Author's Note: So... um, hello. I have been absent from for what feels like forever, but I'm back now. I'm a bit rusty so this is just a silly little 221B drabble I thought up to get my flow back. Hope you likey.
Gratitude
Every old-age pensioner in the room looks up when he enters. Sherlock has followed John to this old people's home where he's been working as a part-time doctor, but it's obvious he's gone to the wrong room. No-one below the age of seventy here.
He turns to leave and search elsewhere but, with a gummy grin, one woman points at the floor. "Would you pick up my cup?" Sherlock pulls a face, but constant lectures from John are sinking in on some subconscious level that Sherlock will never admit to. He bends over, picks up the cup. Sets it on the little table beside her armchair. She smiles in thanks. All eyes are on him, half-knitted scarves forgotten on laps.
A muffled thud on the carpet and another woman points to the floor. A novel is lying open, cover side up, thin pages bent. "Slipped out of my hand," she says. Sherlock rolls his eyes, bends over to pick it up. She takes it, gives a grin laden with false teeth.
Sherlock's attention is caught as another of the women clears her throat. She frowns slightly, points, "Would you pick that up for me, young man?" He hides a sigh and bends over again, reaches for the stray knitting needle. She winks at her friends, and slaps him on the backside.
