"You. What?!" John yelled, his eyebrows digging into his forehead, the lines on his forehead almost splitting open. Sherlock sighed, rolling his ice-green eyes: "I said, I'm retiring." John flopped onto the couch, shaking his head, over and over.
"But...you...why?" He asked, incredulously.
"Bored! I know you are, I know! You never say anything else! But you'll have nothing to do ever if you retire! What on earth would be the point in it?" Sherlock huffed and picked up his violin bow, stroking it over the resin block.
"Actually, I can occupy myself with the art of composition. I might even get a piece used in something." He touched the bow to the fine strings and drew out a long, mournful C sharp.
"Oh, for God's sake, really? And you're going to magically earn your rent overnight, are you?" John said, staring knowingly at Sherlock.
"No. I'm going to baby-sit Mrs Hudson's granddaughter. Obviously."
"Obviously. Poor, poor, Mrs Hudson's granddaughter." Breathed out John. Sherlock's gaze snapped onto him: "What are you suggesting?"
"Oh, nothing. Obviously." John watched from the corner of his eye as Sherlock pursed his pale lips and stalked over to the elegant music stand. Drawing a pencil from his top pocket, he proceeded to scribble down some rough notations, before playing a short, shrill scale.
"Sherlock, please! Is there no other way to compose? Do you genuinely have to grind my ears in this way?" Sherlock laughed.
"Ah, John, you really have no idea, do you?" At that, he played the scale again, but an octave above. John got up and jogged to the kitchen. A good cuppa would sort his ears out!
"So, John, when she comes to stay-"
"When who comes to stay?" John interrupted.
"Mrs Hudson's granddaughter. When she comes to stay, I will not have to pay my rent, for I will pay it in hours of childcare." He got up and walked back to Sherlock.
"Look, Sherlock, I...I don't...want to be rude, but I just don't think you should retire." Sherlock shook his head: "Don't bother. I've already notified Lestrade. You can't stop what's already happened, John. Now, I propose she sleeps in Mrs Hudson's flat." John clenched his jaw and picked up his coat.
"I'm going out." Silence followed, "For some air." More silence, "Right, okay, I get it..." John turned and headed out, slamming the door on Sherlock's violin playing.
He still couldn't believe it: Sherlock Holmes, retiring? But, then again, Sherlock was Sherlock. As Mrs Hudson said: "Who knows what goes on in that funny, little head of his?"