A/N: My new buddy Kootenai is such a sweetheart that I thought I might write something special for them. And this is what was requested (in summary form, I notice, heehee): "The night John and Sherlock played Cluedo, and why the game might not have gotten finished. I feel like frustrated John might be fun to write, while 'I'm always right' Sherlock might have to rethink his angles to keep John from blowing up

completely..."

Enjoy, bb, even if it's a bit short, haha. It is only drabble material for me, anyhow.

(This will be subtly Johnlock, by the way. I can't help myself there.)

It's on a night with no cases, not too long after Christmas and just shy of New Year's, that Sherlock declares, as per usual, how extremely bored he is. I sigh and roll my eyes at him. "That's because not many people are mad enough to commit homicide during the holidays," I tell him as I pause in my internet browsing to glance over at where he lays on the couch.

Sherlock makes a sort of scoffing sound. "Right, because no one gets frustrated with their relatives or emotionally outraged by their spouses during the holiday rush. Why doesn't anyone act on any of that in a way that would be interesting for me?"

"The world doesn't revolve around pleasing you, Sherlock," I say with my usual listless tone for his antics. "Why don't you switch on the telly or do a crossword? Or, hell, do one of your 'experiments,' I don't care. Anything's better than lazying about and complaining how bored you are."

"Already filled all the crosswords in the house, including the one from today's paper. Judging by the hour of day, the television at the moment is nothing but re-runs and talk shows I don't care about. I finished all my experiements, John, and usually only do them when I am testing something for a case, something I which I'm lacking at the moment. So please, go ahead and continue to suggest whatever you like; I'll shoot down every idea because I have already thought of it, thank you." He huffs and sits up right in his chair. I'm not even looking at him, but I can hear him moving. "John," he adds in a groan, "I've just solved my Rubik's cube five times in a row, that's how desperate I am for entertainment!"

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" I question, and I'm leaning on my chair, my laptop forgotten for the moment. "I'm not a court jester, you know."

He thinks for a moment, finger tapping his bottom lip. Then his eyes are meeting mine. "Seems I have no choice. Didn't think it would come to this."

"Come to what?" I ask, frowning. I turn a bit in my chair. "Sherlock?"

"Get out the Cluedo board, John," Sherlock sighs as he smoothly gets to his feet and starts clearing a spot on our small chess table. "I guess you were right in giving it to me for precisely this sort of moment."

It had been a gag gift for Christmas a few days ago. I bought him Cluedo to poke fun at how he loves solving murder mysteries. He had, of course, said as soon as he opened it, "John, what use do you possibly think I'll have for this children's game?"

I had answered, "Nostalgia's sake, mostly. Mycroft told me it was your favorite game when you were seven years old." I smirked at him. "That, and I figure it would come in handy during those times you are so painfully bored that you start shooting at the walls."

And now, apparently, that time has come. Sherlock's bored and he's willing to sit down and play a board game with me. I chuckle at the thought as I get up and look around for the discarded gift.

As I set up the board and shuffle the cards, placing them into categories, shuffling again, and slipping one of each – weapon, location, suspect – into the small file folder atop the cellar, Sherlock sighs dramatically and sits in his chair backward, arms resting on the support piece. "This is boring with two people, so I suppose we'll have to make it more interesting."

"How?" I ask. "There's only one way to play, Sherlock. That's how games work for the most part. If you want more people, I can go ask Mrs. Hudson –"

He shakes his head. "No, don't bother her; she's going out for the night. I heard the shower running and the blow-dryer earlier. Instead, don't divide the cards fully between us. Leave out some variables, one of each category, as if we had another player. Place those cards under the board."

"But, then, how will we know to figure those aren't in the center? You're making the game impossible, Sherlock," I say, but I'm re-sorting the cards and shuffling again, taking out one at random from each pile before combining them all again and re-dealing our cards.

"It will work out. It gives off the appearance of two possibilities to the case, and narrowing down which is more likely in the center between the two will be the goal." He picks up Reverend Green's playable piece and rolls it in his hand. Then he places it in front of me. He takes Professor Plum's piece and places it before himself.

"Why am I Reverend Green?" I protest. I generally prefer being Colonel Mustard; he's a soldier like myself. And I don't know, I'm partial to yellows (perhaps because of my hair).

"Don't be Colonel Mustard, John; he's no where near your stature. Look at the way he's illustrated on the box; portly, aged, retired. You're still in shape, you have plenty of years on you, and the war, for you, is still on. And aside from that, he's more than likely one of the top cards to be chosen at random to be in the answer folder in the center. He and Miss Scarlet both. She's a temptress, out for money, and he's a greedy old bastard wanting more than the pension he must be allotted. But Reverend Green is a holy man, obviously, and therefore has morals; a bit like you, John." And he smirks knowingly at me.

"…These are fictional characters, Sherlock. No need to dissect them," I remind him with a laugh. I pick up the green piece and shrug. "But all right, I'll play along. Green I'll be, then." I can nearly imagine Irene Adler as Miss Scarlet, but the thought is a little odd, so I push it away. Instead, I pick up the dice. "Whoever rolls highest gets to go first."

"Unnecessary. You can go first, John. This is the game you bought me, after all," Sherlock says. He clearly doesn't care much to play at all; but like he said, he's desperate.

"Fine." I roll the die and my face falls once I land a two. "Two?" I say grumpily. "I can hardly get anywhere with a two!" I move the piece nonetheless, being at least two steps closer to either the ballroom or the conservatory (preferably the conservatory, because it has a secret stairwell into the lounge, which is convenient for making more guesses on more turns).

"Rotten luck, John," Sherlock smiles lightly. "My turn."

While he rolls (he lands a five, the bastard, and is much closer to the study than I am to anything), I tally up my cards on my clues' sheet. I mostly have weapons, which is fortunate, because that leads me closer to figuring out at least third of the mystery. The most difficult bit is figuring out which room the host was killed in; there are so many more rooms than weapons or suspects.

Sherlock, I notice, has already checked off all of his own cards, and is now watching me carefully. I wonder if he saw which ones I checked? But I was careful to keep my hand and level on the sheet out of sight… "Did you see which ones I have?" I accuse sharply, feeling already a bit competitive. I should never had bought this game.

"No," he says, and I can never tell if the damn man is lying or not. Sherlock has, perhaps, the most perfected poker face I have ever come across.

I clench my teeth for a moment. "Fine, whatever. If you feel like using your observational skills to cheat, be my guest. But I'm playing this with a clean conscious."

"Suit yourself," Sherlock replies. "But I think it's hardly fair if I cheat. The game will be over too quickly and it will be too boring to win that easily. So I'm keeping to myself; no worries. Now then, isn't it your turn?"

He offers the die, and I swipe it from his hand. I roll, land a six – "Yes!" – and proceed toward the conservatory. Only three spaces until I can go in! I can't toss any guesses this coming turn, but I can shortly afterward, and that makes me proud. I fell like I may have a shot at this after all.

But then Sherlock goes and rolls a four ad glides his purple piece smoothly into the study.

We battle back and forth a bit – me rolling and failing, getting many ones and twos and nearly screaming because it takes that much longer to be able to try a guess – and Sherlock complaining that me showing him one card out of the three things he guessed is just too simple, like giving the answer away.

"No it isn't!" I protest. "It's a matter of keeping inventory and using old-fashioned process of elimination! It's actually not a straightforward answer, Sherlock, so play the bloody game and quit complaining about its rules!"

He makes a grunting sort of sound and drops his forehead onto the support piece of his chair, his arms hanging limp at his sides. "It's rudimentary is what it is! This actually poses as a fun challenge for people? Feh!"

"You liked it, too, when you were young. Mycroft said so," I contradict.

He shakes his head. "No, I didn't. He was manipulating you into buying me a ridiculous joke of a gift because he thinks it's so clever to give a consulting detective a murder mystery game.

"But do you know what, John? It's silly. I've already deduced by the flow of cards, the ones you've written down, my own, and the likely chances in percent of the three variables I've made you leave out that the suspect in that centerpiece is either Mrs. White or Mrs. Peacock, the weapon either the revolver or the rope, and the room either the ballroom or the billiards room.

"And judging by the slight peek I got of my cards before you retracted them and set aside the ones I asked, it's Mrs. Peacock, the billiards room, and the rope, the second two going under the assumption of what would make the most sense in real life." He scratches his head in irritation. "Do you see, John? I know, and you've only made three guesses and myself five, and it's already all settled through!"

At this point, I am seconds from hitting him. I seethe in silence for a moment before running my hand over my mouth, clicking my lips, and saying lowly, "Can't we play one game together, Sherlock, without you being a complete genius? Can't you last twenty minutes playing things by ear, enjoying the moment, and not thinking so hard?"

He says nothing, only watches me, his face unreadable, but definitely not bored.

I toss down my cards and pick up the center file. "And for another thing, the ballroom isn't one of the choices! I have it! I purposely made it look like I was marking it down, but instead mentally noted that I have the dinning room, because I knew you would cheat, because you can't help yourself!"

I huff out an exasperated puff of air and plop back down into my seat, file in hand. I turn it over in my fingers. Sighing again, I hand it over to the silent man across from me.

"Here, take it. Read out who it is. I bet you're right, like you always are."

Sherlock surprisingly looks… remorseful. Quietly, he pushes his palm against my knuckles and returns the file to me. "No, John."

"What, feeling ashamed of yourself now?" I say, eyebrows rising. They fall again, knitting together, as I slap the miniature folder onto game board again. I sigh and rub my forehead clean of the scowl. "Well, you should. I did buy this in mind that we might do something together that is more lighthearted than… than real dead bodies and real suspects."

"John…" Sherlock says, and he makes a face as I glance up. He picks up the tiny folder and opens it slowly. Then, sliding out the cards, their back covers to him, he turns them around and fans them out. He blinks. And then he laughs heartily.

"What? What is it?" I say.

"The spanner," Sherlock laughs. "It's the spanner, and Mrs. Peacock, and the dinning room. How the hell is it the spanner? The dinning room makes sense from what you told me, but the spanner? How?"

I take the cards from his hand and look down at my inventory. I accidentally checked the spanner instead of the lead piping, since both are at the bottom of the weapons' list. I start to laugh as well. I was so focused on fooling Sherlock passive aggressively and so sure of notes over my cards that I forgot my own deception.

"My fault," I say, giggling still. "Entirely my fault there."

"So we were both wrong, is that it?" Sherlock asks. He starts collecting up the little metal game pieces, the tiny dagger in his thumb and forefinger. "Ah, that's priceless. Not boring at all."

I nod in agreement, my laughter winding down as I start to gather up my cards and the mess I've made of my game piece and the board from all the moving about. I freeze, suddenly, and look up at Sherlock. "…Want to play again sometime? Next time by the rules, and without trickery and genius? We might actually get through a game properly without giving up."

"Yes," Sherlock beams. "And next time I'll shuffle. But you may still roll first."

"Fair deal," I reply.

And soon, it's after New Year's and I'm rekindling the fire in the fireplace one night, getting Sherlock and I a few drinks to settle down with, and he states, "Let's play Cluedo."

So we do. We play again, nearly like the first real time, because unlike before, there is no resentment or genius or deceit; we play like normal people might play the game, and we go through an entire sheet's worth of games in one sitting.

We just play again and again until it's after ten at night, and Sherlock has beaten me more times that I've beaten him, but I still have a win count, and Sherlock isn't bored, and that's good enough for me.

And I think we've found our new favorite pastime for between-case nights like these.