(http://i567.photobucket.com/albums/ss111/NicholasBenston/221b.jpg)<br/><br/><em>Baker Street 221 B – 7.45 am, Monday.</em><br/><hr/>„OUT OF HERE!“ came Sherlocks voice, followed by a wince from –more than likely- Mrs. Hudson. Who else would be here this early? „GET OUT, YOU MORON!“<br/><br/>The rather loud, obnoxious noises of….whatever it was probably will shake John out of bed, rather rudely, too, but he was more than likely used to it by now.<br/><br/>It broke the silence that lingered the past two days – since Sherlock solved the last case in record time, while the police and Detective Inspector Lestrade just stood aside, not knowing what to do. It was so simple, though. They all just never -see- it.<br/><br/>Two days Sherlock didn't speak. Nothing unusual, mind you. It happened. Only the occasional sound of the violin filling the apartment. He didn't speak. He barely ate. He was..just there. Silent. Brooding.<br/><br/>It sounded like a slamming door, once, or twice. One just looses track after a while. It was still early. Too early, probably, but not early enough for Sherlock.<br/><br/>„I told you to NOT bore me, for gods sake! -Of course- your husband is cheating on you. It's so transparent it's painful already. Didn't you read his emails? Apparently your husband his having a weak spot for a certain young man, named Christopher. Weak spot is an understatement, of course. What am I saying? Get divorced. Buy yourself some new shoes or…whatever you women do. Case closed.“ ~followed by a door being shut. Not slammed, though. Whoever left, left quietly, and quickly, considered the rather sour mood of the detective. „Tea, Mrs. Hudson! And where the hell are my cigarettes!“ ~there was another slammed door, and a Sherlock, pacing in the living room, from the door to the window, and back again. The laptop on the desk –belonging to John- was turned on, and yes, he hacked the password, again. Took him all of 26 seconds. Not his best time, but still, quite remarkable.<br/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;">‚Not my fault that you keep insisting on picking passwords a five year old could find out easily‘ </span>Sherlock would say to his friend. John heard it before, countless times.<br/><br/>„What the hell is wrong with those people? WHAT?“ he said, talking to himself. Again. „Do I look like an idiot? Easily entertained? Like a...private detective? Oh god!“ He raked his fingers through his dark, messy hair while he moved around the room, turning papers, books, pillows and pieces of clothing around. Searching for his smokes, more than likely. Or something else. Something… a little stronger, with more impact. Oh yes, he could bet that John was hiding it again.<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 8pt;">‚Cold turkey will be the best, Sherlock. I am your friend and I am worried about you. Listen to me, Sherlock, I am a doctor.‘ </span>He could hear it already. Good old Watson, always so worried. Sherlock didn't do it each day, just now and then. But if he wanted it, he wanted it. But it was more often then to be just a coincidence, enough to be worried, probably.<br/><br/>„WHERE IS IT, JOHN?“ Sherlock yelled, knowing damn well that the other man was awake already. And he hid the stuff. Again. Not the first time. He heard the steps upstairs. No doubt. Sherlock looked slightly irritated. The way he usually looked when he was in dire need of a case. His mind needed  work. The banal, everyday things bored him to death. „I NEED SOME, JOHN! For gods sake!“<br/><br/>In the meantime, Mrs. Hudson brought the tea, putting it on the coffee table, leaving quickly again. She probably knew better, when Sherlock was in this mood. She just muttered something about him needing another case before he'd get ideas again.<br/><br/>The man was in a dark blue dressing gown and dark blue silken pyjama pants. No shoes or socks at the moment. And he was still pacing, glaring daggers at Johns laptop now and then. Since the doctor had this hilarious idea of blogging their cases, people apparently though that he was some kind of private detective. All kinds of people found their way to Baker Street all of a sudden, threatening to bore Sherlock to death with their banal things. Stolen cars, cheating husbands or wives, lost dogs, for gods sake. And lets not forget all the weird conspiracy theories people brought to Sherlock. As if he would be interested in banal crap.<br/><br/>For a moment, he eyed the latest addition to the blog. “Oh for gods sake.” Sherlock said with a frown. "How I envy you, John. You and your simple mind." He made a mental note of throwing some questions at John. Later. Oh yes, he had some questions. Since when were people interested in what Sherlock thinks. Oh yes, John will get it.<br/><br/>Generally, his clothes were quite on the conservative side, stylish, but never too memorable or extravagant. For gods sake, the last thing he needed was to stick out of the masses. Not a good idea, with his job. Most of his wardrobe consisted of dark clothes, maybe he liked the darker shades, who was to say. Either way, not once he was dressed inappropriate.<br/><br/>The living room was quite the mess – as always. Papers on the table, the sofa, the desk. Used glasses, empty bottles, all this stuff. It was like this, with no woman in the house. Looked the the typical Bachelor hangout. Oh yes. Not that Sherlock would mind. There were more important things, than the state of a dinner table. Mrs. Hudson was used the the mess already. She kept complaining, gently so.<br/><br/>Sherlock glared at The Times on the table. Some boring headline, probably another political scandal on the way. Boring. Not interesting. He yanked the paper from the table in passing, eying the headline before he threw the paper away with a snort. „Gods.“ He muttered. But then he stopped suddenly, taking a closer look on the paper while he picked the tea cup up from the small table. He arched a brow. Down in the corner, as if it wouldn't be important, the small article of a business man being murdered. „Ah..“ Sherlock said, with a faint smirk. „..interesting. Definitely has potential.“<br/><br/>It was the third murder already, in relatively short time. It seemed to be nothing special. In a huge town like London, people get killed each day, after all. Right. Right?<br/><br/>„I know that you are awake, Dr. Watson! Where is it?“ Sherlock yelled again.<br/>