It was a bright Sunday morning and this was made apparent by sun beaming through the windows of 221B Baker Street and by the sound of John Watson's roommate, Sherlock Holmes, bustling about downstairs, probably up to his neck in cases, however none that he will take because they are 'too boring' or 'mediocre'. However, something felt different that morning, something was coming… or someone.
It had reached the middle of the day and the day had stayed normal, well, as normal as it can be with Sherlock. One o'clock struck when the knocking began on the wall. Assuming it was Mrs Turner's married ones, the pair passed the sound with nothing more than a glance. By four o'clock, between them, they had drunk seven cups of tea. The knocking came in bursts, stopping every ten minutes and returning like normal.
"Don't you think we should see whats going on?" John burst out at seven that evening.
"What? Oh, that… no, it's fine," came Sherlock's monotone response.
Hours passed with silence, pure silence. Until two o'clock the next morning when John was startled back to reality by more knocking, this time on the front door. Stepping downstairs, the faint silhouette of a man could be seen behind the glass. Before John had touched the handle, the door burst open, revealing the man behind it. He was a tall man however his face was covered by the raincoat he wore. Seeing how cold the man was, John invited him in.
Sherlock trudged down the stairs wearing only a bed sheet, his hair a tangle of curls. The sight of the man neither confused or shocked the detective, but then what did on a regular basis?
"I knew you'd come," remarked the youngest Holmes brother, "they always do."
"Wait…" John exclaimed as he returned from the kitchen with three cups of tea, "Lestrade?"
"Not Lestrade," replied the man, his voice sounded kind and worn, like someone who had seen a lot of destruction and death, "but close… well, not really at all, but good try." The three men sat and sipped their tea, occasionally looking at one another.
Sunlight once more spilled on the carpet of the flat and still no identity of the man. Silence.
"You think you know it all, don't you?" Obviously the question was directed at Sherlock but the sudden outburst threw both him and John back, neither knowing what to say. "So tell me, Mr Holmes, who am I?"
No reply.