Basically everyone I know is sick and pitiful and exhausted right now. It's that time of the year--fall is coming, but first summer has to get a last few rainy, humid punches in. The pollen doesn't know if it's coming or going and there's more mold in the air than oxygen, it seems. Not a great time to live in the northeast, even though we have to
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The man looked up at him. It was still, ostensibly, Sherlock, though distorted through latex and makeup and a wild grey mane of a wig. This was some sort of social experiment, or a stakeout, John honestly couldn't remember, but he'd watched Sherlock flounce out of the door that morning in this tattered getup, torn brown coat and fingerless gloves and battered trainers. Now, Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he gripped the thermos in both of his hands. "Did I interrupt you?"
John crossed his arms over his chest. It was freezing, as it always was when Sherlock dragged him out. "Of course not, Sherlock. I'm available around the clock to cater to your ridiculous whims ( ... )
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p.s. this is delightfully believable
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