The man sat there on the edge of the cream colored couch staring blankly at the skull on the mantle of the fireplace. Groaning loudly he flopped onto his back and picked up the black handgun off the coffee table, aiming it lazily at the wall. He shot numerous rounds creating a large outline of a "B" into the green patterned wallpaper.
"Sherlock?" a worried voice called from the floor below him. Ignoring it he fired more rounds, reloading it when necessary until an "ORED" followed. "Sherlock! What in heavens name have you done to my wall?" stowing the gun behind him he turned his head. The frazzled woman had come in and was staring at the bullet holes in the wall, her mouth gaping open.
"An accident, Mrs. Hudson." She brought her gaze on him, her eyes softening somewhat.
"An accident indeed. Well it's being added to your rent." She scolded giving the wall one final look before sighing and slowly making her way out.
"There hasn't even been anything good lately, not even on the Telly." The life of Sherlock Holmes had always been one of mystery and suspense. Though until recently most of the crimes were either to plain or to trivial to actually be of any fun to him. Missing boys, suicides, bank shootings, nothing seemed to really spark an interest. He looked around his small London flat, his numerous books and papers covered what surfaces that his furniture didn't. He didn't really like anyone cleaning up his things, anyone who tried always made it so disorganized. Slowly his hands found his violin and bow, lifting it to his chin he proceeded to play. He didn't really pay attention to what it was he was playing, but doing something with his hands seemed to help the boredom.
"Not one good murder in days." He complained to himself glaring at the white ceiling above him.
"Well this should make your day then." A voice drawled from behind him.
"Watson!" Sherlock exclaimed jumping up and going over to him, leaving his violin on the couch. "What news? Anything good?" he asked hopefully his eyes shining.
"Sure, if you think a middle-aged man with no identification and no wounds being murdered, is interesting." He said leaning on his cane.
"Brilliant!" one looking at him might have thought that someone had just told him he had won the lottery with the way he was dancing about the room with a large smile plastered on his face. "Any witnesses?"
"No."
"Then what are you waiting for John?" he exclaimed grabbing his coat and slipping his arms through the long black sleeves. "We have a murder to solve!"
"Sherlock, I never said I was going to help you. I'm only here to help pay the rent, remember?" John said sitting in a plush red faded armchair with a Union Jack pillow. "You can go on your own." The dark-haired man stood in the doorway simply looking at him.
"Goodness what is it like in your funny little brain, it must be so boring, being able to be entertained so easily by such a simple thing as a Telly."
"Sherlock, my brain is not simple." John said, annoyance laced in his tone.
"Compared to an average street bum, no I should say not."
"Are you indirectly calling me stupid?" he asked standing to face him.
"Comparatively? No." Sherlock replied indifferent.
"For you information, Sherlock, I'm quite accomplished. Maybe not compared to your genius, but certainly to others."
"Them prove it." He replied walking out of the flat. John stood there for a moment before following.
"Damn it, Sherlock!"
"Keep up John, we have a murder to solve!" he called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Sherlock!" leaning heavily on his cane John slowly made his way down. "If you make my injury worse, I'll kill you myself." He heard a faint laugh from the doorway.
"Somehow I highly doubt it." A small smile playing on his lips as John reached the foot of the stairs.
"Just wait, it'll happen."
"I'm sure." Sherlock said stepping out to the street. "TAXI!"