Some days, the weather really encourages hibernation. I had slept late, drowsing to the sound of rain on the windows. Not a typical London drizzle, this storm came with gusts and intermittent downpours. I finally dragged myself out of bed around ten, and I made myself some toast and coffee. While I ate, I checked my email and my blog comments. All was silent.
Around eleven, Mrs. Hudson bustled in, bringing some freshly baked treats. After chatting for a bit, she glanced toward Sherlock's closed door. "Is he in?"
"I have no idea," I replied, shrugging. "I haven't seen him all day."
We talked for a while longer. Then she admonished me to be certain to stay warm if I went out, and with that she headed back downstairs to make a nice stew, since the weather certainly wanted it. Smiling, I returned my attention to my computer.
Nearly two hours later, Sherlock's bedroom door sprang open. Wrapped in his warmest dressing gown, he stomped to the sofa, where he flung himself down and grumbled, "Tea."
"Sorry," I said. "Was that a request?"
I did end up making the tea, as it sounded good. By the time it was ready, Sherlock had huddled at the end of the sofa, his feet tucked beneath him. He stared into the distance, at the window, I realized. He cradled his violin against him, and his fingers idly plucked at the strings, an accompaniment to the drumming of the rain.
I wondered if he would even notice that the tea was ready.