Sherlock flicked through the news paper in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen angrily, an untouched plate of english breakfast sat in front of him. Though Mrs. Hudson's idea to look for cases to solve was an excellent one, there just weren't any exciting crimes going on! All the things written in the newspaper were so obvious! It was painful to read their speculations that missed the mark by a ridiculous distance. He needed to go find something that actually mattered, something interesting. Or he could just get high. But Mrs. Hudson wouldn't like that.
Sherlock put the paper down and folded his arms, his face a scowl. There was nothing to do! There wasn't even anything to deduce, Mrs. Hudson had kicked out all the people upstairs as soon as they had gotten back from Florida, and given the upstairs flat to Sherlock, which was nice, but he didn't have much use for it. Although there wasn't anyone there – the upstairs flat was still the same tip it had been. Sherlock didn't care for cleaning, or for the state of his 'home', all he did was sleep there, when he slept, and sometimes play the violin.
'Sherlock, eat your breakfast' Mrs. Hudson said, picking up a pan from her small sink and beginning to scrub it clean. Sherlock shook his head as he woke himself from thoughts.
'I don't want it' he said, realising how childish he sounded, though not particularly caring.
'Well you need it, for your brain' Mrs. Hudson explained, treating him with the same manner you would treat the child he was portraying.
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, he didn't need food for his brain. He didn't need food at all. He wasn't hungry, though he didn't bother to say any of this out loud – Mrs. Hudson would probably talk if he did. Instead he sulkily picked up his fork and twiddled it between fingers, before poking at a fried egg as if it was poisonous.
'You know, I have a friend – well, my friend has a friend – who works at Scotland Yard,' Mrs. Hudson began. Sherlock could tell she was about to begin another story and rolled his eyes behind her back, only half listening to her chatter. 'And she says that they have a case which has really got them, they don't have a clue what's going on and they haven't told any newspapers or anything about it because it will make them look bad. Funny thing isn't it? That we can't know about all the times the police don't know what's going on. I suppose it would scare people, anyways, I thought, it could be your sort of thing, so I asked her where some things, and she told me the her friend, I think his name is Graham Lestrade? Something like that, well, whoever he is, he's willing to meet you and let you look at the scene, isn't that good luck? Sherlock? Are you even listening to me?'
Sherlock nodded slightly, the story had caught his attention. A case that the police couldn't solve. That could be fun. What was the harm? He should meet Lestrade.
'What are the details?' Sherlock asked.
'Well, I don't know, because he wouldn't say – top secret, probably a murder I suppose, maybe multiple murders.'
Sherlock rested his palms against his chin in thought, 'When can I meet Lestrade? Where?'
Mrs. Hudson turned around and smiled, pleased by Sherlock's sudden enthusiasm, 'Why don't you try going to Scotland Yard? That's where he works, after all.'
Sherlock nodded again, before swiftly standing, 'I'm going out' he declared, striding towards the kitchen door.
'Like that?' asked Mrs. Hudson, a tinge of laughter underlying in her tone.
Sherlock spun around slowly, 'What do you mean?' he asked.
Mrs. Hudson shrugged, 'You don't look very smart, he's not going to take you seriously.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes, something he often seemed to do around his landlady.
'What should I wear then?' he asked finally.
'A suit' Mrs. Hudson said firmly, 'I'm sure I've got some in your size – somewhere.'
'Why do I need to wear a suit?' Sherlock huffed, 'It's not going to matter if I can solve the case.'
Mrs. Hudson folded her arms, her yellow washing up gloves still wet from the pans she had been cleaning, 'He's not going to let you look at the case – he'll think you're a homeless junkie!'
'I am a homeless junkie' said Sherlock under his breath as he walked sullenly up to 'his' flat.
He sat down on the moth-eaten sofa on the right hand side of the room and exhaled heavily. Mrs. Hudson was right of course – he didn't look like he could solve any cases, that might have been why the judge in Florida wasn't too quick to trust him. He needed something new to wear.
