A/N: A couple things I should mention before you start reading. This is my first (and maybe only?) Sherlock fic, so please excuse its badness. Also, I'm an American author trying to write Britishly (totally a word), so if you're British and you catch something that doesn't quite sound right, feel free to mention it in a review. Okay, now on the story. It's really not that good, but if you're desperately looking for something new, here you go...
It was a typical spring day in London. The weather was overcast, with heavy, dark clouds at one end of the sky. It had been raining heavily that morning, but had at last settled into a light drizzle.
John Watson had been gone for most of the day, which he was often hesitant to do. He had reasons for this of course, and they were on his mind as he exited a cab and stepped onto Baker Street.
John frowned as he walked up to 221B.
"What has he been up to?" John muttered to himself, grabbing his umbrella from where it had been leaning against the door. He entered the flat and went up the stairs to where he knew he would find his friend.
Sherlock Holmes was bored. This was evidenced by the fact that the wall had some new holes in it and that Sherlock's pistol was sitting on the table. At the current moment, the consulting detective was in the process of applying a nicotine patch to his arm.
"Why did you leave my umbrella outside?" John asked with a sigh.
Sherlock did not supply an answer. He remained sitting, his fingertips now pressed together in front of his chin, his eyes locked onto something—or nothing—across the room. In fact, there was no sign whatsoever that he had even heard John's arrival.
But of course he had, because he never missed anything.
"Sherlock," John insisted, standing in the doorway, watching the detective, who was nearly motionless on the couch. "I thought you only did that—" he gestured to the patch on Sherlock's arm "—when you were trying to work out a case."
"It's preparation," Sherlock responded in a quick, flat tone.
"For what?" John asked.
Sherlock still didn't look at him. "Any moment now, a particular detective inspector is going to call in need of my help. It may only be a five or a six, but nevertheless, he often seems incapable of figuring cases out on his own."
John sighed and shook his head, stepping fully into the room and looking at the umbrella in his hand. He decided to ask about it later. "So why do you know that?" he asked, sitting down in his chair.
"Because I know he had a case, and when he has a case, so do I."
As if on cue, Sherlock's phone rang.
