I dragged my overworked butt up the 17 steps of 221B Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes, a man I could absolutely not stand, had found it perfectly acceptable to play Bach in the middle of the (insert angry Germanic word of choice) night.
The only object in London, apart from Mycroft's car-driving, uninterested slave, that could possibly make this day bearable, was the thought of the sushi which I had hidden deep in the fridge, which was usually filled with Sherlock's (Germanic or Norse expression) experiments. When I said usually – speaking of usually –
"Hi, John." A matter-of-fact voice belonging to a person, whom I sincerely wished to beat up, rang casually through the air. "Too bad Naomi broke up with you on the phone today. Really, she seemed somewhat less uninteresting than the three previous ones."
I – wait, what? Naomi had not broken up with me, and so I told Sherlock. It felt good to know that he was wrong for once.
"She has, you know," answered he. "Oh, you have not checked your text messages yet? Why?" He hesitated for half a moment. "You should stop forgetting your phone all the time. I fancy you left it on the café you visited this morning. You should get more sleep. Idiots like you don't function without, and gaining half a pound in a week is surely because of the hazelnut syrup in the latte you had."
With those words, the douchebag left the room, opened the fridge, and returned with what seemed to be my precious box of delicious, fresh sushi.
Add thumbs, and that's the sight that just met
John "moving out tomorrow" Watson, MD.