Boredom, as it were, of all his enemies, even the arch one, was his worst,

Of all the things Sherlock has put in the past, boredom is not one of them.

Really, if he's honest with himself, even the most intriguing case isn't enough,

Even if it includes the chance to pick-pocket Lestrade…

Door is shut. Sherlock's life has changed.

By Sherlock's previous standards, a good day hosted a murder or two,

Or a blackmailing scheme, one of those truly perplexing ones.

Right now, he's laying on the sofa, ears perked, fooling himself,

Else he pace across the room, and the last shooting indoors, well…

Door is shut. John's not here.

Boredom has somehow been changed to anticipation,

On days like these, Sherlock waits, and waits, impatiently,

Ready for John to arrive, to act nonchalant, as if he's bored,

Even when it couldn't be farther from the truth.

Door opens, the sound of steps, and Sherlock's wait is over.