Sherlock was bored. The dull motions of living made him want to pull his hair out. John was out with Mary, and there were no cases. Everything had been excruciatingly silent since Moriarty had pronounced himself alive. No advances had been made, and Sherlock
had grown deathly bored of the suspense. He took the syringe from off the side table and analyzed it. He had gone almost half a day without the drugs, but now he could feel his brain turning to mesh. It would cure his bordem for a while, but John
would be very disappointed. Sherlock thought for a moment. He had never cared before what people thought. He certainly wasn't going to start caring now. His brain would rot without something keeping it entertained.
He held out his arm and slowly injected the morphine. Hisbrain began to buzz as the drug entered his blood stream. As he fell back onto the couch, a fantasy began to build itself in Sherlock's mind. This would keep him excited for hours. At least
he had found one distraction that did not involve John Watson. Maybe he would survive the whole marriage thing after all.
All he needed was a distraction.
The phone rang. It took those two seconds for Sherlock's fantasy to fall. He had no idea how long it had been up, but it had not been nearly long enough. anger washer over him. He was ready to shoot the mobile phone, the thing that destroyed his distraction.
Then he read the caller identification.
Lestrade. He was high and getting a call from the chief inspector. He was sure his voice would be a dead giveaway. But he had a mind more advanced than any. He could burn it off if that was what he wanted. So he took a breath and answered the phone.
"Hullo?" His words were slurred. It didn't matter though. If Lestrade wanted to arrest Sherlock then fine. It was worth it.
"Sherlock? What's wrong with you?"
As lousy a detective Lestrade was, he still heard that something was off. That was not going to bother Sherlock though. "Nothing's wrong with me. What's wrong with you?"
"There's no time for your childishness, Sherlock." The detective sounded exasperated and stressed.
Sherlock's mind began to work a little faster. There was obviously a case. That was the only reason Lestrade ever called. The detective was stressed too: that meant a big case. Maybe there was something to finally make a swirl in the straight line of
life.
Lestrade went on. "We need you, but you must to be on your best behavior. The American police are on their way."
"American police?" Sherlock sat up was getting better and better. "Must be a murder then. Is the victim the American? He'd have to be of high importance for the Americans to come down to Britain. A government worker or a large criminal
trying to escape. Or the American could be the suspect. If that were the case-"
"Holmes!" Lestrade yelled into the phone. Sherlock had forgotten he was even on the phone. "You can get all the information when you get here. Just hurry. The address has been texted to you. And bring John."
Lestrade hung up before Sherlock could say John was with Mrs. Watson. They weren't expected back for a couple days. Sherlock would just go without him. No one would care. He got his scarf and coat and whipped out the door to hail a taxi, morphine almost
out of his system already.