Watson awoke, dazed and slightly confused to the insistent whine of a dog early the next morning. Toby, Mrs. Hudson's new bloodhound puppy, was a very punctual creature, who made sure he got his breakfast every morning at 7 am sharp. And who had also taken to - instead of voicing his complaints to the little old lady that had brought him to the flat in the first place – decided John was a much more worthy target.
"I'll get you in a while Toby, just move along for now please." Watson groaned. It was hardly any use. The puppy continued to whine and scratch at the door, and despite the efforts John made to ignore the ruckus, he eventually gave in and rose from the couch. Whiskey, in doses like John had taken the previous night, made for a very good sleep aid, although the other effects that come with consuming alcohol had not worn off yet. That, combined with the lack of actual hours he had slept, turned the messy flat in to somewhat of an obstacle course, and made it very easy for him to bang his shin on the coffee table while on the way to let the dog in.
As he swore at himself, he rubbed his newly bruised leg (which, he noted, was the same leg that had suffered a limp that Sherlock had pointed out was in fact, psychosomatic), and let the dog in. As Toby happily scrambled through the door, John glanced over at the cane he had used back then, sitting disused and dusty in an umbrella stand in the corner. Everything was still the way it had been when he and Holmes had occupied the same flat. He'd done away with the various "specimens" in the refrigerator when he realized they had started to smell, but otherwise, things remained virtually untouched.
A bark startled him out of his nostalgic daze, making him jump.
"Alright, okay! No need to shout." John clambered in to the kitchen then, careful this time not to collide with any of the furniture, though the room still continued to swirl a bit at the edges of his vision. To satisfy Toby, he put down a plate of sandwich meat for him, then put on a kettle for himself. If it had been any other day of the week, he would have immediately stumbled back to the couch and slept a few more hours, but it was Thursday, and he needed to keep Mrs. Hudson believing he was still seeing a psychologist. So he would go find a quiet place to do his "therapy", typing a up an entry for his new blog and sipping on a warm cup of tea (with a secret shot of whiskey to calm the nerves).
Toby whined as he finished his plate of turkey and padded over to Watson, plopping down under the table, directly on top of John's feet. He sighed as he waited for the kettle to boil; he couldn't help staring at the smiley face again, now just a macabre wall piece with a few bullet holes speckled around it. As he pushed back painful memories, the wail of the kettle rang out through the flat.
