Jan 25: Sent Messages
The name's Sherlock Holmes. And yes, John, I have had precisely that urge. Do you still carry a weapon, now that you're back among the masses?
Jan 25: Inbox (2)
Unread Message 1:
Sherlock. Unusual, but then again, so are severed heads in residential fridges. How about this – you tell me something personal, and I'll answer your question.
John
Unread Message 2:
Oh, sod it. Yes, I still carry it.
Jan 25: Sent Messages
Sapiosexual, I suspect. It hasn't… mattered much. Only men seem to have potential for me, though.
Sherlock stared at the glow on his computer screen. He had sent it. Against all his better judgment, he had sent it. Mycroft owes me for this. He rolled over, pulling his dressing gown tight around his gaunt frame, and fought the urge to check the Missed Connections.
Six hours later, he woke to the thin light of pre-dawn. The frost on the window pane provided a sufficient weather report, which he intently ignored as he swung his coat onto his shoulders and headed out onto the London streets. Somewhere, out in this matrix of dirty snow and buried emotions, there would be someone selling cigarettes.
