Anyone that walked into the apartment of 221B, Baker Street on the cold and rainy Friday night would be invaded with the aroma of ink, some of it coming off freshly printed newspapers, and some of it coming off older newspapers. Though it would be hard to tell the difference, as they had been scrambled and mixed, carelessly strewn across the floor and nearly acting as new upholstery for the furniture. Rustling could be heard with occasional dismissive grunts and frequent sharp sighs of anger. Often, muffled streams of muttering filled the stirred air of the apartment, though upon inspection, one would find that no one but one man could be found within the walls of the apartment that night. That man was none other than Sherlock Holmes, a name which had been spread through London along with synonyms that had been created for it – some of them great, some of them flattering, and some of them not so readily repeated.

The knowledge that he was alone in the apartment had not gone unnoticed by Sherlock – on the contrary; he dwelled on it frequently. Not much of a man to admit to deeper feelings, even much less those of loneliness; his companion would not have been able to guess the pangs of solitary pain he felt. For even he, a master of deduction, had not been able to see this coming. Dr. John H. Watson had left to live a new life as a married man, with his love Mary Morstan; now Watson. More streams of muttering flew out from the man's unshaven face, as he clenched the latest newspaper within his hands, tired eyes flicking across the front page story, dedicated entirely to a wedding of two wealthy people.

"Exciting literature has gone downhill significantly," Sherlock muttered to himself, his voice hoarse due to his dry throat. Discarding the newspaper to the floor beside him, Sherlock reached for a bottle of clear liquid to replace it. Though the liquid held the appearance of water upon first glance, a taste of it would prove quickly that it was a strong whiskey.

Days were growing shorter as the winter months approached, as was Sherlock's patience. Lack of stimulation for the brain always resulted in highlighting eccentricities as Sherlock attempted to make up for its absence. The entire apartment had been lost in a mess of newspaper, trifling items, dishes and empty bottles that used to contain strong liquids that would numb Sherlock's mind. All this had taken place between the time the landlady Mrs. Hudson had taken leave from Thursday until Saturday morning, and now. Sherlock had driven himself mad enough to consider sinister reasons for which Mrs. Hudson had taken leave, when in reality it was for the reason of Sherlock Holmes' growing insanity that she had done it. Mrs. Hudson had left for Dr. Watson with hopes he might pay his companion a Saturday visit and drive away his restlessness. Completely unaware of this plan, Sherlock continued to numb his brain with the influential effects of whiskey, while it made him even more discombobulated than before.

"No clients… no cases… no… excitement," Sherlock rattled on, putting the lip of the whiskey bottle to his own, between each phrase. "Infernal rain! The way it keeps pounding upon the rooftop. Mocking me."

Another mouthful of whiskey was drawn from the bottle as Holmes continued to curse out the wet, inanimate object. His judgment had clearly been influenced by the clear liquid he drank, as well as his senses. Especially that of balance, because though he had propped himself up in an armchair, he teetered slightly – this way and that, as he prattled on about the motives the rain had to make him so miserable. Sleep had been creeping up on him all night, and as he traversed into the small hours of that night, the notion was regarded with more comfort, even though he dreaded tomorrow. To him, tomorrow would just be a meaningless repeat of today, with nothing to stimulate his mind save for the drugs that dear old Watson would always disapprove of.

"Take me, then!" Sherlock called out dramatically to the sleep that was fastening a hold on him. His words were slurred and hardly legible. "Take me and never give me back to this confounded world if that is your wish…"

His words faded with his consciousness, as sleep gripped him tight and cradled him with the aid of the whiskey, whose bottle now hung loosely in his hand as it draped over the edge of the armchair. Though this was the earliest hour that Sherlock had succumbed to sleep in many weeks, the dark circles under his eyes marked the fact that he was still far behind. Images flicked through his mind all night, but hardly any of them were significant enough that he would remember them in the morning. Drifting between deep and half sleep, Sherlock was partially aware of the sunlight that had spilled through the windows and upon his closed eyelids. The times he slipped into deeper sleep became less frequent and finally the cushion of sleep left him completely; his eyes opening and his body readjusting to his newly awakened state.

The first thing that had become obvious to Sherlock was the pounding headache that left an awful ringing in his ears. A strange taste was left in his mouth from the whiskey he had consumed the previous night, the very thing which had caused his headache. A sudden rapping upon the door drew a pained moan from Sherlock's mouth, before he cleared his throat to call out to who he presumed to be at the door.

"Now that I know you've returned, Mrs. Hudson, I would prefer not to be disturbed," He spoke his wishes tiredly. The muffled speech coming from the other side of the door told Sherlock that Mrs. Hudson wasn't alone, but he didn't have the energy or drive at the moment to pay any attention to who that was. Not much attention was required, as Mrs. Hudson had taken the entire matter into her own hands.

"We're coming in, Mr. Holmes!" She announced. Sherlock drew his hand up to his head and rubbed his temples with his forefinger and thumb as the door clicked and opened slowly. "What a mess you've made of this place!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, taking immediately to picking up the papers off the ground.

"I'd like you to leave those where they are, please." Despite the formality of Sherlock's words, they had been tinged with annoyance.

"Aren't you going to say hello to me?" The sound of the other voice caused Holmes to react, and he pulled his hand away from his face, standing upright as his eyes fell upon his companion.

"Ah, Watson! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!" Sherlock approached his friend and patted him on the shoulder. Dr. John Watson looked upon his old friend and the state he was in, easily coming to the conclusion that he had been drinking, especially from the way his hand recoiled to his head with the clinking of glass bottles resonating through the room.

"I wish I could say the same for you, Holmes," Watson observed with laughter behind his words. Truthfully, he felt awful for his friend, for it seemed he hadn't caught a break since they went their separate ways. "How have you been?"

Sherlock looked around the room in response, where he noticed Mrs. Hudson reaching out to pick up a small lantern he had been tampering with.

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock cried out suddenly, but it had been too late. Mrs. Hudson's long fingers made contact with the lantern, and she let out a sharp, quick scream, causing Sherlock to groan quietly because of the ringing in his ears.

"It shocked me!" Mrs. Hudson said, drawing her hand back and inspecting it for damage.

"I've been keeping myself busy…" Sherlock replied to his friend, grinning apologetically at Mrs. Hudson who continued to clean, keeping a wide berth from the lantern.

"Not busy enough though, I presume?" Watson guessed. The answer was not revealed deliberately by Sherlock, but Watson knew he was right. "Where's Gladstone?" He asked suddenly by reflex, knowing how Sherlock liked to test anesthetics and such on him when he had no work to do.

"Has Mary come with you?" Holmes countered, not wanting to answer the question. Watson hadn't wanted to answer Sherlock's question either, as he knew the terms on which they had met had not been particularly favorable. Sherlock considered this for a moment before adding, "I'll answer your question if you'll answer mine." Watson seemed to agree on the implications.

"She has," he answered Sherlock's question in complete faith that his companion would hold true to his word. "Where's Gladstone?" He repeated.

"In the dining room. Where's Mary?"

"Browsing the marketplace. Is Gladstone conscious?"

"Should be by now," Sherlock replied, checking his pocketwatch. "Has Mary let go of the grudge she holds against me yet?"

"I should hope so. I've been helping her work up to it."

"Good." Sherlock stated.

"Good." Watson echoed.

"Good heavens!" Mrs. Hudson cried. Instantly, the two reunited friends' heads turned toward her and saw her recoiling from a white and brown lump that had begun to move under a stack of newspapers.

"Ah, Gladstone! I thought I had left you in the dining room," Sherlock observed as the dog removed itself from the newspaper pile and trotted up eagerly to Watson.

"Gladstone, old boy! I have missed you," Watson eagerly pet the dog, whose tail wagged in affection. An expression of concern shot across Watson's face as he observed his beloved pet's crooked face, as though half of it was still asleep.

"How peculiar," Sherlock was also setting his gaze upon the dog, studying him. "Old Gladstone must have gnawed on the sedative before swallowing it." A look of subtle horror was placed upon Watson's face. Sherlock observed his friend's expression and continued to speak, an assuring tone in his normally unconcerned voice. "Not to worry; it shall wear off in mere hours."

"Surely you'll be the end of this poor dog, Holmes!" Watson exclaimed, softly massaging the sleepy-looking side of the dog's face.

"What is the time, Watson?" Sherlock asked suddenly, changing the subject. Noticing that Sherlock seemed to be in a far better mood than he was previously, Mrs. Hudson gave a look to the confused Watson that said she wished for him to humor his friend.

"Why, it's…" Watson reached into his vest pocket, only to find the watch wasn't there as expected. It was a mystery to him why Sherlock knew it was gone. It hadn't been on a chain or anything blatantly obvious. "It's missing! Had you known?"

"I am sure Mrs. Mary Watson is finding everything she desires with your hard-earned money in hand." Sherlock stated, without answering the question.

"Really, Holmes!" Watson was amazed at how his friend could come to this conclusion. "You must tell me how you knew!"

"It's quite simple, really, Watson." Sherlock responded, going through the familiar motions. "You had already mentioned that Mary was in the marketplace, browsing. I can also see by how she has dressed you that she has rather expensive tastes. You dressed presentably while still living in Baker Street, but there are subtleties that prove that standards have been raised. Your jacket buttons are polished to perfection, your shoes are un-scuffed, your moustache neatly trimmed, and your new hat looks quite becoming on you, Watson."

"Well thank you, Holmes, but how did you know-?" Watson's bumbling was interrupted by Sherlock.

"That you lent money to your wife?" Watson nodded, speechless. "It just so happens that you are unsure as to your dear Mary's reactions within my presence. That much was clear when you said you hoped she had gotten over that grudge she held against me. There is no way Mary would have come into town without bringing some money of her own, though in an effort to keep her busy while you visited with me, you lent her some of your own funds hoping she would be entertained for longer. By this time, you have checked your pocketwatch and noticed that the time was nearing to that which you agreed to Mrs. Hudson that you would arrive here. You are a punctual man, Dr. Watson. You wouldn't be late, especially with the urgency upon which Mrs. Hudson called on you. She gave you a time earlier than when she knew I'd be waking up, so I wouldn't get the chance to tell her these arrangements were unnecessary. In a rush, you mistakenly handed Mary your pocketwatch along with your money, as it was fresh in the top of your pocket, and hadn't noticed, because you were too busy calling for a passing cab. Mary didn't correct you, because she noticed your urgency. So here you stand before me, sans money or pocketwatch."

"Bravo, Holmes!" Watson applauded. Sherlock felt soothed – he had jumped for the opportunity to use his skills, as he had been without chance for so long. "But why wouldn't you want to see me?"

"It's not a matter of not wanting to see you, and I doubt it shall ever be. It's more a matter of the condition I'm in for company. I had a tireless night, and my head is in a sorry state. I'd prefer to be well when I visit with you."

Watson was entirely familiar with the state his friend was in. It was the sort that would make Sherlock very unapproachable, and Watson would wish there was something he could do. There would be nothing to help Sherlock except commit a brilliant crime that would take days to unravel – being a moral man; that was not at all likely! Instead, he had been forced to watch Holmes' restlessness until he came out of the mood. Evidently, Mrs. Hudson had been unable to take it any longer, which is why she had called for him. Watson could only call it a curse of a brilliant mind that Holmes was this way when he had nothing to use it for.

"How does some tea sound then, Holmes?" Watson suggested, attempting to adjust the somber mood that the conversation had left in the air.

"Even the strongest tea would taste weak to me now, but with some sweetener, it should be pleasant."

"I'll boil the water, then." Mrs. Hudson announced, taking an armful of empty bottles out of the room with her.

"Splendid. How's married life treating you, Watson?" Sherlock questioned, making his way past the sea of papers towards where his pipe sat on the mantelpiece.

"Even more wonderfully than I'd imagined, which is quite a task! Waking up every morning to Mary's lovely face, and spending the day with her… it is indeed far more than just 'pleasant'. I talk to her about everything – and she always has something to say that intrigues me. I do believe I have become heavily dependent on the fact I shall see her every day, and do not know what I would do if I couldn't see her… Holmes, do you even know what I've said?" Watson was sure his friend wasn't paying attention, as he was smoking his pipe and staring out the window.

"Of course I have. And with my intellectual abilities, I was able to deduce you have married the right woman. You seem to be fond of her," Sherlock answered sarcastically, looking over at Watson from his previous gaze upon the window. "I trust the plan was she wasn't coming here at all?"

"Yes – our butler Mr. Ripley is escorting her about."

"But they will be here soon." Sherlock stated.

"Whatever makes you say that?" Watson questioned, expecting another drawn-out, brilliant explanation.

"It is about to rain," Sherlock said simply, motioning to the window. "They have nowhere else to go but here."

"I see…" Watson said, glancing out the window. The clouds were beginning to look a darker shade of grey, and indeed it would rain any moment. He hoped Mary would be civil. She used every opportunity she had to complain about Sherlock in conversation. Watson was sure she had to be the only person who disliked Sherlock Holmes, save for those whose plans he foiled. With how much he admired the man, the notion that anybody could possibly dislike him seemed extraordinary. Especially someone with whom he was so compatible.

When Mrs. Hudson came in with a tea tray filled with a teapot, two teacups, saucers, cream and sugar, Sherlock informed her that they'd be expecting two more shortly, and so she left to get additional teacups and saucers. In a short amount of time, the sound of rain could be heard pounding upon the window and roof of the apartment complex. It was only a matter of time before Mary and Mr. Ripley would arrive, and surely enough, the sounds of two sets of shoes had started up the steps to the door of 221 Baker Street. The sounds of speech could faintly be heard from where Sherlock and Watson sat in the study, and finally the figures of Mary and Mr. Ripley could be seen. Mr. Ripley was a tall thin man, though solidly built, with warm brown eyes. He was aged, though his receded hairline added nearly ten years to his appearance. Though the butler's black hair was flecked with gray, his smooth face redeemed him of his other qualities that made him appear so aged. Mr. Ripley's smart suit had been soaked right through, though he had removed his jacket, and had given it to Mary so she could hold it over her head and keep dry; as her hair was without a speck of rain, her makeup equally untouched by the relentless precipitation. The two seated gentlemen stood up upon her appearance, and Watson walked over and put his arm around his wife.

"Mrs. Mary Watson," Sherlock greeted. "And you must be Mr. Ripley,"

"Sherlock Holmes." Mary's eyes flicked up towards Sherlock as he spoke, her tone having somewhat of a biting edge to it, though if Sherlock picked up on it, his expression didn't change, nor did his polite manner. Mary continued digging through her purse and pulled out a gold pocketwatch, handing it to her husband. "You mistakenly left this with me before,"

"Yes, thank you. Sherlock told me all about it," Watson said, with a nod towards his companion. He took the item from Mary and tucked it into his front pocket.

From the restrained look upon Mary's face, it seemed as though she was holding back from making a rather unwelcome remark towards Watson's dear Sherlock. Watson patted her shoulder reassuringly, his expression sliding into one of relief, as his wife had shown enough self-restraint to avert from a situation which would be most uncomfortable. What he didn't understand was why she was always so angry towards him. He had made one simple mistake that was hardly an issue at all… it made Watson wonder if she was getting some outside influence towards her opinion of Sherlock Holmes. Watson decided he would have to discuss it with him later on.

"Please, have a seat. There is some warm tea which I'm sure will be comforting after you've been in such cold rain," Sherlock invited cordially.

The three men seated themselves after Mary had taken a seat closest to the doors of the study, and Watson began to prepare a cup of tea for his wife, while Mr. Ripley sat politely in his own chair, with his legs crossed and his hands folded over his lap. There was silence as Mr. and Mrs. Watson drank their tea, Mr. Ripley looked curiously about the recently cleaned room, and Sherlock drew from his pipe.

"Mr. Ripley, how long have you been employed by Mr. and Mrs. Watson here?" Sherlock finally asked, breaking the silence to make polite conversation.

"Seven weeks, I believe it's been." Mr. Ripley's voice was smooth and deep, and it seemed to draw from the same pool of warmth that his eyes reflected. His face expressed little emotion however, though he appeared to be deep in thought. "I had just finished serving for another family; Mr. and Mrs. Watson were kind enough to ask for my services so I wouldn't be out of work for long."

"If you don't mind my asking, was this other family the Chilcotts?" Sherlock seemed to be as deep in thought as Mr. Ripley appeared, and though their conversation was trivial, there was clearly much more going on behind their words. Watson was sitting silently, watching the conversation with intrigue, while Mary kept her eyes upon the fine china that she sipped her tea from.

"Yes, they were," Mr. Ripley answered, seeming quite surprised. Sherlock nodded with confidence, and drew again from his pipe. Watson was surprised as well, as he had never known the name of the family that Mr. Ripley worked for previously and never thought it any of his business to ask.

There was another bit of silence, though no one seemed too bothered by it. The sound of rain could be heard, hitting upon the rooftop violently, and it seemed as the four people in the room all looked towards the window at the same time, observing the weather outside. It threatened not to let up for some time.

"Well, Watson… Mary, Mr. Ripley and yourself are free to stay here for the night if you find you don't wish to travel in such heavy rain. I understand it wasn't your plan to stay more than one day, as you've brought nothing, but I'm sure Mrs. Hudson can accommodate you all. Watson could stay in his old bedroom with Mary; Mr. Ripley could have my bedroom, and I shall be fine with the study."

Watson didn't argue Sherlock's generous suggestion that left him with the most uncomfortable accommodations, because he knew Sherlock hadn't been sleeping much at all. He doubted he would have made much use of his bedroom in the past few days because of it. Watson had no interest in travelling in the violent rain in fears it was even worse than it sounded, and it was sure that the rain would clear up by tomorrow morning, and they could take their leave then. In all honesty, it was likely good for Sherlock that he would be having company a bit longer, and Watson hoped he could use this opportunity to keep his friend from being bored to the point of insanity. Yet again, Watson had a burning feeling within him, wishing he could do something to help his friend and knowing he couldn't. He felt guilty although he knew he wasn't at all to blame. By no means did he want some poor soul tortured in any way before Sherlock could be relieved of his boredom by solving the case for him, but he didn't want Sherlock to be tortured either. It was hard, in that way, being the friend of Sherlock Holmes.

A/N: So, here's the first chapter of what I hope to be a good Sherlock Holmes story that ends up all I hope it to be. Please be aware that some of the content is taken from the movie, as in the books, Sherlock and Mary Watson have no problem with each other, and there are certain things that Sherlock does in the movies which he would never do in the books. So my Sherlock will be a bit of the mix of the two in order to add a little more chance for more outward humor and other certain scenes that I see playing out. Plus, the little differences between Sherlock and Mary are imperative to my plot - a plot you should know more about by the next chapter.

I hope you like it, but mostly it's just a story I'm writing for my own enjoyment. =)