Power Cut
I was in my bedroom, sorting through boxes of my old medical journals. A storm was raging outside, thunder, lightning, rain. It was positively Biblical. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, and all the lights went out.
"Shoot!"
I fumbled my way down the stairs to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, apparently oblivious to the abrupt darkness.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?" He sounded bored, and looked at me with one of his famous: 'Well, John? What are you going to do about it?' expressions.
"There's been a power cut!"
"Problem, John? You're not afraid of the dark, are you?" He smirked.
"Ha ha. In case you hadn't noticed , it's the middle of December, and we have no heating. It's bloody freezing!"
"Yes, thank you for your observations, I could never have got there myself." He stood and brushed himself off. "Well, what do you propose we do?"
"You're the genius, you figure something out."
"Yes, well I suppose I am."
"And before you even think about it, setting the sofa on fire is not a productive way to make heat and light, and I really do not want to have to go sofa shopping with you again."
"It's not my fault the sales assistant was an idiot," he said haughtily.
"Yes, but it was your fault he started crying. I'm not having an argument with you, Sherlock, let's leave the sofa out of this."
"Fine." He pouted. "What do you suggest we do?"
"Well, we could talk?"
"Talking, talking is boring."
"You're doing it now."
"Yes, meanwhile hoping it will lead to something more interesting."
"Okay, we could go out? Christmas shopping?"
"It's boring out there, John. Peace and goodwill for all, and no interesting murders for me."
"You make it sound like you don't like Christmas."
"That's good deduction, John."
"How can you not like Christmas?"
"It's boring, John."
"Yes, okay, I get it. You're bored. Moving on."
His phone went off in his pocket, and he checked the message, his face lighting up gleefully. "On second thoughts, maybe going out wouldn't be such a bad idea."
"Why not?"
"Lestrade, he's got a new case. Dead body just found, appears to have been bludgeoned to death, no sign of the murder weapon, or murderer, and must have happened in the space of 42 seconds."
"See," I said as he pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Who said Christmas was boring?"
