To bear in mind:
Case-in-Point was the most difficult case the detective and his war-hardened roommate had ever endured thus far.
„John," Sherlock's voice carried upstairs, with its constant excitable tremor. Cocking a brow, John looked up and decidely remained silent. He was not in the mood, but then again, never really was. That actually was quite irrelevant in the scheme of John-doing-things, John had learned.
He didn't hear anything more, and that was that, thank God. He was allowed to maintain the allusion of being on his lonesome, at least for the rest of this morning. The overwhelming presence of his roommate was almost always more than enough, when ignoring the doubtless surveillance they both were under. A spot of peace was a generous reprieve with John knowing that his every step was dogged- Sherlock's mind on the heels. It was the source of his stress and stress relief, his motivation for another day but a conundrum.
John stirred his cold tea half-heartedly, having again forgot to take the goddamn baggie out. The earl grey was darker than tar- and ice cold. While this was mostly due to negligence of yet another cup, the weather held some responsiblity.
They really needed to get a maintenance man in to fix the heating, the windows had begun to frost up and John couldn't manage to crack open his window for a breeze without an effort. The air was cool enough inside, but was beginning to get stale. Particularly the window furthest from the fireplace was unbearable, and deemed a lost cause from the lot of them.
John was considering most of all, begging off on the afternoon activities- excusing with having to call in maintenance.
The „case" was more of a favor to Lestrade, which was fair enough, but Sherlock was already in a horrid mood after cracking the banister with last night's enthusiasm. He's being quieter since in repentance, but as per patterned behavior that frustration will only manifest on the first to cross him. And God knows something will light him off, particularly running the risk of dealing with children.
Lestrade has a dear sister, and she had children, and they were dealing in something unsolvable- until Sherlock would solve it. Something with a local string of robberies and reappearances. People would not only vanish but reappear, with no memory of what they were doing or where they had been. Lestrade's sister was quaking with fear for her kids, which is well warranted. When the people return, the people aren't quite right anymore. Suffering from tremors and hallucinations not yet linked to drug use.
"John, Lestrade will be here shortly." John nearly leapt out of his chair, when Sherlock's voice carried from the doorway, close by. With a half-arsed glare he looked at the earnest man. His solemn face was nearly child-like in plainivity.
"I've got to call maintenance in." Sherlock mulled over that, and quickly solved it.
"Mrs. Hudson can help him in just fine."
"Sherlock, I've really got it. It's fine, she's getting on in years." Sherlock straightened more impossibly, and left the room again. John knew why when a second later the front door opened with a bold,
"Drive, I need hands free." And John could breathe his short peace in again. Maybe even make another cup of tea..