I haven't finished a fanfic in ages (I say finished because I've got a bunch of unfinished ones gathering dust on my desktop). It's good to be back! :)

The other day I was reading some 5+1 K/S Star Trek fanfiction when this little idea popped into my head. This is gonna be posted chapter by chapter because I write too long for my own good. *sigh*

Anywho, I hope you all enjoy. I'm certainly enjoying writing these and coming up with ideas. :)

Beta'd by virginger. Not Brit-picked.

The cover photo of this fic was drawn by liberiproject on Tumblr! Go check her out, omg. :')

I don't own Sherlock. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own my heart, though. :(

1.

John should've known this was coming. In his defence, however, he'd had three years without the consulting detective breathing down his neck, so it was only natural for him to forget what it was actually like living with the guy. He remembered the good times he had with the detective, of course: the adrenaline rush he got every time they had a case, moments when Sherlock played the violin to help him fall asleep when he got nightmares, and those little moments when John could see the more human side of him that not a lot of people got to see.

What John didn't remember, however, was how irrevocably irritating Sherlock Holmes really is.

He stared at the prone form of his flatmate lying on the couch, who was trying his best to be as ostentatiously loud as possible by sighing dramatically and shuffling around without actually falling off the damn thing.

(Sherlock didn't have to bother, actually. He had the ability to piss people off by just standing there. Just ask Anderson.)

But John digresses.

Sherlock was bored, and for once, John didn't know what to do.

If this had happened three years ago, John would've ignored him and left him to his own devices (with careful supervision, of course, he didn't want Prince Charles tied up in his kitchen again), but John didn't feel like suffering the wrath of a bored Sherlock Holmes – not when the joy and happiness of seeing his friend come back was still very much evident.

The doctor looked around the flat, looking for things that could entertain the man-child. He knew for a fact that Sherlock had been eyeing the murder that had taken place at Madame Tussaud's (how they couldn't differentiate between a wax figure and a corpse was beyond him), and he also knew that Lestrade was at the end of his wits. It was only a matter of time before Scotland Yard asked for Sherlock's help yet again.

John's eyes landed on a garishly bright, pink book lying on the coffee table.

During John's stay at his old military-pensioned flat after he moved out of Baker Street, he had the pleasure of meeting a young woman and her tot. The woman (who John later found out was called Dana) had lost her husband – a soldier stationed at Afghanistan – and was now living with their three year-old daughter, Rosie. Dana was frantically trying to find a job, knowing that the money she had with her wasn't going to be enough for Rosie to be raised properly, and John was more than willing to look after the child while she was out looking for a place to work.

Rosie was a good child, and John missed her dearly. She was vigorously artistic when it came to her colouring book, applying bright shades of pink and yellow to drawings of animals, breaking her crayons along the way. John was more than willing to settle down and colour with her. When he had left a mere month ago, Rosie, not fully understanding what was happening but knowing that her good old Unca Jawn was going to be leaving for good, tearfully gave the doctor several colouring books as a parting gift.

John was mused out of his memories by the sound of Sherlock's whine. "Jooooooooooohn. Bored. Do something."

"I can see that you're bored, Sherlock, but I have nothing for you to do," John sighed patiently.

Sherlock eyed the kitchen cupboard, John's revolver locked safely inside. The doctor followed his line of sight.

"Sherlock, no," John said sternly.

The detective whined louder.

John leaned over to snatch the pink colouring book from the coffee table and toss it onto his flatmate's face. Sherlock glared at the doctor before staring at the offending item. His eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"A children's book, John? You can't possibly be serious."

"If that's what it takes to shut you up, so be it," John said.

Sherlock opened the book and flicked over the pages. "This is preposterous, John, none of these images seems right! Look at this… this… this mutant crocodile with an alligator nose, it's smiling! And why are all the animals white? Where are the colors? Are these the kinds of things people are teaching their children?"

John rolled his eyes. "It's a children's book, Sherlock, it doesn't need to be right."

Sherlock looked disgustingly horrified at this statement.

"And besides," John continued, "that's the point of the book, Sherlock. You're supposed to colour it in."

"…colour it in?" Sherlock said slowly, as if John had grown another head (which was a horrible comparison because John knew that if he did grow a second head, he would be experimented on).

"Yes, Sherlock," his flatmate sighed exasperatedly.

Sherlock snarled at the picture of a zookeeper hugging a bear before throwing it to the floor. "That's ridiculous, John. Why would anyone want to do this? Wouldn't it be easier to look for pictures on the Internet? You're all so entertained by the most pathetic things."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration before standing up from his position on his chair. Sherlock's eyebrows rose as John rose.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to Mary's. Call me when Lestrade calls."

Sherlock harrumphed in response, turning his back on John and facing the couch. That was how John left him – checking the strength of the lock on the cupboard along the way – as he stalked out of the flat.

John hurried to get through the door, water dripping down his jacket-clad figure. Outside, the rain was pouring down unforgivingly, drenching the London streets. He held several bags of groceries in his hand as he finally managed to get inside and close the door.

Mrs. Hudson's head poked out from inside her flat.

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted warmly.

"John!" she chided, moving out of the doorway and into the hall. "You're wet! Why didn't you bring your umbrella?"

"I didn't think it was going to rain…"

Mrs. Hudson tutted at him affectionately. "Oh, dearie! How can I ever stay mad at you? You run along now and go upstairs, and I'll bring you and Sherlock some tea. Does that sound good?"

John started climbing up the stairs. "And some biscuits, too?"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded him, walking back into her flat. John could hear the sound of the oven opening as he continued his ascent up the stairs.

"Sherlock? I'm back!" John called out. He pushed the door open with his free hand...

…and promptly stepped on a crayon.

A certain consulting detective was all over him in half a second.

"John!" he snarled. "I needed that!" Sherlock bent over and picked up the two pieces of the broken crayon before plopping down on the floor in front of the couch. The table in front of him was occupied by the colouring book John had thrown and about fifty crayons. Sherlock deftly removed the paper surrounding one broken piece and started colouring one area with smooth precision.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Not now, John," Sherlock silenced him with an absent-minded flick of his head.

The doctor stared at his form blankly. When his flatmate made no move to explain what he was doing, John stopped staring at him long enough for him to drop the groceries on the kitchen table before approaching Sherlock.

The picture the detective was focused on was already coloured, and from what John could see, Sherlock was currently adding shades to the smiling crocodile-slash-alligator he was complaining about earlier. John was surprised to note the beauty of the drawing – it was coloured as if it were a real animal. He was also slightly horrified at the realistic droplets of blood dripping down the crocodile's teeth, matching the blood found on the antelope's neck on the page beside it.

Despite the gruesome (yet incredibly artistic) method of colouring, however, John found himself smiling at his friend. "You having fun there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted. He picked up a yellow crayon and started adding depth to the crocodile's teeth. "No. I'm merely correcting the errors the publishers made."

John chuckled, but didn't say any more about the topic. "Mrs. Hudson's coming up soon, and I'm about to make dinner. Mac and cheese sound good?"

Sherlock grunted. John chuckled again, and Sherlock, not distracted at all by John's conversation, continued filling the blank pages with colour.

Please review! It would really mean a lot. Really really. And reviews get you a purple shirt of sex! ^_^

No, really. They do. I don't lie. I am Vulcan. I am Spock.

+ I'm not really sure how often I'll update. Depends on the crap school throws at me.

++ I already have a bunch of childish things Sherlock can do swirling around my head, but an idea from you can still be a help. Just comment if you want to see something and I'll see what I can do. Hell, this could even end up as a bunch of one-shots of Sherlock doing childish things if I have too much. x)