Day Three: The word is 'restless.'
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Rainwater trickled persistently from the ceiling of a tiny, dreary room in one of the city's more decrepit buildings. A narrow bed sat in one corner, fitted with threadbare sheets and a tattered blanket. The smell of mothballs and mildew mingled with the rain, contributing to the stuffy, damp atmosphere of the room.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Sherlock scowled at the offending noise and took a drag of his cigarette. He relished the slight burn of the smoke in his lungs for a moment before slowly exhaling. The smoke trailed lazily above Sherlock's head as he gazed from the small, grimy window of his bedsit. London sprawled beneath him, gray and bleak. The drone of traffic and midday crowds navigating the rain washed streets invaded his senses.
Sherlock turned from the window and paced the creaking floorboards. What was taking so long? He glared moodily at the mobile phone tossed thoughtlessly on the bed, as if it was the one causing Sherlock's restlessness.
Waiting was not his strength in the most typical circumstances. Waiting now was nearly unbearable.
It had been ten months since the fall. Ten months in hiding, ten of months of tracking down Moriarty's extensive web of minions. That web was now destroyed, meticulously disassembled one strand at a time, and that fact left Sherlock in his current state.
Edgy. Restless. Bored.
Sherlock cursed his brother. Mycroft insisted Sherlock remain hidden while he 'tied up a few loose ends.' Sherlock suspected Mycroft took pleasure in forcing him to delay his return. A few blocks from 221B, a few blocks from John, and he was trapped here. It was infuriating.
How long did it take to clear up a few details? Sherlock growled in frustration and lit another cigarette, the glowing red tip bright in the gloom.
Nervous energy vibrated through him. He was manic in his pacing now, fingers tugging at already rumpled curls. This was ridiculous.
Sherlock froze when his mobile emitted a quiet chime and lit the room with a dull glow. He pounced on it, frantically bringing up the message.
A tiny smile crossed his features as he read the text.
Finally. He was through waiting.
