Note from author: Sorry for the wait and small size of this! I've been traveling for the last week and really haven't had a chance to sit down and get into the zone of writing as much as I'll need to be for the upcoming plot.

Please let me know what you think even if it's just from this. I couldn't let this rot on my desktop any longer before I would over do it. (And also, note any spelling or grammar errors too; It's currently 7am and things tend to magically auto-correct in my mind.)

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It was disgracefully beyond noon when John Watson shuffled down stairs tugging his jumper over his under shirt. Sherlock had, at some point in the night, quite literally whipped open one of the window's drapes; The corner of one cloth was tacked up by the horn of the bison's skull on the wall.

The blue-skied light cascaded unbridled over the neglected flat. Mrs. Hudson had failed to make an appearance upstairs since a week ago when she'd found a plastic container under the sink containing a rat and an eyeball. She would come back though, she always did. John suspected it had mostly to do with the detective's genuine apologies to her when he yet again realized she was the only one who could stand to clean after him. The doctor had surely as hell been avoiding the bottom row of kitchen cabinets for some time. She knew the flash in Sherlock's eyes when he was being more honest than scheming even though –always- he found the most round about and dizzying ways to say 'sorry'. Manipulation was ingrained in the very fiber of his being and it had taken John with a swing of low horror when he'd realized he found it, though enraging, somewhat endearing as well.

Overall things appeared as they had been left the night before. His ale bottle was still making good use of yesterday's paper as a coaster. Sherlock's violin had been placed back in the corner of the desk, its leather case freshly oiled by no doubt manic boredom.

He heard a clatter to the left before his tall flatmate emerged from the kitchen with a tray. He balanced it precariously on a pile of books that overtook the coffee table and huffed down on the couch, sending up a billow of dust from the cushions. A scarce cloud rolled by, causing each dissolving ray of light to become more distinct by the particles in the air.

"Care for some tea?" Sherlock bobbed a string in the porcelain kettle eagerly as John broke the threshold of the doorway. The seated man brought up the pot to his face inhaling deeply before poring and swishing it in a cup as one would air wine. "Quite done."

"Thank you." John slouched into the far end of the sofa and accepted his cup, tapping his forefinger to the saucer absentmindedly.

Ah, there it was. The sensation of shame that he thought he had surpassed earlier at his unpleasant waking. It now heaved up from his stomach and rushed through is veins at an alarming pace, painting across his cheeks with heat. He scrounged desperately for something to spearhead small talk with.

The change in weather?

Dull. Awkward.

Think…the Thai restaurant he and Stamford had lunched at yesterday?

Impossibly even worse.

He wanted little more than to slink back upstairs and hide at his desk for the entirety of the day. Maybe break out the bottle of bourbon he'd stashed beneath his dresser.

Sherlock, however, hummed happily along the rim of his cup as he sipped. It was obvious he hadn't actually slept, so it was surprising – no – utterly astounding he was in this agreeable of a mood. Judging by the ridiculous angles his curls had molded into, he'd been pulling at his hair in what was likely frustration for most of the night. He'd dark bags under his eyes, almost as if he'd been drawing again and had smudged charcoal there with his thumbs idly. On the far wall a knife had been chucked into the plaster, with at least a dozen puncture marks around it, so clearly he had been remarkably bored.

But something had distracted him.

John found himself letting out a breath of relief on various levels, only to suck it back in with some trepidation. His eyes scanned quickly across the flat in search of something he'd missed: a paper headlining a mass murder, a dissected rabid animal full human remains, a body shoved under the kitchen dining set. Everything looked to be in place.

Sherlock clanked down his tea unceremoniously and flew up out of his seat to the far window, peeking around the cloth. John couldn't contain the roll of his eyes. Yes because you couldn't just look out the window whose curtains you've nearly ripped off. He could see it now, Sherlock storming over and throwing back the drapes in the dead of the night, glaring down at the city in sheer annoyance at how absolutely peaceful and quiet it was. He would have then assessed the effort it would take to fix the curtains almost whimsically, before throwing himself back onto the couch.

A muffled phone chirped from across the room and the lithe man dug into his day-old trouser pockets quickly, scanning the message. The smile that spread his refined features all the taunter was without a better word, practically sinister.

"Sherlock…what's that about then?" John started slowly as if he were negotiating with a drunken man waving about a gun.

"Lovely day isn't it, John? We should get out; maybe take a cab up town." He paced along the floor with even more determination now, practically pressing his face into the glass of the other window.

At this point John didn't even bother to restrain his sign.

"Someone's been murdered, haven't they?"

Sherlock's head whipped 'round meeting John's resigned gape. His body seemed to thrum like a just struck cord on his violin, waiting anxiously to release his pend up energy. The glimmer in his pale eyes radiated out as his grin widened with excitement.

"Oh yes…very much so."

Leave your opinions at the door. No really. Doooettt.