There are some moments when life decides to throw the most horrible situations in John Watson's path. Today happens to be one of those days that just seems to get worse with every passing minute. As John shivers in the cold office at work, he decides that he hates Mondays, and nothing can convince him otherwise. He hugs himself, trying to retain as much body heat as possible. According to the scrawled words in his appointment book, his patient should've arrived fifteen minutes ago. But the roads are slathered in ice, bloody hunks of frozen snow, and black cabs jammed in slow-moving lines. He doesn't expect the traffic to clear any time soon.
"Bloody snow," he mutters, a shudder raking through his body. Desperate for warmth, he twists around and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. He tugs it on and yanks the zipper until his exposed neck is covered with the scratchy fabric. For the seventh time this morning, he wishes he had brought a thicker coat.
The sound of approaching footsteps fills his ears. He listens to the click of heels against the tiled floor, recognizing it to be Sarah's footsteps. Soon, they pause outside of his office, and a sharp rap on the door alerts him.
"Come in," John calls, straightening in his chair.
The doorknob twists open, and Sarah pokes her head through the crack. "Your patient cancelled her appointment," she says, a wince crossing her face. "She's rescheduling for the twelfth of January."
The doctor releases a sigh, slumping in his seat. "I'm not surprised," he says, flipping open his planner. The pencil scratches against the thin page as he remarks the date. "Didn't expect her to arrive on time in the first place."
Sarah coughs, a laugh tangled in her throat. "Go home, John," she says, her face relaxing in a small smile. "The traffic isn't going to get any better."
He glances up at her with a grateful look. "Thank you," he says, trying not to appear eager as he rises to his feet. He begins sliding his belongings into his bag. His face twists in a grimace. "They say that it'll snow tonight."
The brunette rubs her eye, shaking her head. "Be safe," is all she says before she eases the door shut, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
John pulls his phone out of his pocket. As he turns it on, it lights up with a glare that sears into his eyes. He ignores the texts infesting his inbox, opening up a blank message. His large fingers mash into the tiny keyboard as he writes to Sherlock, Coming home early. He hesitates before adding, Make some tea. I'm freezing my arse off. His thumb hits the send button.