(Untitled)

[nevercomplains]

On the bright side, when Watson returns to a certain set of rooms at 221B Baker Street, he is not met with gunshots, the acrid smell of burning furniture, Mrs. Hudson shrieking, or one of any number of options to which he has sadly grown accustomed

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[isaprofessional]

Holmes seems to have managed to pass out before reaching anything that could be deemed as a conventional surface on which to lounge - the mattress itself is uncovered, various scents and odors emitting from it as he rolls over with a groan, as well as a particularly impressive cloud of dust and other particles.

He squints, scrubs a hand over his unshaven face, and slowly glances upward, only to be greeted with the image of a very disapproving Watson.

"Something about this situation feels all too familiar," he mutters, switching over to lay onto his stomach with another accompanying sound of exertion - exertion for an action that, admittedly, does not require much in the way of energy. The room is dank, musty, dark - the perfect place for him to perhaps linger somewhere between full mental capacity and a dreaming state for just a little longer.

But another part of him is convinced that Watson will, as always, have none of it.

[nevercomplains]

"Perhaps because this is how your day started yesterday," Watson says, and from the sound of his uneven tread, he is headed straight for the nearest window. "And the day before that, and the day before that."

[isaprofessional]

Holmes moves to throw a blocking arm over his face - or, at the very least, hide it against the mattress - but his reaction time is considerably slower than it'd be were he at his best.

"I can appreciate the value of routine," he protests. "Go easy, man."

[nevercomplains]

"You are thoroughly disgusting, as usual." He throws the curtain open, sunlight stabbing into the room, and then he heaves the window up for good measure. The latter takes a bit of elbow grease, as the window has remained closed for so long that it appears to be somewhat stuck (Watson's fingerprints are the only marks in the thick layer of dust covering the sill), but a good hard shove accomplishes it. The sounds of voices, shouts, and hooves and wheels on cobblestones drift up from the street below.

"And what have you done to my dog?" Watson demands, crossing toward the next window, the one that will shine light directly into Holmes's face.