It was 8 o'clock in the morning, and Sherlock was already bored.
John hadn't expected anything different to come out of the day; the two hadn't received an interesting case in ages. Still, he hadn't expected Sherlock's outbursts to come so soon. John promptly poured himself a cup of tea at the first sign of his partner's discontentment. If he was going to deal with the whining nuisance that is Sherlock Holmes, he'd at least need his caffeine fix first. Sipping at his cup, John trudged reluctantly back into the sitting room to offer feeble solace to his obnoxious flat mate.
"Don't worry," John comforted, "I'm sure a real interesting one will pop up soon!" Sherlock moaned dramatically, and Dr. Watson began to wonder why he even tried to put up with him. Stomping his feet huffily on the ground, Sherlock stood from the couch and began trudging irritably around the flat.
"Don't patronize me, John. Face it: we have to pick one of the boring cases," the man crossed his arms and jutted out his bottom lip like a child who'd realized he'd have to eat his vegetables before he got dessert. John sighed, bringing his laptop to Sherlock and allowing the man to peruse the list of mundane clients with their mundane stories. At least Sherlock thought they were mundane: John still wasn't completely aware how Sherlock decided whether or not a case was worth his time. The skinny man sat on the couch again, clicking through the offers. John heard the histrionic sigh escape the consulting detective's lips as he reviewed his options.
"They're all so awfully boring, John!" Sherlock moaned, shifting grumpily on the couch, "I can't possibly choose one. It's going to have to be at random." The doctor rolled his eyes at his flat mate's theatrics, watching as his friend covered his piercing eyes and selected a case at random. Opening his eyes, he sighed cantankerously at the result. "Of course it's this bloody one…"
"Stop complaining and let's give it a look," John muttered, taking a seat next to Sherlock on the couch. The detective pulled up the request on the screen, showing his disapproval by folding his arms. A short, typed message addressed to Sherlock appeared on the monitor. John squinted, reading the screen.
Dear Mr. Holmes,
My name is Madeline Davis, and I'm seventeen years old. My father died two months ago. The only thing is, I don't believe that he's dead. Something just feels off, I can't really explain it over email. I'd love to tell you more. Just email me back if you're interested. I need you to help me find him, Mr. Holmes. Please.
John reread the request, feeling that the report was odd to say the least. It did; however, seem rather interesting. He stared at Sherlock, wondering why he thought the case was so boring. As if the man could read minds, he answered John's mental enquiry.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock droned, "The death was recent. The client is likely bursting with the hormones associated with adolescence. This is a girl who isn't quite processing the reality of her father's death: nothing more." With that, Sherlock slammed the laptop onto the table, earning a cringe from the doctor, and flopped sideways on the couch with his long legs nearly pushing his friend over the edge. John swallowed, reminded of how cynical his partner could be.
"Right," he began patiently, "Well, Sherlock, you did pick the case. That means that, even if you don't believe this man is actually alive, you do have to provide the client with some sort of answer." Sherlock groaned, rolling over melodramatically on the couch and running a single hand through his black curls with frustration. The doctor waited patiently for his friend to pull himself together. If John was anything, he was patient.
"Fine. I'll email the idiot girl back," Sherlock grumbled, lifting the laptop and typing furiously, "I must say, John, this is not what I had in mind when I said we needed a case." John listened to the clicking of the keyboard and Sherlock's sighing. At least the case would be over quickly.