Disclaimer: I own nothing. :(
221B Baker Street
It started off as a reasonably good day. The sun peeked through the canopy of clouds, and an intriguing case had been resolved before morning tea. John Watson stood in the kitchen staring into the multitasking refrigerator. One might assume it to be impossible to fit human remains and food within the same small refrigerator, but they would be grotesquely mistaken. Life with Sherlock Holmes was filled with impossibilities. However, at the moment, food seemed to be lacking within the machine. Too tired to try and convince his roommate to go out to retrieve the basic necessities, John left the kitchen and grabbed his coat and phone before nearly heading out.
"Where are you off to, John?"
"Bloody hell, Sherlock. When did you get up?"
"I don't sleep. Sleep is boring. Why would I sleep when I could be doing something more constructive with my time?"
"Like scaring your flatmate half to death at six thirty in the morning?"
"Oh, don't be dramatic, John. It doesn't suit you."
"Anyway, where are you going?"
"I'm off to the morning market to get food for breakfast. That is unless you would prefer to take on the task."
"Shopping is boring."
"Everything is boring Sherlock. This is life; it's not all fun and games."
"Right. I'll only be an hour at most. Try not to tear the place down when I'm gone."
Once the door slammed shut, Sherlock grabbed a newspaper of the coffee table and reviewed the crime section. After what felt like an eternity of boring crimes, a knock came at the door. Checking the clock for the time, Sherlock found it to have been nearly half an hour since John's leaving. Two options then, a client or a relation. Neither option appealed to Shelock's tastes at the moment. Therefore, Sherlock remained motionless on the couch in hopes that the unwanted person would take the hint and leave. Unfortunately, after nearly another half hour, the knocks persisted. Getting up from the couch, Sherlock decided he had had enough. He opened the door to find none other than his arch nemesis, Mycroft.
Suit tailored and pressed, Mycroft stood as the poster person for OCD. Now, Mycroft may have not been diagnosed as such, but his brother had always suspected. After all, what normal person walks around carrying an umbrella every time they leave the house. The arrival of his brother could only mean one thing: bad news.