Sherlock Holmes strode into his flat at 221B Baker St, took off his scarf and coat, hung them up then went and sat in his armchair.
He was feeling… odd. There was just no other way to describe it. What annoyed him most was that he didn't know why he was feeling the way he did. And he most definitely didn't like it.
As he sat his fingers tapped impatiently on the arm of his chair. He was full of nervous energy, and his mind, usually so sharp and alert, was having difficulty remaining focussed.
And this time drugs were not the cause.
Everything inside him was racing and he found it impossible to remain seated. He sprang up from his chair and began pacing around the room.
Within five minutes he realised this was proving neither helpful nor productive. Giving an exasperated sigh, he ran his hand through his unruly curls. He then returned to the armchair, settled back and took a long, deep breath.
With his elbows resting on the armrests and his fingers steepled under his chin, he closed his eyes and entered his Mind Palace.
He walked from room to room, searching for an explanation for the unsettling feelings that had him on edge.
Charles Augustus Magnussen.
Fake Moriarty.
Recent difficult family situation…
No. Nome of them offered him the answers he sought.
He was about to give up his search when he spotted another door, one that he hadn't seen before.
That was curious, a room is his Mind Palace that he had not been conscious of making.
He walked over to the door, opened it and entered. He found himself in a room that was almost in complete darkness. The only light came from a large computer screen at the far end of the room.
As he walked towards the computer, words began to appear on the screen.
Meticulous.
Ordinary.
Likeable.
Loyal.
Yellow.
Honest.
Open.
Orderly.
Plain.
Earnest.
Reliable.
As Sherlock stared at the list, the first letter from each word lifted from the screen to swirl and dance around him.
Sherlock's eyes snapped open.
"Oh…"
Before he had time to let his usual rational thought processes to take over he got up, and hastily put his scarf and coat back on.
Dashing down the stairs, he almost collided with Mrs Hudson who had just come in the front door with a bag of groceries.
"Got a new case Sherlock?" she asked.
"Have to get to Bart's," he replied, barely glancing her way.
Martha Hudson may have been getting on in years, but there were still some things she could see very clearly.
"About time," she called after him.
But Sherlock didn't hear her as he slammed the front door. He had something far more important on his mind as he strode towards the road, arm outstretched.
"Taxi!"