"Watson." Sherlock Holmes' voice echoed throughout the flat and reached the bathroom in a matter of seconds. The toilet flushed and Dr. John Watson emerged from within, rubbing the palms of his hands on the seat of his jeans. He ignored Sherlock and proceeded to the kitchen with a sigh. The sink was filled to the brim with used dishes, scraps of lasagna and mashed potatoes still sticking to the middle of the plates. Just as John was reaching for the pair of yellow latex gloves sitting next to the dish soap, Sherlock bellowed out in a loud yet monotone voice, "You didn't wash your hands. Don't do touch anything until you've washed them." John quickly looked back at his companion with a confused expression, stumbling over his words. "But how did you...forget it." Sherlock closed his eyes, placed his fingertips together under his chin, and chuckled once to himself before adding, "And change your pants."
Rain was dripping down both small windows facing Baker Street. It had been raining the past three days with no signs of ceasing, thunder booming throughout the silent city and lightning lighting up the gray sky with a bolt of white light. Tele never interested either Sherlock or John so they sat in near silence aside from the high-pitched screeches of Sherlock's violin. "Incoming cases have come to a standstill these past two weeks," John typed slowly with his index fingers. The bleak letters appeared in the little white text box on the screen, projecting his thoughts back at him. He paused and stared at his blog realizing its recent boring tone. There were descriptions of possible cases that arrived on their doorstep and homemade dinners cooked by Mrs. Hudson. As he scrolled, Sherlock stood up from his lounging position on the couch and glanced out the window onto the glistened street. A boring black cab crawled by and he followed it with his eyes until it turned the corner and continued on its way.
Boring was a familiar feeling to Sherlock but it had never reached this magnitude. The cases that found their way to his living room were utterly uninteresting: an infidelity, a hacker, this and that. None of it truly turned his mind around the way he liked and none gave him the thrill of a chase. Even John was becoming dull, fading in and out of the flat without a word or motive. John found himself wandering museums by day and listening to Sherlock's violin by night. Both rarely uttered words to each other, aside from an occasional "Hello" and "Do you know what Mrs. Hudson is cooking?" Their seperate rooms were both littered with laundry, a week's worth of worn buttondown dress shirts and mostly beige slacks; their shoes were piled by the coathook next to the door. In short, life had paradoxically been both slow and unorganized.
Sherlock watched the rain fall in heavy droplets onto the pavement across the street, nothing specifically running through his mind at the time. "John? Have you any idea what Mrs. Hudson is baking downstairs?" he asked in a confused tone. He let the curtain slip from his spidery fingertips before turning towards his only friend. John looked up from his chair with puppy eyes and shook his head. "I haven't spoken to her all day," he answered. "Barely heard her walk about downstairs. Do you think she's alright?" Genuine concern snuck its way into his query. Sherlock walked fiercely past his partner and into the kitchen. "Yes, of course she's alright, Watson!" he shouted back. "There's no reason she shouldn't be." John stared at the door thoughtfully, wondering if Mrs. Hudson truly was okay. Sherlock had added that she was on her way up right now, but it passed unheard by John.
The door opened slowly, swinging swiftly on its hinges while Mrs. Hudson wedged her small bottom between the door and frame. Her blonde hair was sprayed stiff upon her pink, wide-eyed face, a light tan dress hanging from her frail shoulders. In her arms she held a silver platter with an assortment of biscuits and two cups of hot peppermint tea. "Oh, boys! I know work has been very slow and you have done absolutely nothing with yourselves," she continued into the living room with no invitation, "so I brought up some sweets and treats for you!" Sherlock sat down at his chemical table and leaned back in his chair, his black curls bobbing once and his distant yet clear blue eyes fixed readily on a spreading circle of mold on the ceiling. "No, Mrs. Hudson, we don't need any 'treats'," he replied almost annoyed. "You should bring them to Mycroft." He looked over to John and watched as he tilted his blonde head down and shook with a chuckle. Mrs. Hudson's expression switched quickly to a motherly scold as she rushed over to Sherlock and tweeked his large ear. "You quit being a nuisance and making fun of your brother!" Again, both John and he shared a laugh. She became fed up with their childishness and stormed off towards the door, reminding them viciously that if they needed anything, she would be downstairs, "But I'm not your housekeeper!"
"I'm going out tonight," John announced in a low voice. He twiddled his thumbs about his lap and shut his grey eyes, planning his date for the night. Why would he tell Sherlock something he had yet to even plan? He furrowed his eyebrows in regret. Sherlock glanced over from the table, his thin body in a perfect diagonal line to the floor, and looked questionably at John. John looked up at Sherlock.
"Where are you going? Sherlock asked; his fingertips remained tented beneath his sharp chin.
"The opera house," replied John.
"With a woman, I presume."
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"Which...which one? You make it seem as if I'm some sort of gigolo!" John's face grew slightly annoyed and red at the thought of such a thing. "Her name is Lea, if you're truly so curious."
"I am."
"But why? You certainly aren't coming!" John smirked. He was shocked at his friend's curiosity and presumed he had already known he wasn't invited. Obviously he must have known. How could he not? Of course he knew, John laughed to himself. But within minutes, Sherlock was up and in his room. "What opera?" He called, scavenging through his rather narrow closet.
"No!" John flew from his chair into the bedroom. "Absolutely not, Sherlock!" His wide blue eyes reflected the dim light that made its way through the closed curtains. The rain had dwindled down to a little more than a drizzle. "And why not, John?" Sherlock inquired. He returned to his feet holding a grey shirt and a pair of black slacks. John looked around to make sure this was actually happening. "Because, Sherlock!" He couldn't let Sherlock ruin yet another date, the first since the Gina fiasco last month.
"Sherlock, no, you cannot come," John finally said almost pitifully. He brought his stubby golden hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples. Sherlock dropped the pressed shirt he had grabbed off the hanger and looked questionably at his only friend. His head was tilted slightly to the right as he asked, "Why not? Is there a reason I can't join you?" He proceeded to approach John with eyebrows furrowed deeply. John took a step back when Sherlock reached the door frame.
"Sherlock, what're you-"
"WHY CAN I NOT GO!" Sherlock's eyes grew wide and fixed angrily on John, his fists remained tightly at his sides as he leaned forward. John didn't budge despite his common sense telling him that only God knew what Sherlock would do during withdrawals. "You're staying here and finding something to do to keep yourself busy while I'm gone," he coaxed while taking Sherlock by the shoulders and sitting him down in his armchair. The rain began lightening outside and a last small gust of wind blew through the open window. Sherlock's fingertips tapped frantically as John stepped away. As much as he wanted to be there for his friend while he quit his smoking habit, he knew that Sherlock was capable of getting through it himself, and he had to get on with his life to kill this boredom as well. The minutes never seemed so long and the days never seemed to drag on the way they had been the past few weeks. The blog was empty and the counter still, cases ceased to come in at all. No one would come in this weather anyway, John reasoned and sighed lightly to himself. There was a certain uneasiness throughout 221B, an uneasiness John recognized and Sherlock remained blind towards, hands still shaking. The nicotine stains between the tips of his fingers were already fading.