John POV
I can't reach my damned keys. My arms are full of groceries because I couldn't ask Mrs. Hudson to pick us up some again, and the world's greatest detective can't ever be bothered. Sighing heavily, I wonder why I bother putting up with him.
'Because you need the adventure,' a small voice in the back of my head reminds me. A voice that is not unlike that of the British Government. It's not untrue. I do seem to thrive on most of the chaos that comes with having Sherlock Holmes as a flatmate. Plus there are also practical benefits: I have lower expenses, a nice flat, decent employment. Things that tend to be ignored by my flatmate.
Other things that are ignored by my flatmate: locks. He never locks the bloody door, which is just as well this time. I manage to turn it with two fingers and push my way in, just before dropping the bags. I hope the milk didn't burst. What a mess that would be. I glance around the kitchen and realize some spilt milk wouldn't hurt it.
My favorite mug is on the table with a mold sample growing in it. The jar of eyeballs is beside it. There is blood running down the outside of the refrigerator. In the air is the not-so-faint smell of sulfur. Sherlock has been busy. I wasn't gone more than an hour and a half, and before I left, I had the flat looking habitable. Of course he had gone on an experimental rampage. Of course he had. It was to spite me no doubt for not agreeing to be his test subject for his next experiment. I know he'll just slip me whatever chemical he's wanting to test anyway. He can believe I'm as stupid as he wishes, but I know what he gets up to.
I try to clean up the mess the best I can after putting away the groceries. Bleach goes into my mug; the mold goes into the trash. Bleach is used on the bloody refrigerator. The bleeding body parts are placed in bowls to hold the drainage. I hide the eyeballs out of sight in a cupboard. The bleach clears the sulfur from the air. All traces of his experiments have vanished. And during all that time, there isn't a sound from the rest of the flat.
Worried, I begin searching the flat. Sherlock hasn't been acting quite right lately. I worry he's started using again. I would know though, wouldn't I? Greg would. Mycroft would. Even if I didn't. Sherlock can't be using again. I search faster. And I find him in a place that would seem odd if it was anyone else.
The world's only consulting detective is sitting on the edge of my bed, staring straight ahead. His fingers are steepled under his chins, hunched over with his elbows on his legs, and his normally-piercing eyes are glazed over. It's Sherlock being Sherlock, off in his Mind Palace. Why he's on my bed, I won't know until he comes out of it. I know better than to try to snap him back by now, though. He's very irritable when I interrupt his thoughts, and I'm already slightly irritated at him.
I make myself a cuppa and take my laptop over to my old, well-worn chair. It's looking a little ratty, but Sherlock doesn't care about that kind of thing, and I can't bring myself to part with it. It's a part of 221B Baker Street. It wouldn't be home without it.
The laptop has nothing truly interesting to offer. I check the blog and read some of the comments. A few by someone called Anon are semi-interesting as they talk about how people view me, but even that doesn't hold my attention for long. I skim through some emails sent by people asking for help, but there's nothing that would interest Sherlock. Most of the cases are fours and below. The detective doesn't want to hear about anything less than a six and doesn't usually take anything below an eight. I feel bad reading some of these emails, though; they really need help, and Sherlock will never take their cases. If I didn't have such piss poor deductive skills, I would take these cases he refuses just to help the poor blighters out. Now not only am I irritated, I'm feeling guilty and a little depressed. I feel the need to move, the need to do something active.
I put the laptop away and clean up the mess I made with the tea. I decide to check in on Sherlock once more and then I'll go down to 221C. Mrs. Hudson has allowed me to set up a little home gym in the lower apartment until she can rent it out. She keeps saying that anyway, but we all know no one is ever going to want that flat. That's okay. I pay her a little extra rent for it.
When I peek into my room, Sherlock hasn't moved. I don't think he's even blinked. He is definitely breathing, though; that's a good sign. There's no telling when he'll come out of it. So I scribble him a note saying where I've gone and leave it on his leg. Then I head out.