It was a typical London afternoon. You know, foggy and black and white! The streets were packed with motor cars and tourists, and little shops displaying their wares. One such shop went by the name of Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Cafe. But our story is not with this questionable establishment. It was with the little nondescript door next to it, and the flat above.
The flat was occupied by a tall skinny man, with raven curls, sharp cheekbones, and a piercing stare. Said skinny man had somehow folded his lanky frame into a leather and chrome monstrosity of a chair that couldn't have been very comfortable. From his lips passed a cloud of sickening, gray smoke that filled the room with a pungent odor. He sighed in contentment as the smoke circulated the area around his head. Yes, life was good.
The sound of jangling keys brought him out of his musings. The door swung open. There stood him. The He in question was a man, short in stature, but tall in presence. He had a head of sandy blond hair, and the Cable-knit, oatmeal colored jumper hugged his smallish frame nicely. He looked around the flat until his eyes landed on the man in the chair. His gaze narrowed, and he opened his lips to speak.
"Sherlock, what the hell are you wearing?"
The man known as Sherlock scoffed in disbelief. "It's a fedora John. Anyone with a brain could figure that out!" he turned his head petulantly away from the doorway, where John was still standing.
The short man shook his head in exasperation. His nose twitched as it picked up the acrid smell of cigar smoke. "SHERLOCK! You know I hate it when you smoke in the flat!" He covered his nose. "It smells stronger than usual... What are you smoking!?"
Sherlock had just taken a puff of his Monte Christo cigar -a gift from a former client- and blew a gust of smoke in John's direction. John coughed.
"It's a cigar obviously! Detectives smoke cigars, I am a detective! Use your head John!" Sherlock tried to go back into his mind palace, but was rudely pulled back into awareness by john's loud groan.
"You've been reading my detective novels again haven't you! I've been looking for that!" John swiped the book off of the side table. "Stay out of my things!"
Sherlock would have had the decency to looked ashamed, but then he remembered that he really didn't care. John walked over to the window and opened it to let in fresh air. The smoke seeped out, and with it the black and white. As color returned John stomped up to his room, taking the novel with him.
He was never allowed to have any fun!