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Sherlock stared at the ceiling, decidedly bored; however, this wasn't much of a novelty, especially since he hadn't had a case for three days now. It was killing him! Why did life have to be so- so dull! He didn't know how John managed to live this way. John and his newlywed wife, Mary, had just bought a house, leaving him alone at 221B Baker's St. with Mrs. Hudson's constant badgering. Ugh… Why were human beings not made with a mute button?

John and Mary Watson were living in the monotonous, typical way everyone else on the planet seemed to enjoy. What was wrong with them?! Did they not get bored like him? Sherlock knew the answer. Of course they didn't; their minds were too occupied with rubbish to get bored. In contrast, Sherlock was constantly shifting through his vast stores of information and deleting anything not useful, which left him wanting to do anything, anything to keep from staying still and sipping this cup of tea as he sat in his robe. It was twelve o'clock. Sherlock noted, and still no clients. What was the deal with these people? Didn't they have any problems? Why did everything have to be so bloody serene? It was despicable.

"Ugh." Sherlock groaned, slipping deeper into the chair. His curly hair was ruffled, uncared for, and his eyes were dark from lack of sleep. Sherlock was beyond caring. If he could get a case, then he'd be fine. He just needed something, anything to keep him entertained. Even an obvious, rubbish case would do.

Sherlock's spirits rose as he remembered John would be visiting later today. It had been at least two weeks since he last saw him, and Sherlock supposed he wouldn't mind the man's chatter if he brought along a murder to solve. John often did when one of his blog readers emailed him.

Sherlock turned to his phone and clicked desperately on the 'new messages' button, hoping maybe someone posted something on his Science of Deduction site. John's blog was absolute rubbish, but it usually managed to bring in more requests than Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't have a clue why. His much more sophisticated site still had nothing for him. Sherlock stared at the zero, daring it to remain the same.

Fantastic. What now?

Standing suddenly, Sherlock made his way pass experiments and boxes of this and that. Perhaps he'd continue the experiment he was working on last night… Sherlock picked a tongue out of a bottle of greenish-brown chemicals using chopsticks and stared at it in annoyance. He was trying to discover how to make the blue tongue of a dead man return to its original color. Sherlock didn't know the practical purposes of this yet, but he assured himself that he would fine one, besides, he was just so bored! Returning the tongue, he reached his hands above his head, stretching like a cat.

Suddenly he felt something shock the tips of his fingers. Crying out in surprise, Sherlock spun around, dropping his cup of tea, which shattered on the floor. He stared at the wall his fingers had briefly met. Oddly, the spot he'd touched was colored dark blue. It didn't make sense.

No electrical lines around.

Static electricity?

No. Shock too large to be static.

What then?

He leaned in closer to the wall, studying the spot. Why was the smudge on the wall blue? It had no reason to be, and as far as he knew, shocks might create black marks, but not blue. He sighed, moving on, but suddenly, his head felt like it weighed a million pounds. Sherlock stumbled out of the kitchen, tripping over a box of test tubes. What was wrong? He fell onto the couch and fought to remain conscious.

Drugged?

Not a chance.

I would have noticed

Well, you're not infallible.

Yes I am… mostly.

Illness, then?

No, I was fine moments ago.

Then it must be the… Sherlock's world faded into black mid-thought, and he fell into a pillow on the couch.