Let's hope I can stick to this. Enjoy :)

John was sitting in the armchair flicking numbly through the channels when Sherlock bounded in. The detective looked quite manic – a dead chicken dangled from his fist, showering the floor with feathers, and he was grinning. His hair was flecked with water droplets, glinting in the dull afternoon sun.

John eyed him warily.

That look had a habit of ruining his Sundays. Sherlock had never quite understood the concept of having a nice, boring Sunday, drinking tea and silently dreading the Monday to come.

Actually, he couldn't be entirely sure he'd had a 'nice, boring Sunday' since he'd moved in with the man. Apparently today was not going to be the exception.

"John, it's December!" Sherlock announced proudly. His hands jerked wildly to express his enthusiasm, and the chicken crunched against his leg. John stared.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's December," he repeated, looking at John expectantly. When the other man still made no reaction, Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes again, following his flatmate's line of sight.

"Oh, this," he said dismissively, letting the bird flap limply in his hand. "It's for a case. There's been a spate of farm robberies. I wouldn't bother, but it's from Mycroft's suppliers, and he threatened to invite me to his Christmas party if I refused. I really don't know why he couldn't sort it out himself, the problem is devastatingly simple."

John blinked, and tried to ignore the feathers sailing benignly onto the carpet.

"If it's so 'devastatingly simple'," he asked, "then why are you showering the bloody flat with feathers, Sherlock?"

He could have sworn Sherlock pouted.

"Apparently rock solid logic does not constitute 'concrete evidence' anymore," Sherlock told him, sitting on the arm of John's chair. "Although how a man who failed his A-Levels can pronounce whether or not something is evidence still evades me. His business would have failed a long time ago were Mycroft not propping it up."

Sherlock continued in this vein for some time, his rant evolving into barely audible mutters. John turned back to the TV, and watched a few seconds of 'Grand Designs'. They were really making a meal of applying that too-expensive wallpaper.

"It's December?" he reminded Sherlock, turning from the screen.

"Oh yes, December," Sherlock said, standing. "I thought you'd like that."

"It's been December for four days," John pointed out, grinning. Sherlock scowled, and went to slam the chicken on the table. It was silent for a bit.

"We should get a tree," Sherlock said. His mind sounded quite made up.

"Okay," John agreed.

The two men surveyed each other for a few seconds. Finally, Sherlock gave a curt nod, and turned his attention to his chicken. Surprised, John gave a faint smile and turned away too, in time to see a woman bemoaning the fact that she could not, in fact, afford turrets on her new house.

Maybe he would get his lazy Sunday after all.