Mycroft had always warned Sherlock that feelings can get in the way, especially when it comes to his chosen line of work. Typically, this would be the one thing the two brothers could agree on, however, when you reappear on his doorstep after years...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Rain isn't rare in London, therefore, when a heavy downpour comes around no one's left with much surprise. Typically, once the calm blue sky begins turning that smoky grey color, locals will bring out their trusty umbrellas so long as the weather isn't too terrible. As for this day, the winds are too harsh and the rain too forceful for any of that. Most sane people call for a cab if they are planning on venturing anywhere and have no ride of their own.
Due to this, Baker Street is bare of the usual number of passersby. There is the occasional business man who races by with arms over his head in a fruitless attempt of blocking the rain, and let's not forget the few women who are tugged down the street by the umbrellas they so foolishly brought out as company for their walks.
Cars, cabs, and buses drive down the streets, splashing water and carelessly ruining the calmness of puddles. Sometimes, they even manage to splash those who stumble down the sidewalk, much to their anger. Some people with at least a hint of intelligence enter Speedy's to keep dry, waiting there until the storm stops while snacking on a sandwich.
Sherlock watches from the window of his shared flat, running the bow delicately across each string of his violin which let off a smooth humming melody that blocks out a bit of the rain's patter yet never all of it. Even through blurred glass, he can still deduce what most of those passing by do for a living and or where they are heading. As always, it takes little effort for him to do.
John sits in his normal chair, reading the newspaper and enjoying how the sound of Sherlock's violin melts with that of the rain, creating a lovely song that is far more preferrable than the sound of bullets hitting the wall and the angry shouts of their landlady as she marches up the stairs to scold the man for his childish antics.
Subconsciously, the ex-military doctor taps his index finger against the chair in a beat, reading the article about the latest study they did in London about how much teens use their phones. It takes a moment for him to realize Sherlock has stopped playing.
When he does take notice, he lowers the paper only to see his flat mate staring out the window with an almost troubled expression, an odd one to see the so-called 'heartless' man wear.
"Are you alright?" John questions, raising an eyebrow. He receives no answer nor a single movement," Sherlock?"
Turning away from the window, he calmly sets his violin down on the desk then takes a seat in his own chair. Although he moves as if everything is normal and fine with the world, there is a strange tenseness to his body as he leans back, one John notices despite his own lack of deduction skills.
"We have a client," the detective mumbles, staring forward aimlessly as if he has already disappeared within, what he calls, his 'Mind Palace'.
John is about to ask what he means but is cut off by the sound of the front door opening and the very cheerful voice of Mrs. Hudson inviting someone in. Not long afterwards, footsteps can be heard traveling up the stairs, stopping at the flat entrance where a young woman now stands, dripping head-to-toe with rain water despite carrying a polka-dot umbrella which is closed and held in her hand.
