The day had started out so normally for John Watson.
He was awoken at three o'clock am sharp by his flatmate playing...no excuse me...MURDERING the violin. After stumbling from his nice, warm bed, he trudged down the stairs into the living room. Glaring at the back of his best friend's (Who was either completely ignoring him or completely oblivious to John's obvious fury.) head, he made his way to the kitchen for a cup of the most wonderful substance in the world: coffee.
He flipped on the light and cringed at the disarray that littered the table and counters. He scanned briefly for any sign of the life giving substance but gave up with a quick resolve to do some cleaning after work when he spied what appeared to be a pinkish fungus growing near the refrigerator.
"Alright, Sherlock," he spoke up wearily. "Where have you hidden the coffee?"
The black haired man ceased his screeching and turned around to face John. He seemed surprised to see him standing there. 'So he didn't notice me after all.' John thought with mild amusement.
"Good God John," Sherlock exclaimed upon examination of his friend "You look like hell. Why on earth are you up at this hour?"
John had long since given up on being incredulous with Sherlock's social courtesies. It wasn't that he wasn't aware of them. He most certainly knew of their existence, he just preferred to completely ignore them.
So when he stood there, completely doe-eyed, wondering why his flatmate was awake at... 3:26 in the morning; roughly five and a half hours before he was due for work at the surgery, John could only roll his eyes and reply,
"Oh you know, just decided I'd rather listen to a bloody violin concert instead of enjoying a relaxing sleep before work. And you?"
The light pink that dusted Sherlock's cheeks came as a surprise. John blinked. Unsure of what exactly he was seeing, he ignored it and waited for a response to his question.
"Forgive me, John." he said softly. "I seem to be doing that a lot recently. Apologizing I mean..." He turned to his previous position of staring out the window- he did not pick up the instrument again.
John sighed. He knew what Sherlock was talking about. And it made his heart ache to remember the three year he'd spent mourning the apparent death of his friend. Imagine his surprise when said friend turned up at his flat, decked out in a long brown trench coat, and a glorious false beard.
He shook his head to dislodge the memories. That was neither here nor there. He pursed his lips and asked again. "Coffee, Sherlock? I would like to be able to form coherent thoughts at some point today."
Sherlock shrugged, indicating that he didn't have the slightest clue as to the whereabouts of the precious coffee.
John snorted; the tension from earlier dissolving quickly. For the time being anyway. "Right, well, bloody good detective you are Mate. Completely see why people want your help and all."
John could imagine the faint smile that would appear on Sherlock's face, if only briefly. He looked at his friend. Really looked at him. He could see how tired he was. His shoulders drooped slightly and if he wasn't mistaken, there was the slightest tremor in Sherlock's right hand-his bow hand.
He cleared his throat to get his attention. When the younger man glanced at him, he said, "And you? Trouble sleeping again?"
Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window once more. "Can't you feel it John?" he asked quietly, caressing the glass.
John stared at him, confused. "Sorry, feel what?" He answered the question with one of his own.
Sherlock didn't respond and continued to stare out at the darkened London street in front of the flat. John sighed, realizing that he wouldn't be getting anything else out of his flatmate at that moment. He pursed his lips and started back off toward his room.
"Right, well you have fun with that. I'm going to have another go at a snooze before work." He gave Sherlock a pointed glare. "If you aren't going to sleep, the least you could do is look for the damn coffee."
He walked off without waiting for a reply.
As he closes the door with a click, he shook his head fondly.
Yes, it was a normal morning.
~SH~
John signed for what seemed like the hundredth time. He rested his head back against the seat of the car, listening to the quiet hum of the engine. Anthea sat beside him, tapping away at her blackberry and ignoring him. She seemed agitated than normal.
John hadn't even made it two feet out of the door before the black unmarked car had pulled up in front of him. Giving a grunt of annoyance, he opened the door and slid in without a word.
The day was gray, windy. The promise of rain lurking behind the swollen clouds.
He was headed...somewhere. One never could quite tell with Mycroft Holmes. Only that it would dark and abandoned and relatively messy…
He was therefore pleasantly surprised when they pulled into a nice neighborhood near London. The houses were all large and neatly put together. All the lawns were neatly trimmed and watered, all very green. An expensive neighborhood then. His surprise mounted when they pulled up in front of the largest house alongside a police car with its lights flashing.
He looked at Anthea, who had gone very pale. Confusion was etched in his gaze.
"Where are we then?" he asked as the two got out of the car. The brunette looked at him stoically and beckoned him to follow her.
Reluctantly, the ex-army doctor followed.
Chapter one/end