London: a place that was little more than an oxymoron to Sherlock. He adored and despised the city. It was interesting. Indeed, it was a very interesting place to inhabit. High crime rates, murder, rape, torture, terrorism. But at the same time it was so very boring. Inhabited by normal people who had little more than a few brain cells to string together, Sherlock found himself struggling to engage in interesting conversation. Every so often an intelligent figure would pop up and engage his brain but there were very few of them, and they were extremely far between. Then there was John Watson - the man who accompanied him on most of his cases. John wasn’t smart in any respect but he was interesting. There was something about the ex army doctor which seemed to hold the detective’s alien-like nature to account. They were (as many normal people would put it) ‘like chalk and cheese.’ There was little they shared in terms of interest, personality, general lifestyle. Very little apart from the fact that they both thrived off the exhilarating adrenaline that came with chasing crime, or more specifically, interesting situations. What odd lives the pair lead, racing through the busy London streets at all hours, chasing clues and criminals. And for what? For fun of course. Much to Sherlock’s irritation John had delved into his work as a GP. With a wife and a child on the way he ‘needed the money.’ This in turn left Sherlock dwindling around the city in boredom. There were very few interesting cases crossing his path, and having languished around within the walls of 221b for near to a week, Sherlock decided that he would go searching for a case himself. This was a rare state of affairs, considering he had his homeless network digging out cases for him 24/7 and a contact line. But even they had not been able to find anything that would peak his enthusiasm and dull down the unbearable boredom that eternally inhabited his brain. He had been wandering the busy streets of central London for near to an hour with no avail. His phone remained firmly within his hand in hope that Lestrade, or even his brother would contact him, but it seemed that even Scotland Yard and the government had little to work on. Where were they all; the criminals? Had they crawled under a rock? Sherlock released a loud and ever so dramatic sigh as he perched himself on a bench, ice-blue eyes staring daringly ahead at the passing traffic. All he wanted was a simple murder - something to work on, something to ease his boredom. Was that too much to ask for in life? How he despised his beloved London, so hatefully boring.
