Sentiment || Sherlock Holmes

The Hounds of Baskerville Part 1

All was quiet in 221B Baker Street. John sat in his chair, puttering away on his laptop. No humming or "yoohoo-ing" came from Mrs. Hudson's flat, and Evelyn hadn't yet returned from some undercover work in Kent. Sherlock was out on another case. The tall detective had been investigating mystery after mystery non-stop since about the same time Eve had left a week and half ago. John almost wished Evelyn wasn't quite so good at her job, because then Mycroft might keep her in London with them for longer periods of time.

The door swung open with a bang. There stood Sherlock, spattered in blood from head to toe, and weilding an antique harpoon.

"Well that was tedious." Sherlock sighed.

"You went on the tube like that?" John asked incredulously.

"None of the cabs would take me." Sherlock growled, stalking off to shower and change.

He returned with the harpoon still in hand, but at least he'd put on a clean shirt and pants. His blue dressing gown whipped around his legs as the detective paced back and forth in front of the sofa.

"Nothing?" He asked impatiently.

"Military coup in Uganda." John said, flipping through the paper.

"Hm."

"Hm." John chuckled, coming across the infamous deerstalker hat picture. "Another photo of you with the, er-"

Sherlock leaned over John's shoulder. "Oh." He scoffed.

John kept looking. "Well, erm, Cabinet reshuffle?"

"Nothing of importance?" Sherlock tossed the harpoon between his hands.

"Haven't heard from Eve yet, no." John quipped, smiling smugly.

Sherlock gave his flatmate a venomous stare. He hadn't seen or heard from her in 272 hours. Not that that was what was bothering him.

No. He thought.

No, it was the lack of important cases. The lack of intellectual exercise.

Sherlock slammed the end of the harpoon into the floor. "Oh God!" He shouted, frustrated.

"John," His tone shifted. "I need some. Get me some."

"I just told you, Eve isn't back yet." John teased, laughing at his own joke.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know what I meant. Get me some."

"No." John said, growing serious. "No. Cold turkey we agreed, no matter what." John returned to the paper. "Anyway you've paid everyone off. Nobody within a two-mile radius will sell you any."

"Stupid idea." Sherlock grumbled. "Whose idea was that?"

John cleared his throat. Cursing himself inwardly, Sherlock decided to change tactics.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He bellowed before beginning to wreck the place, throwing papers and opening boxes and drawers in search of cigarettes.

"Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well. Don't give up now!" John scolded.

Sherlock continued his search. "Tell me where they are! Please, tell me. Please."

"Can't help, sorry."

Sherlock turned to bribery. "I'll tell you next week's lottery numbers." 

John laughed at that.

"It was worth a try." Sherlock muttered.

The curly-haired addict had begun rummaging around in the fireplace when Mrs. Hudson arrived with her signature "Yoo-hoo."

"My secret supply, what have you done with my secret supply?" He demanded.