Who The Detective and his Doctor What It's snowing When December 14th Where Their flat Status Incomplete Rating Low, unfortunately
Holmes sat on the floor of the flat that he and John Watson had somewhat adopted once they'd both arrived here. Things were, thus far, rather like they were when they were both in London with one minor difference.
Neither of them had a damn job.
It wasn't, Sherlock assumed, quite so bad for John. Watson didn't seem to like the job he had at the clinic so much as it was simply something that he did to pay the bills and press on. Holmes, however, needed his work in the same way that people needed air. Without it, his entire existence seemed to succumb to atrophy. Which was, really, why he was sitting on the floor with his head tilted back against the sofa cushion, leaning up to look at the bloody ceiling like he might actually be able to find something of interest in the corner's cobwebs or the faded watermarks from some overflowed sink in the apartment above.
Watson was out somewhere. Sherlock was positive that John had actually said where it was he was going, he just hadn't bothered to pay attention to it when the man left. He never understood, really, why people bothered to tell him where they were off to. It never mattered. He had a cellphone, after all, and as long as he would come back when Sherlock needed him then he hardly gave a damn one way or another.