There's a knock on the door of 221B just as John is lowering himself onto his armchair, mug of tea in one hand, paperback novel on the other. They had finished a case not 9 hours earlier and, as soon as they got home, Sherlock had fallen into his version of sleep (which looked more like a 5 in the Glaslow coma scale and John had seen last up to 21 hours, 46 minutes). The doctor woke up as early as usual and has been looking forward to a quiet morning of tea and a good fantasy book (mystery novels had lost all their charm once he moved in with Sherlock). He huffs and leaves both items on the coffee table before heading to the door.
It proves to be completely unnecessary since, before he can even get to it, the door flies open violently and Sally Donovan steps into the flat. It's more than obvious by her stance and the smug twist of her lips that she just kicked the bloody thing in, and John gives himself half a second to admire her skills before groaning loudly. Half a dozen of London's Best and Brightest are standing in the foyer before 221B, their faces looking everything from disgusted to scarily eager.
"Bloody hell, Greg." John complains as soon as he spots Detective Inspector Lestrade in the crowd. "We said Thursday."
Lestrade's face twists into something vaguely apologetic. "Yeah, I know. But the DCI wants the report on the case by Friday morning, so we had to go ahead with it."
John lets out a long-suffering sigh (he's getting better at those every day, living with a mad genius) and with a grumbled "Fine" shuffles back inside and snatches back his mug and book before snuggling into his armchair.
The yarders enter the flat behind him and scatter around the place with the ease that comes with practice. The warm tea quickly chases away the remnants of John's annoyance and he sits contently on his chair while reading his novel.
"Third cupboard from the right, Sally." John speaks up when he hears steps heading towards the kitchen. Ever since the incident with the noses, John had taken to warn Sally where the worst experiments had been stored. It made for a less stroppy Sherlock (since his experiments remained undisturbed) and slightly more bearable crime scenes with a lot less 'freak's muttered under the sergeant's breath. "Oh, and breadbox." he adds, and immediately comes the the dull thud of something being closed hurriedly. "And leave the bloody skull alone, Anderson. I guarantee there are no drugs inside" John sighs without even looking up, noticing the shuffling of feet to his left.
A young constable John has never seen before – neither in the flat nor at the crime scenes – skitters into his visual field. John looks up and the constable freezes under the doctor's assessing glare, but John smiles politely and nods towards the couch. "Since you're moving that anyway, would you mind getting the remote? It fell between the couch and the wall and I honestly couldn't be arsed to try to get it" he speaks and the constable's eyes widen and he goes a bit pale. It's, unmistakably, an order but John's voice is so gentle the young man can't bring himself to say no. A quarter-hour later, John has not only gotten the remote back, but has managed to convince the new constable to fetch him another mug of tea and remove the cobwebs that had formed between the topmost shelf left to the fireplace and the ceiling.
Lestrade comes out from Sherlock's room some minutes later (apparently only he, John and Mrs Hudson can wake a sleeping Sherlock without risking being punched on the face. They'd discovered it the bad way, though even Sgt. Lanner admitted his new teeth looked much better than the old ones) with a pleased smile on his face and holding a manilla folder containing who knows what. "Okay everybody, we're done here." There's the noise of things being put down, drawers closed, chairs moved to the side and then twelve feet walking out and down the stairs. Lestrade closes the caravan and leaves the flat with a "Later then, mate." John, by now thoroughly engrossed with his book, waves his hand dismissively, a clear gesture that Greg can see himself out.
It's 5.42pm when Sherlock wakes up, still bleary from sleep, looks around the flat and blinks a couple times. He turns to his right and notices the broken lock and chipped door. "It is Thursday?" he asks John, his voice slightly rough from disuse.
"No"
Sherlock lets out a noncommittal hum and heads for the shower.
It's snowing the Saturday after the following and John is waiting for the two kettles to boil while Sherlock busies himself with some sort of experiment involving fertilized frog eggs and what looks like 15 pounds of sheep liver (and how Sherlock managed to get all that liver on a weekend nobody knew).
John has moved to the couch and is watching telly when the door opens and Lestrade's head pokes into the flat. "Morning" he greets, and immediately moves to the side and opens the door entirely to let in the usual five Met officers. All of them, cold and damp because of the snow, make a beeline to the kitchen and pour themselves the tea John has just finished brewing into the six empty mugs (all different styles and sizes) sitting on the counter. Once everyone has a cup, they head to their assigned areas and the "drugs bust" begins.
John is watching a Doctor Who rerun and trying to think of a good title for the blog entry he had typed up earlier that morning, Sherlock is attempting to inject something at least mildly corrosive into one of the sheep liver wearing none of the proper equipment and bypassing about 70% of the usual safety procedures, and half a dozen members of the Metropolitan Police Service (none of them actually in the Vice Squad) conduct a rather half-assed drugs bust by glancing into drawers and looking under papers while drinking tea. Except for the young constable, who Sherlock is terrorizing into submission with barked orders and icy glares.
Pretty much, John considers, an average day in 221B.