On her way towards her flat, she kept thinking about her conversation with the controversial detective and his notes; if he hinted something, a part of her past she might truly be arrested for her early interactions. She endeavored most ardently to console herself that his fanatic self wouldn't allow him to do anything different except solving the case, but seeing how he was rather unpredictable she could do nothing else than fear for her state and the events which were just about to happen.
Her weary eyes, closed on their own, no matter how much she tried to resist the exhaust which finally captivated her bones. She tried to use her last powers to crawl forward her flat and then finally collapse over the beddings. When she entered her flat she found her fixed phone ringing; her heart skipped a beat, she thought that it was that man since he told her to expect a call of him.
"Hello?"
"Why aren't you answering on your mobile phone? It keeps telling me that it's turned off" a sudden, male voice had stricken her from the other line. She closed her eyes; typically for him on a Monday morning, he fancied raising tantrums if he didn't see her on her working place. It was her fault actually, she allowed him to behave like that and think he was part of every each personal business of hers.
"What are you doing?" asked Doctor Watson, his eyes hovering over the figure stretched above the sofa. Sherlock Holmes held his wrists tightly, covering the three patches which were visibly attached to it, closed eyes.
"Nicotine patch; helps me think" he answered, opening his eyes widely. The doctor entered the room placing his crutches behind the door and settled himself inside of his arm chair.
"Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." Sherlock added tracing his eyes towards his companion.
"It's good news for breathing"
The detective created a moue and frowned loudly, detected his eyes over the ceiling and squeezed his fist firmly.
"I had a small problem with it; it's kind of broken so you can only reach me on my fixed one" she answered firmly, tossing the keys over her bed and collapsing over it; the man from the other line frowned slowly.
"What happened?"
"Can you not interrogate me?" she angrily exclaimed rubbing her forehead.
"Have we got anything for eating, or the usual?"
"Mrs. Hudson left us some of the cold beef; she claims that it's our last meal cooked by her 'magical hands' " Sherlock answered adding a small scoff at the end; John joined him trying to stand up, but noticing that he had left his crutch behind the door, he frowned sitting back. Noticing that, the detective looks at him, knitting his eye brows.
"All right, all right, well, will you come to work today?"
"I'm afraid that I am prevented, I cannot come to work today" she answered yawning a little bit, before standing up and looking at the clock on the wall. Quarter past eight, a great portion of then night she had spent in wandering that her body slowly failed to resist the exhaust and by the mere sight of the bed it wanted to surrender.
"That's so? Why?"
"You will have to stand up, John. There's a number on my desk, you have to send a message"
"Are those three patches?"
"It's a three patch problem" answered the dazzled detective. Seeing that he was required to stand up, John did his highest effort to do so, assisted by Sherlock who gave him his crutch before collapsing back over the sofa. John gave him a glare.
