Sherlock Holmes splayed himself on the couch in 221B, staring at the ceiling, and waiting for a case to mysteriously appear on the wall. John had been gone for hours, obviously tired of Sherlock's banter. The lanky, towering genius sighed, throwing a pillow in a fruitless attempt to resist the boredom. He hadn't had a case in at least two weeks, and it was showing. His violin suffered the most, almost broken at frustrated attempts at several pieces. Lestrade and his whole division were surprised too, there hadn't been anything above a house burglary here and there. it was almost as if crime tap-danced out the door and bid adieu to London. Sherlock stared out the window into the cloudy, gray sky. He couldn't dose off, on of the effects of his record five patches from last night. one thing was for sure, Sherlock Holmes was in the worst possible nightmare he could imagine.
John Watson opened the door about an hour later to his flat mate holding a shoe over the Bunsen burner. several other charred clothing apparel were scattered around him as well.
"Hello John, how was the Zuppa Toscana?" He inquired, barely looking up from the task at hand. John shrugged and walked over and picked up one of his nice loafers, which now had melted insoles, and the laces were beyond repair. he sighed, rubbing his forehead, exasperated.
"You had to use mine, Sherlock?" John's flat mate nodded frankly.
"Mine were already used and yours had the necessary components in the leather." Sherlock's phone rang, and Lestrade's face popped up on the screen. Sherlock answered with a prompt, "Who died?" and extinguished the burner. While listening, a small smile danced on Sherlock's lip. He ended the call with a chuckle. "I have not been so glad to receive a phone call in my life."
"Murder?" John asked. Sherlock nodded, hurriedly putting on his scarf.
"Yes, John, only there's something wrong with the body."