It began with the listless feeling brought on by a Sunday afternoon. The morning had been productive – the flat was tidied, the dishes from the night before were washed and drying by the sink, piles of papers were shuffled into slightly better organized piles of papers. John stood back and admired his handiwork – 221B actually looked presentable now. Well, as presentable as a flat that contained a human skull, several vials of pig’s blood and a Sherlock could ever hope to be.
With a contented sigh, John flopped onto the sofa and grabbed his book from where it was perched on the coffee table. It was a delightfully trashy detective novel, the kind that made Sherlock roll his eyes and mutter about predictability. John loved them. He loved the absurd nature of the crimes, he loved the obligatory romantic soiree, and he especially loved when he was able to solve the mystery before the author intended. He lay back and stretched the full length of the sofa, opened the book and began to read.
It was as he was reading through the author’s rather amusing description of a police crime lab – honestly, had they ever even been to Scotland Yard? – that he heard a discontented grunt from the direction of the kitchen. He smiled without looking up from his book. “Have a good lie-in?”
There was a pause, then – “You moved my Petri dishes.”