Hello again, awesome readers. When I started writing this series, I never anticipated I would write more than 2 parts, much less 5. I had to tweak the storyline here and there as a result, but it really doesn't change much. Thanks again for everyone's support and comments. I hope you all enjoy part 5!

"Sherlock, if you don't get that stinking, festering pile of intestines out of the fridge by next pick-up, I'm throwing it away myself!" The doctor slammed the fridge door, clenching and unclenching his fists as he yelled at the detective.

"John!" Sherlock was in the doorway in his dressing gown and pajama bottoms. "It's an experiment!"

"No, it's disgusting. I want it gone. It's been in here for two weeks!"

Sherlock pouted, looking like John just told him he wanted to punt his violin off the roof. "Give me three more days." He muttered.

"Nope. Rubbish pick up is tomorrow. It will be gone by tomorrow."

Sherlock's pout turned into a mutinous frown and he stomped into the sitting room, flinging himself on the sofa. John heard him grumbling to himself and he was sure he was getting made fun of, but he didn't care. He suddenly saw the logic behind Mrs. Hudson's idea of giving the detective a few smacks across the bum now and then‒he was acting spectacularly like a child. John poked his head into the sitting room and saw the man slouched on the sofa, frowning at the fireplace. He slid his eyes to him and growled, "what?!" in a tone that would make a snotty thirteen year old jealous. John rolled his eyes and ducked back into the kitchen. Yes, he definitely saw the logic.

A few days later, John pulled open the fridge after a long shift at the surgery and took out a bowl of vegetable curry. The intestines were gone, finally, and the fridge was experiment-and-odor-free. For now. It was nice. This must be how normal people lived.

"Thank you for finally cleaning out the fridge." John said to his flatmate, who was seated at the microscope. He hummed in response.

John ate in the sitting room, watching telly, before putting the bowl in the sink and heading upstairs to his room to change. He opened the door and recoiled at the wretched stench that blew out in his face. What the hell? He flipped on the light, covering his nose and mouth with one hand and glanced around the space, half expecting there to be a pile of dead things on the floor. Nothing. He crept around his room, looking into corners. Nothing. He opened his wardrobe and saw it was blessedly bereft of anything that would cause such a foul smell. John threw open his window as far as it would go, waving his arms at it in a vain attempt to encourage the smell to leave. This was crazy! It didn't stink on the stairs, so what was going on? It had to be in his room. John got on his knees and peered under his dresser. Just dust. He crawled forward and looked under his bed and it was then that he saw it. The intestines that had been in the fridge appeared to have found a new home under his bed, and by the stench of it, they had been rotting there all day while he was at work.

"Sherlock!" He bellowed in a tone that made the floorboards ring.

At the microscope, the detective grinned.

"Hoo-hoo." Mrs. Hudson knocked on the open door the next day. John was at the desk on his laptop. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Hi, Mrs. H." John said. "If it reeks in here, it's Sherlock's fault." John had disposed of the foul body parts last night, thinking some horrible things about his flatmate the entire time.

"Oh no, love. I can't smell a thing." She went into the kitchen and put a few things away. "Just some leftovers from the café!" She called.

"Thanks." John said.

"Did you two have a little domestic last night? I heard you over the telly‒is everything alright?"

John saved his draft and stood up.

"A bit. We're fine now." He said. "Sorry about the yelling. Would you like tea?"

"Only if you're making it for yourself anyway!" Mrs. Hudson called. "I can't stay long‒it's busy in the café, goodness‒but one cup won't hurt."

John flipped the kettle on and set out two mugs. Sherlock was away at the hospital, as Mike was there today to give him lab access. He'd said something about being gone for most of the day before he left, so John knew he'd have the flat to himself. Good. He had an idea for revenge and he needed to be alone to do it. No one put intestines under his bed without a comeuppance.

"I meant to tell you, John, I'm going to have a man come out to repaper and patch up that wall by your sofa. Ever since Sherlock shot it, I've been meaning to get it fixed."

"When is he coming by?" John asked.

"Hopefully in the next week or two. He's dreadfully booked, so it might be a bit yet."

She stayed long enough to finish the tea before going back to the café. John put both mugs in the sink and crept down the hall towards Sherlock's room. The door was open and he stood on the threshold, feeling wrong-footed being here by himself while Sherlock wasn't even home. It was an unspoken thing that they stayed out of each other's rooms just for privacy and politeness' sake. Usually. Living with Sherlock, nothing was a guarantee and Sherlock had clearly violated that rule when he shoved body parts under John's bed. John walked further in. The room was extremely neat. Everything was shelved and dusted and organized. It was the exact opposite of the rest of the flat.

He went to the wardrobe and opened the sliding doors, revealing designer shirts neatly hung and dress shoes paired on the floor. On the far end of the wardrobe was Sherlock's costume section, as there was a construction vest, a few suits in different colors, and something shiny. A chest of drawers was off to one side and John pulled one mahogany drawer open. Underwear. He closed it and another drawer revealed some T-shirts and the third was what he was looking for: the sock index. John stared at it for a few moments. It was disgustingly tidy, even by John's military standards. Every sock was paired and rolled, organized by weight and then by color, resulting in an evenly weighted undulating rainbow ranging from black to red. Grinning, feeling like he was a child let loose in a sweet shop, John took two pairs and switched their places. Red got exchanged with blue and white was pushed up against green. He paired a few wrong colors and patterns and then sat back to admire his work. It was definitely messed up, but no one besides Sherlock would see that anything was amiss. A normal person would see socks in a drawer, but Sherlock would see barely contained chaos. John pushed the drawer closed and left the room, preparing to put part two of his plan into action.

It would have been easier to just forbid experiments from entering the flat. It would have been easier for them to just row and punch and yell. John didn't want to do that though. That would be too pedestrian even by his standards. Sherlock was a special sort of person, so John wanted to take a special sort of revenge. This was only day one, and he had lots of ideas planned.

Thanks for reading! As usual, comments are appreciated :) tbc...