(no subject)
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.
The less positive side is the one in which Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Many people might also file that on the good side, but Watson knows the detective's habits far too well by now to be anything but wearily wary about his absence. The fact that he is not feverishly reading in the shared drawing room means that he is likely conducting some sort of undoubtedly illegal and immoral chemistry experiment, plotting something absolutely ridiculous, or is still passed out at three o'clock in the afternoon, having continued his nine-day streak of refusing to leave the grounds of the building.
(There is also the slim chance that he has received a case that he deemed worthy of his attention and is running about London like a hyperactive maniac, but Watson does not like the odds of it.)
He hangs his hat and coat by the door, rings the bell to request that Mrs. Hudson bring up some tea, and then, steeling himself, he heads for the part of their rooms that Holmes has claimed as his own.
There is no answer when he raps at the door, but Watson had not expected one; he shoulders the door open and steps inside. Predictably, it is still dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and it reeks of stale alcohol, dog, acidic chemicals, and a man who has gone far too long without bathing. Also predictably, it is a wreck, with newspapers, lithographs, sheets of paper scrawled upon in a hand worse than Watson's doctor's script, clothing, and a number of other artifacts liberally carpeting the floor, the work station, and every available surface.
There are two bodies lying insensate in the dark room -- Holmes, sprawled across the mattress on the floor, and Watson's bulldog, lying on its side in a corner.
"Damn the man," Watson mutters, and without a second glance at Holmes, he goes straight to his dog's side. Once he has established that the pup is indeed still breathing, Watson rises from his crouch, shooting Holmes's unmoving frame a very dour look, and he makes his way through the chaos to the mattress. He puts a boot in Holmes's ribs and gives a none-too-gentle prod. "Get up."
The less positive side is the one in which Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Many people might also file that on the good side, but Watson knows the detective's habits far too well by now to be anything but wearily wary about his absence. The fact that he is not feverishly reading in the shared drawing room means that he is likely conducting some sort of undoubtedly illegal and immoral chemistry experiment, plotting something absolutely ridiculous, or is still passed out at three o'clock in the afternoon, having continued his nine-day streak of refusing to leave the grounds of the building.
(There is also the slim chance that he has received a case that he deemed worthy of his attention and is running about London like a hyperactive maniac, but Watson does not like the odds of it.)
He hangs his hat and coat by the door, rings the bell to request that Mrs. Hudson bring up some tea, and then, steeling himself, he heads for the part of their rooms that Holmes has claimed as his own.
There is no answer when he raps at the door, but Watson had not expected one; he shoulders the door open and steps inside. Predictably, it is still dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and it reeks of stale alcohol, dog, acidic chemicals, and a man who has gone far too long without bathing. Also predictably, it is a wreck, with newspapers, lithographs, sheets of paper scrawled upon in a hand worse than Watson's doctor's script, clothing, and a number of other artifacts liberally carpeting the floor, the work station, and every available surface.
There are two bodies lying insensate in the dark room -- Holmes, sprawled across the mattress on the floor, and Watson's bulldog, lying on its side in a corner.
"Damn the man," Watson mutters, and without a second glance at Holmes, he goes straight to his dog's side. Once he has established that the pup is indeed still breathing, Watson rises from his crouch, shooting Holmes's unmoving frame a very dour look, and he makes his way through the chaos to the mattress. He puts a boot in Holmes's ribs and gives a none-too-gentle prod. "Get up."