Tired
‘ Even when you think you have your life all mapped out, things happen that shape your destiny in ways you might never have imagined. ‘
Deepak Chopra
John H. Watson was tired. Very, very tired. He’d gotten barely any sleep last night thanks to Sherlock’s extremely loud, late-night violin playing (at least he’d stopped shooting things). There had been eyeballs in his favorite mug. And then Sherlock had dragged him out of the house to a case, when all he wanted to do was go to bed. But no, some bloke had to go and get murdered! Thanks so much. So very much.
Thankfully enough (or un-thankfully, in Sherlock’s case, he supposed) it was a pretty cut and dry case. A jealous-girlfriend-kills-her-cheating-boyfriend type situation. One which Sherlock had figured out within moments of arriving and meeting the girlfriend in question.
Soon after they had arrived home, Sherlock had gone off to do whatever it was that he did in his free time. And now, finally, the flat was quiet as John finally sat down in his chair, breathing for the first time in hours as the air settled in the apartment around him. John sighed as he brought a lukewarm cup of tea (in a mug that he had borrowed from Mrs. Hudson in the hopes that Sherlock would respect her too much to use it for his experiments) to his lips only to put it back down to the noise of Mrs. Hudson announcing visitors. John groaned as he stood up from his seat. Right, well, there goes that idea.
John mentally mourned his lost peace and opened the door. On the other side stood a green-haired, Japanese woman holding a small child that couldn’t be more than six years old. A murky bruise was placed to the left of her face, right below her eye.
John buried his peace under six feet of dirt and called for Sherlock.