s h e r l o c k & j o h n
It wasn’t a strange occurrence for Sherlock Holmes to dance around 221b Baker Street like a maniac. No, it wasn’t a strange occurrence at all. Before John Watson had walked into his life he had been alone, a lone soul, all by his self. Indeed, Sherlock Holmes had once believed that love and sentimentality had been for the weak. An individual with a brain as powerful as his own could not possibly bring himself to care about another being. For years it had been only him and his homeless network, and quite frankly, they annoyed him at the best of times. But John. Oh indeed John. He had brought a new lease of life into the young Holmes’ lonely existence. The two would dart around London, searching every alleyway and corner for clues. However, there had been very little contact between the army doctor and the detective within the past few weeks. Sherlock had found himself increasingly bored. So he had plunged into the most ridiculous of cases, almost having himself killed precisely 7.5 times. (The .5 was a rather confusing case and he dreaded to think of it in fear that it would send him off on yet another rant about little children and their ‘pranks.’) Despite this, the past few weeks had been brain-numbingly boring. The few small cases that he had worked on that been easy enough and the rare occurrence of danger faded faster than it had appeared. Languishing lazily in his chair, skull in hand and eyes set ahead, Sherlock had little more to do than simply wait for an interesting case to pop up. A short sigh of frustration fled his lips. The silence seemed to ripple through the air, conquering the invading noises from outside of the window. A small ping disturbed his state of peace and with a curious blink of his eyes he fished his phone from the arm of the chair and read the text curiously. Yet another request for a consult, something about a woman suspecting that her husband was having an affair. He didn’t bother to read the rest of the text and threw the phone back upon the arm of the chair with a short sigh. The skull was propelled into the air and caught without so much of a hint of effort. Where were the murderers, the rapists, the terrorists? Had they all crawled under a rock for the day? After much deliberating, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, tossed the skull aside onto the sofa and called loudly, “Mrs Hudson I’ll have a cuppa’ tea!” It was a rare occurrence for Sherlock Holmes to move when he required anything, so to move as far as the door was quite the achievement. "Just this once, I’m not your house keeper dear!" A voice called back kindly, playfully. Shaking his head at Mrs Hudson’s predictability, Sherlock threw himself back upon his chair, kicking his legs up on one arm and resting his legs on the other, prompting his phone to fall on the floor. He sighed in boredom, craving just one interesting case. Was that too much to ask for in life? yourboswell