Case Month

A/n: I'm back! I honestly can't thank you enough for being so patient and wonderful, and I'm so sorry (again). But now my exams and college is over, I should be able to finally get into the swing of things again! Just want to say a huge thank you to everyone's wonderful, wonderful reviews, because you guys are the reason I've continued this story. Also, the amazing Vicki Brancati gave me a fantastic idea of how to finish this story. However, for now, sit back, relax, and enjoy this new chapter! I hope it's worth the wait xxx

It was that time of the month. Case month. The month in the year when Sherlock had so many cases on that time seemed to pass in blurs of long distance running, taxis and frequent visits to a disgruntled Scotland Yard. It was the month that everyone dreaded, because Sherlock was manic. Well, more manic than usual (if you can imagine the horror).

And that was just outside the flat.

Inside the flat, you would have thought that I would be allowed to rest, catch my breath, and sleep.

No. No.

No, instead, it meant sleepless nights (every god dam night), endless days of having to put up with gunshots, rocketing nicotine highs that sent Sherlock into a frenzy worthy of an excited dog; the ceaseless sound of pacing, pacing, pacing. Day and night, hour after hour. Drove me bloody mad with all his pacing.

Case Sherlock was perhaps the most irritating of them all. But that was subject to change really.

This particular month, a hot, sticky July, Sherlock was working on a case so difficult, that it was slowly driving him insane.

Obviously, Sherlock being the obnoxious git that he was, told me constantly that it wasn't difficult, and spent no time complaining loudly that it was because it was hot.

"What do you want me to do!" I bellowed, finally snapping after what seemed like probably the 355th time he had come skulking into the lounge with nothing (and I mean nothing) but his underwear on, hair sticking up on end, and eyes puffy from lack of sleep, "block out the sun?"

That would be the next thing. He'd run me ragged trying to get his 'overheating mind palace' (perhaps it was on fire now?) cool, so I didn't dare mention the fact that we had no less than 15 different fans set up around the room. I honestly couldn't sit anywhere without having paper, tissue and the occasional unsuspecting fly come whizzing into my face as a dozen different revolving fan heads swung in my direction. By the end of some nights, I looked like the contents of a paper bin, but I could never be bothered now to move.

I also didn't mention the fact that we had every window in the entire flat flung open, which meant that at night, I had to pay host to 300 moths, 377 flies, and probably thousands upon thousands of (demon) spiders that kept me up into the early hours hoping to god that they didn't come onto my bed, otherwise my manly reputation as Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilier would be lost in a millisecond.

Sherlock scowled, his hair ruffling gently in the breeze.

"I'm too hot," he mumbled, "can't think if I'm hot,"

I gestured wildly to the fans.

"I can't do any more!"

He shrugged.

I opened my mouth to have another go, when at that moment, some of Sherlock's case notes slapped me hard across the face, and then remained stuck to my nose. All I could see was white.

It took me longer than it should have to get it off my face, spluttering, and glaring.

Sherlock seemed to be making a gallant attempt at not laughing. I couldn't focus on that though, given the fact that he was still very close to naked, and not at all worried about the fact that my eyes were slowly burning.

It was the evening, and it was still hot for gods sake!

I shoved the case notes under his nose.

"How about a drink?" I asked, in an attempt to stop him complaining again.

He scowled at me again.

I took that as a yes, and stomped, grim faced to the kitchen.

I had too long been suffering the grim fate of being locked in the flat with an overgrown, hyper kid. And the insane Sherlock was slowly staring to wear on me.

Mrs Hudson, who was more clever than she looked, was no where to be seen, and had mysteriously vanished the moment Sherlock came home announcing that he had a case.

Mycroft, also, couldn't be less helpful at the moment. All he seemed fit to do was randomly appear at street corners, lurk in shop aisles (looking very ridiculous- it wasn't everyday you saw a man in a crisp suit with a black umbrella staring ominously at the dried fruit) and, one terrifying time, jump out of a toilet cubicle when I was doing my business, to ask if Sherlock hadn't burned the flat down yet.

That particular memory still make the blood drain out of my face.

I had found myself jumping and yelling out left right and centre. No part of London was safe.

Needless to say my temper was running high, I appeared to stick to every surface I touched, and I was very close to murdering something.

After unpeeling my hand my from the glass, I gave it to Sherlock.

Another unpleasant thing about the heat- it was too hot to tea.

This had taken the greatest effect on me. I wanted tea so badly it sometimes (though I would never admit it) gave me nightmares. I also found my attention span was shorter, and I would frequently catch myself staring wistfully into the distance thinking about the wonderful taste of tea...

It meant that I was running on an even shorter fuse than normal.

After I'd given him the drink, silence fell, and I thought that perhaps I had a quieter night ahead.

But then:

"Of course! Blue jelly!"

I thought that I was having a heart attack.

It had been so loud, so random, that it had made me jump violently. Another second and I realised that I was soaking wet and Tango Orange was dripping slowly from my fridge.

Jesus Christ, that was cold!

I leapt up.

Sherlock who as yet hadn't noticed the traumatic emotional upheaval he had just caused me, finally stopped pacing and muttering, and stared at me.

The silence held for a moment, and then:

"Why are you so wet?" He asked, clearly astonished.

That was it.

I flipped. But I was so done, I was incapable of speech. One fast arm motion later, and Sherlock, too, was suffering the Tango hair dripping fate. It had made all of his curls flatten to a dense black mass, and he looked remarkably like a drowned rat, gasping and spluttering.

It would have been very funny if my hair hadn't congealed to my fringe in one big sticky block.

I turned on my heel, leaving the sopping wet Sherlock dripping on the carpet, and stormed off. Shower first, and then bed.

If I had thought that the worst of it was over, I was sorely mistaken.

I woke up in a rather nice mood. My room was blissfully cool with the curtains drawn, and I felt like I'd had a rather good night for the first time in what seemed like a century.

All was well- until I moved.

All I did was shuffle a little to the right. But that tiny movement made the most colossal, loudest rustle that I had ever heard come from my bed.

What the hell?

I moved again, listening.

Rustle, rustle, rustle...

It sounded like...

My eyes flew open.

And then I started yowling.

"Sherlock!" I yelled, furiously.

Sherlock, obviously for revenge for the Tango incident, had covered me, and my bed, and my room, my floor, my lamp, literally everything! With his case notes.

I was covered from head to foot. The only spare bit Sherlock had left me were spaces for me to see.

"Sherlock!" I yelled again,

The door opened. So slowly, I could almost sense his anxiousness. Then fluffy, ridiculously curly hair and a pair of bright blue eyes appeared from behind the door.

"Good morning John,"

I stared at the little bit of Sherlock peering at me carefully from the door.

And then I was up and sprinting, ready to pounce, and case notes were flying, and my feet kept slipping on the paper covered floor.

Sherlock's eyes widened and vanished; I could hear him pounding down the stairs into the lounge.

I slammed open the door, and burst into the threshold. The air in the hallway was suddenly thick with flying case notes.

And then I launched myself onto Sherlock, who had just made it to the bottom step.

We fell into the lounge with a huge crash and the rustle of paper, with me on top of him, and him struggling to get free of my grip.

Case notes were everywhere, being disturbed by the ceaseless breeze of the fans. I felt like I was in the middle of a paper tornado.

Sherlock was yelling but I was too busy shouting abuse to notice.

"- bloody case notes! What the hell was that about?!" I wheezed, breathless and finally out of abusive words.

"You put tango in my hair!" Sherlock retorted accusingly with a sniff.

"You... You got on my nerves!" I yelled back, knowing it was not even close to a proper excuse.

"I'm trying to solve a case!"

"All you're trying to solve is how to make me go batty, you twit,"

"It's hot!"

"In case you haven't noticed, we have a constant gale-force bloody wind in here!" I snapped, once again finding my face obscured my an obscene amount of paper. How did he even have this amount of paper?

"I'm still hot!" Sherlock sounded stroppy.

"I don't care!"

I rolled off him and shook off the rest of the case notes.

Sherlock got up more slowly.

"Just one question though," he said carefully.

I stared mutinously at him, but it seems that he wasn't deterred.

"Did you really just call me a Nincompoop?" He sniggered.

A/n: I hope you liked it, a review or two would be amazing. I also want to ask you guys of you would like me to finish this story soon, or if you just want me to continue? ...I don't mind. I highly enjoying making you guys happy. Let me know, thanks! Xxx