Watson contemplates the value of silence as a barrage of C sharps wind their way into his sleeping chambers not moments after the bell of London square had tolled precisely five times. In the dark, early hour, John does not care to question why Holmes is awake this early, much less already on the "Annoy John Watson at all costs" train. Much to his restraint he finds himself at a 45 degree angle in his bed and he scrubs a hand over his face.
"Holmes! Cease that careless racket down there." This time, a melancholy E flat followed by a string of sad, sallow notes slowly slid up the stairs and under the chamber door. Then, silence, punctured by a flurry of footsteps. The door opens to reveal none other than Sherlock Holmes and his three o clock shadow. His stocking covered feet cross the space between the door and the bed quickly.
"Watson, we've a case."
"At five in the morning? The only case we have is one of insanity. Go back to sleep, Holmes."
The silence in the air is palpable, and when at last John hears the chamber door slide shut, he sighs.
Some days are just inherently worse than others.
"Damnit, Holmes. Just hand me the lantern and we can be on our way." John hates the dark cave that Holmes has stuck in. A stale smell hangs in the air, and somewhere, John thinks he can hear water dripping. The only light source to speak of, is in the current possession of Sherlock Holmes, who refuses to give it back.
"These paintings, they are so primitive. They are indicative of an earlier race previously inhabiting this very cave. We are standing on history, Watson."
John can't believe what he is hearing. This isn't Holmes caring about something other than himself. This is Holmes, displaying his need for attention, at whatever costs it may come at. He contemplates his moment for an answer before standing up, cane in hand.
"I'm getting out of this god forsaken cave and going back to Baker Street. Whatever cause you had down here is clearly lost, as is your sense."
One step, two steps, three more and he feels a moisture slink up his socks.
Somewhere, he thinks someone might have a normal life, and John is jealous.
"I think its perfectly centered, Holmes. We are late as it is, lets go." Watson lets out a long suffering sigh at the ugly still life portrait that hangs in Holmes quarters.
"I think it tilts to the right, only slightly. But I haven't the tools to fix it, nor the patience to sit through another dinner with you and Lestrade recalling the 'glory days'. No, old boy I'm afraid I will be staying behind this time." And with that, Holmes deposits his smoking jacket on the arm of a chair sitting nearby and he grabs his colt revolver.
"Holmes this cannot be solved by your infancy, nor will that painting be straightened by the butt of your revolver. Cease your childish activity or I shall have to call the nanny." John remembers his own mother threatening to do the same to him when he wasn't behaving and for a minute, he scares himself.
Thirty ticking minutes have passed since they should have sat down for dinner with Lestrade. Fourteen minutes longer than the last time and sixteen short of the average.
He isn't surprised.