The first sound Sherlock hears after John leaves to get groceries is the crack of the door smashing in, a heavy boot colliding against the wood. He doesn’t bother to get up.
“The Winchesters. How…predictable.” Sherlock flicks his head up for a moment to take in the two men before closing his eyes and adjusting his foot on the couch, “Go do something else. I’m busy.”
Sam, the taller of the two, lowers his holy water to send a confused glance at Dean. Dean returns the look, throwing his hands up in the air before aiming at Sherlock’s head. “You do know we’re here to kill you, right?” Sam asks.
A corner of the reclining man’s mouth lifts up, “No colt, no demon-killing knife, no angel blade. Only a flask of holy water and six rounds of rock salt. Dear God, who’s stupid idea was this? I heard the tales but, truly, you precede them. What’s it feel like to know all of evolution ended up wasting good brain matter on you two?”