Non Compos Mentis

Tick, tick, tap, tap.

Tick, tick, tap, tap.

The rhythmic ticks of the grandfather clock as the mechanical gears slid against each other mismatched the delayed tapping of Sherlock's pipe against the armrest.

On any other occasion, Watson would have turned a deaf ear toward his commotion. Though, this evening was no ordinary one.

Earlier in the day, Watson had received a letter from a Mr Richard Bertram. He had claimed to be a most lucrative banker, situated just north of London. Attached to the letter was a parcel, in which he had even included a large sum of money, promising to double the amount, should they agree to a meeting.

So as John sits in his armchair re-reading the day's paper, in wait of their prestigious client, he can no longer bear Sherlock's agitation.

"Please, Holmes, settle yourself. You are doing me no favours with your racket." Says Watson. Unfortunately, Sherlock pays no heed to Watson's request and continues to tap away with his pipe.

Although, John could hardly ignore Sherlock's peculiar change in behaviour. Granted, it wasn't uncommon for Sherlock to have a hideous disregard for the matters that surrounded him, yet he was always calm and composed. He could remain as such for hours on end as he locked himself within his mind palace. To most, his reservedness was eerie. Though, John had developed an immunity to Sherlocks odd, bohemian mannerisms.

Which is precisely why John couldn't help but take notice of Sherlock's sudden state of disquiet.

Sighing, he sets down the newspaper and makes his way toward the cupboard, hoping to have a light snack before dealing with the client.

Though, to John's dismay, the cupboards were empty, save for a more than questionable orange.

"Holmes,"

"Hmmn,"

"We haven't any food."

"I know," Says Sherlock, uttering his first words since John stepped foot onto Baker Street.

"And where, by chance, is Mrs Hudson?"

"I'm not entirely sure, though she brought in some tea this afternoon. Then again, that may have been yesterday."

"Please, Holmes, don't tell me that the last time you ate was yesterday afternoon."

"What can I say? I've been... Preoccupied."

"Preoccupied? Holmes, you haven't had a case in a fortnight. What on earth could possibly be more important than eating?" John asks, incredulously.

"A new formula,"

"A formula of what, pray tell?"

"If I told you, you would strongly disapprove." He says, springing up from his armchair.

He walks over to the mantle piece and retrieves his cocaine bottle and a Moroccan leather case.

"This, Watson, is what I've been preoccupied with," He says, pulling out a syringe.

"No, Holmes, you mustn't. I've told you, we are to be expecting a client of considerable importance."

"For god's sake, don't chide me, Watson."

"On your head be it, detective. Though I must say, it is your reputation at risk." John says, with resignation.

This, like most words of advice that John has given, is disregarded. Instead, Sherlock proceeds in injecting himself with the toxin.