Disclaimer: The characters of Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and James Moriarty are the intellectual property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I hold no claim upon them.
The skies were getting darker earlier now; the sun had descended down past the horizon and transcended the skies into dramatic shades of red and violet. It had been a bitter and blustery day, this harsh weather could be seen in the huddled figures that were rushing back and forth on the street down below. John Watson had been stood in the groove of the large bay window situated in the living room of 221B Baker Street; the sudden drop in temperature had caused the old bullet wound in his shoulder to ache incessantly for the past couple of days – thus rendering him housebound and in a distinctly worse mood than he would have liked. Sherlock was currently without a case and normally when this was the predicament he lounged about their flat living room in his dressing gown, occasionally playing scraps of music on his violin but more generally lying about complaining of the lack of interest in the world and bemoaning the lack of nicotine present in his bloodstream. However in the past few days his presence had dwindled from being around most of the day, to John only seeing him fleetingly for moments at a time. Sherlock had removed quite a few of his alchemical instruments and transported them up the stairs to his own bedroom, John got the distinct impression that this move had been caused because of the foul mood that he knew he was in. Since the move of all these chemical instruments, John had taken over the use of the living room – spending most of his time reading the novel that he had been attempting to read for over a month and feeling heartily disgruntled at the pain that was a constant dull ache in his shoulder and sent repeated sharp shooting stabs down through his right arm and torso. The occasional clatter or explosion from echoing from Sherlock's room on the flight above was the extent of human interaction that John par took in. Several times in the past few days John had recalled the first conversation he had ever had with Sherlock in the St. Barts lab when Sherlock had enumerated his bad points because "potential flatmates should know the worst of one another". John had mentioned that his war wounds sometimes made their presence known, but they had never been this bad for quite some time.
For the past two hours there had been an absence of sound from above and John, who had tired himself out from pacing the room back and forth, rather like a caged animal, was leaning against the frame of the window and staring out into the street. For a long period of time he had been gazing into space; his mind and spirit completely separated and absent from the location of his body, but after roughly a quarter of an hour he began to focus upon the window boxes of the flats opposite his own. Only a few weeks ago every single one of those boxes had been full of greenery and the last shoots of flowers, but now the green leaves had withered and they were now predominantly barren mud boxes.
The door of the living room swung open, creaking on its hinges and reminding John that it needed oiled, and Sherlock flounced into the room looking rather tousled in his dressing gown. His appearance was one of great annoyance and John noticed that there were plasters upon some of his fingers; somehow John guessed that his experiments had not gone in his liking.
"Have you blown something up?" John asked cautiously, he was in no mood for deep conversation, but Sherlock was bearing such a presentiment that something had to be said to him.
"No." Sherlock sighed, "I've just run out of copper – aluminium blend to solder with, now I have to wait until a new batch arrives before I can continue further." There was a long silence while Sherlock stretched out his legs in front of him while slouching further down in the seat of his armchair, making his whole frame appear longer and lankier than usual as he lolled about. "John?" He started, his voice very low.
"Yes?" John replied, settling himself down in his armchair.
"I'm bored… Why is nothing happening?" This was a frequent bemoan of Sherlock's when cases were thin on the ground.
"I don't know Sherlock, hasn't there been anything on the blog?" He asked.
"Nothing more scintillating than the normal bleats of the world." He grumbled, sliding yet further down the chair; if he fell any more he would be sitting on the floor. "Lestrade texted me yesterday, but the matter was so simple that he was able to clear it up for himself."
"To anyone other than you I would say enjoy the peace, but that won't settle you." John said very quietly, retrieving his book from the awkward position it had jammed itself in between his armchair and the coffee table.
"It's time like these that drive me to cocaine." Sherlock's musing was so low that he had expected John not to hear him, but John's senses were sharper than usual, and he heard every word of Sherlock's mutterings.
"If you even contemplate it, I will seriously skin you alive." John warned him, "Surely there must be something that can occupy your mind!"
"Urgh!" He exhaled dramatically, "There's not! The world is boring!" John rolled his eyes at this vast oversimplification of the world and what there was to do in it.
"How about you do some shopping? Or tidy the flat up a bit?" John suggested despite knowing the reaction he was about to receive; correct in his thinking. Sherlock made a noise halfway between a grunt and a snort as though these menial tasks were of no consequence or relevance to his life overall. "It'd really help Sherlock! This place is a mess! I can't believe you'd want clients to come into here and be confronted with such chaos – it might change their minds about your capabilities."
"It's not chaos, it's organised…" Sherlock responded huffily, sounding more and more like a petulant child who wasn't getting his own way. "I know where everything is!"
"Well I bloody well don't…" John grumbled.
"That's not my fault." Sherlock sniped; John opened his book and tried to find the place that he had finished off – arguing with Sherlock was an impossibility, generally because Sherlock turned childish and was unable to be reasoned with. The only noise present in the room now was from Sherlock's sighs, which were increasing in volume each time; John tried to ignore him completely, immersing himself in the book but it was becoming ever more difficult.
"Can't you find anything to blow up or something?" John asked in exasperation after fifteen minutes of constant distraction by Sherlock. "Or email Lestrade and tell him you'll work on a cold case, or just something! Something to occupy yourself so you're not being insufferable!"
"I'm not being insufferable! There's nothing wrong with me! Just because your shoulder hurts, you don't have to take it out on me!" The interaction had reached base of primary school-esque sniping now, John glared at Sherlock fuming. What did he know? He had no idea what it was like to have a bullet tear into your skin, to rip and gouge at your flesh and leave behind it; how it would ache and make its presence known as a constant reminder that someone once tried to end your life. It was a perpetual admonition that his life had been hung upon a thread, three more inches and he would have been gone…
"I'd like to see you with a great hole in your shoulder and see how you cope!" John snarled feeling rather put out and hurt by Sherlock's insistence that his mood was the causation for Sherlock's intolerability. At the moment that John was beginning to get really annoyed the doorbell rang out… announcing the arrival of someone. "You'd better goddamn hope that's a client, otherwise I might just think of some way to show to you how bloody painful a gunshot wound is!" John threatened, hearing shuffling movements from downstairs which must mean that Mrs. Hudson was going for the door. Sherlock had perked up slightly in his chair in case of a client coming to present a case for his help.
"Boys! John! There's a visitor here for you!" Mrs. Hudson called from down the staircase before footsteps were audible on the stairs, both John and Sherlock turned their attention to the door which the guest would have to enter through. However to John's very great surprise, the figure that entered, though bound in about five layers of clothes, was one that he knew. Her sandy brown hair reaching to her ears, her face flushed pink from the harshness of the weather outside and her puffer jacket zipped right up to below her chin – but it was definitely the figure of her older sister, Harriet.
A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to know what you think about this chapter! :)