No, this wasn't working at all. Not that Sherlock really believed in any of the more mystic qualities of yoga, but he had hoped that there was some truth to the claim that extra blood flowing to the brain in this position would help clear the mind. No such luck. In fact, he probably would have simply fallen asleep that way until his phone beeped impatiently in the pocket of his robe. He glanced up at it, carefully keeping balance on one arm as he used the other to grab the phone and open it in his inverted position. Of course it would be John.
The text, however, intrigued him. He had only read the morning paper and there was nothing particularly curious in that. Sherlock tossed the phone onto the sofa and reached for the coffee table with his free hand. Once he found the remote he quickly turned the telly to a news station. Reading the ticker at the bottom (or was it the top?) he saw the name of the clinic where John worked.
"--live from the clinic where a whole maternity ward of newborns suddenly fell ill and died under mysterious circumstances. The police have yet to rule out foul play--" Mute. The police had yet to properly rule out anything as long as Sherlock had been following their activity. He used both hands to push himself back onto the sofa and his feet were finally on the floor again. Leaning forward, he steepled his fingers. Mass poisoning. Obviously. Sherlock jumped up, finally in the mood to get dressed.
The text, however, intrigued him. He had only read the morning paper and there was nothing particularly curious in that. Sherlock tossed the phone onto the sofa and reached for the coffee table with his free hand. Once he found the remote he quickly turned the telly to a news station. Reading the ticker at the bottom (or was it the top?) he saw the name of the clinic where John worked.
"--live from the clinic where a whole maternity ward of newborns suddenly fell ill and died under mysterious circumstances. The police have yet to rule out foul play--" Mute. The police had yet to properly rule out anything as long as Sherlock had been following their activity. He used both hands to push himself back onto the sofa and his feet were finally on the floor again. Leaning forward, he steepled his fingers. Mass poisoning. Obviously. Sherlock jumped up, finally in the mood to get dressed.
Tell Lestrade he knows how to find me. -SH
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