaspirated with his brilliant friend's distaste for the duller aspects of the human experience, but Sherlock had always thought that John got it. He sighed and grumbled and rolled his eyes, but he had never been driven to these extremes.

If he were honest with himself, he would admit that perhaps he pushed John sometimes, but it wasn't out of malice or amusement. Ever since that first cab ride, when the near-stranger beside him had uttered praise instead of defensive invictive, Sherlock had been almost obscenely fascinated by the doctor's perseverence. Even at his worst, Sherlock had yet to chase John away the way he'd chased away all others. That loyalty, that trust, was something Sherlock couldn't help but want to test time and again. Surely, he'd think, surely this time John would give up on me. Surely this time, John would leave.

But no, even here, now, apparently at the end of his rope and prepared to go to great lengths to get his way, John hadn't left.

"All right, John. If it makes you happy, I will do the shopping from now on."

There was another moment where it seemed that John would capitulate and forget about making Sherlock go shopping, but this time, the younger man found that he did not want that. John would give in, yes, but he would still be unhappy. In a moment of rare emotional insight, Sherlock acknowledged that he wanted John to be happy.

With a sigh, he adjusted John's scarf around his neck, enjoying the softness of it. It was warmer than his, and something about that comforted him greatly. Folding the grocery list carefully and placing it in his pocket, he turned and headed down the stairs.

He wondered if he should ever mention to John that, should it come down to a choice between watching John pulverize his skull and watching John walk away from him, he would gladly hand John the hammer himself. He didn't think his friend was the sort to use that kind of weakness against someone, but John was a delightfully surprising person - you could never be sure what he might do.

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Propping his feet on the arm of the couch, John draped one arm over his eyes and sighed through his nose.

It had been a horrible day. He'd unintentionally offended the wife of a patient who had hit him with her purse, Sarah had been rather short with him (since he'd stood her up the night before to rush to a crime scene in time to tackle Sherlock out of the way of a crowbar-weilding psychopath, he didn't really blame her), a teenager on a skateboard had nearly knocked him into moving traffic on the way home, and they were out of milk. Again.

Turning his head to peek out from under his arm at the skull (whom he'd begun referring to as Mort, which made Sherlock raise his eyebrow, but as he hadn't commented, John figured he didn't mind). It was back in its place of honor, no worse for wear, and John sighed again.

"What does he do with it, Mort? There was a quarter left last night!"

Whatever Mort may have responded with was cut off by his phone chirping at him. John fumbled for a moment, letting the arm shielding his eyes fall to his side as he read the text.

I'm stopping by the shops on my way home - do you want anything? SH

Smiling, John tapped out a quick directive to remember the milk.

Maybe, if all went well, he could get Sherlock to do his own hoovering...but he wouldn't hold his breath.

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END

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A/N - Okay, so...yeah.

I was looking up something to amuse myself with on YouTube, and having recently become absolutely obsessed with Sherlock, I ended up stumbling across a loverly Watson-Love music video set to 'Trust Me, I'm A Doctor' by The Blizzards. It was the first time I'd heard the song, so I looked it up to listen to it, and I adore it.

Unfortunately, possibly because of Sherlock overload, I heard the line 'you'll never see this girl again' as 'you'll never see the skull again'. From there, it wasn't much of a leap to 'John holding Sherlock's skull hostage'.

(If you'd like to watch the video - and you would, because it's awesome - type 'John Watson Trust Me in the YouTube search engine. It's not hard to find. Alternatively, I will be putting a link in my profile.)

Anyway, this can be taken as a nice, humor/friendship one-shot, or as a prequel/sidestory to the wonderfully slashy fic I've got in the works. Either way, I hope you enjoy it, and leave reviews! Lots of reviews!

Peace.

Akiko