Small streaks of light could be perceived. They moved from the window to the room and back to the window. They had sounds attached to them, rumbling sounds of either public or private transportation that carried on through the city. Then there were the sounds of people in the streets, but those carried no light despite the much higher sound they made. Closer yet there was the snoring downstairs made by one sleeping landlady much tired of helping cleaning mysterious juices off the floorboards. Such noise reverberated from her room into the walls and made the soft carpet tremble ever so slightly.
No.
The carpet wouldn't tremble ever so slightly because of a mild snoring landlady. The sounds came into focus, soft moaning sounds. Gasps and shaking voices could be heard and the movement, the perfect rhythm, never missing it's beat, was the source of the floor disturbance.
Closer yet, the soft sound coming from his own nostrils, the thin noise of a curl brushing his forehead, the slow movement of his lungs and his aching mind.
Sherlock Holmes was stoned.
And better yet, he was meditating about his surroundings, noticing every small piece of information. He was, in fact, observating with all of his senses at once and deducing nothing of it. Maybe if he hadn't been completely doped he would have been dedutctive, and perhaps in such a more acute state of mind he would have noticed his flatmate finally getting extremely intimate with Sally. In the living room. He would have also observed that neither knew he was in his room.
But as high as he was, he noticed a lot, storing information in his brain and not linking it for once.
He observed John's shaky gasps and Sally's slow purring sounds.
Then a new number came into his equation. Footsteps outside, footsteps he knew, came closer to 221B. They came, paced a bit as if uncertain, but ended up knocking on the door downstairs quite loudly. Sherlock heard as the knocks got louder, as the muffled sounds in his living room became extinct, as the trembling floor trembled no more and the snoring landlady quit snoring and decided for grumpily opening the door.
He heard muttered excuses, he heard a quick commotion close to him, clothes being put on, complaints being made, he heard the front door of his apartment opening and then, as if a wake up call that worked far better than anything for an unknown reason, he heard his own name.
His eyes came into lucidity again and he understood what he hadn't for the past two hours. Slowly his brain caught up with him and he saw it clearly in front of his eyes, as he always did. Getting up and putting his elegant clothing on Sherlock gazed at the mirror in the back of his bedroom door. Looking presentable and still listening to the uttered apologies and excuses coming from the couch he felt for the first time in many years a bit of guilt and pain.
Uncapable of understanding it's source Sherlock opened his door just as it was being approached from the familiar footsteps.
"Cor Sherlock! You surprised me!"
"Lestrade, how do you do? I understand that the criminal world has fooled you once more?"
A serious yet smug look graced his face as he took in the unshaved beard, the bags under his eyes, the eaten nails, the clashing colours of his clothing, the dirty shoes - with a distinct kind of red mud that indicated a location - the small cuts his jeans sported right in the knee area and the small bruise the man had in his wrist.
Lestrade smiled a hurt smile "Sorry for coming this late, but I'm afraid we don't have much time to solve this one".
"London eye or Victoria Tower Gardens?"
"I won't even ask how did you get that, it's Victoria Tower Gardens yes, and the body was found close to the The Burghers of Calais" Lestrade sighed "The way it is positioned and clothed well… we believe that the murderer was trying to make a organic sculpture of Eustache de Saint Pierre"
As Sherlock followed Lestrade as he moved for the door, "There's something else. A note?" he asked.
"Yes, the killer kindly drew on the floor with the victim's blood, we believe he might want to kill five more people to finish his 'masterpiece'"
On the couch John fumed, shirtless and disheveled while Sally seemed to be gone already. The glare he aimed at Sherlock meant a lot. It meant 'this interruption is your fault' but it also meant 'you were here? Listening? What is wrong with you?' With a quick blink of his eyes the consulting detective made his mind "Sounds interesting enough." he said.
"Great, we'll be waiting" and with a nod to John Lestrade exited the apartment.
The door slamed shut.
The flush across his cheeks, the messy hair and trembling hand, John was incredibly mad and at sight of this Sherlock felt it again. The guilt and pain.
"You were here. The whole time. You said you'd be out."
Cautiously Sherlock locked eyes with the strong man in front of him "Don't worry, I couldn't undertand a thing of what was being done here".
"Bollocks you couldn't! Of course you knew! You always do! This was beyond creepy and I believe we need some boundaries ok!"
"Oh, but I was meditating" with a small smile added to this phrase meditating translated into taking drugs in John's brain, quite rightfully so. He scowled.
"But yes, I do believe that boundaries need to be established" Sherlock's smile was gone now "After all how can I ever sit on this couch again knowing what happened on it?" Pain now, not guilt. Just a small poisoning tingle of pain passing through his chest.
John's eyes narrowed "Really. Because clean Sally and John doing the nasty in your couch is much worse than the frozen anonymous head on the fridge! Oh please Sherlock!" he spat the name.
"But you won't ever sit on it. And you seem to be forgetting that it is not my fault that someone has been murdered in quite a interesting way tonight" quietly Sherlock reached for his coat and scarf "Should I presume you won't be tagging along?" but he knew John wanted to go. His hand was still now, his eyes didn't bear as much irritation as they did before and his legs were casually and unconsciously facing the door.
John bit his lip.
"I hate you" he said but his eyes said otherwise. "I'll get dressed"
A small smile came to rest upon Sherlock's lips, guilt and pain gone now.