nevercomplains | (no subject)

On the bright side, when Watson returns to a certain set of rooms at 221B Baker Street, he is not met with gunshots, the acrid smell of burning furniture, Mrs. Hudson shrieking, or one of any number of options to which he has sadly grown accustomed.

The less positive side is the one in which Holmes is nowhere to be seen. Many people might also file that on the good side, but Watson knows the detective's habits far too well by now to be anything but wearily wary about his absence. The fact that he is not feverishly reading in the shared drawing room means that he is likely conducting some sort of undoubtedly illegal and immoral chemistry experiment, plotting something absolutely ridiculous, or is still passed out at three o'clock in the afternoon, having continued his nine-day streak of refusing to leave the grounds of the building.

(There is also the slim chance that he has received a case that he deemed worthy of his attention and is running about London like a hyperactive maniac, but Watson does not like the odds of it.)

He hangs his hat and coat by the door, rings the bell to request that Mrs. Hudson bring up some tea, and then, steeling himself, he heads for the part of their rooms that Holmes has claimed as his own.

There is no answer when he raps at the door, but Watson had not expected one; he shoulders the door open and steps inside. Predictably, it is still dark, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, and it reeks of stale alcohol, dog, acidic chemicals, and a man who has gone far too long without bathing. Also predictably, it is a wreck, with newspapers, lithographs, sheets of paper scrawled upon in a hand worse than Watson's doctor's script, clothing, and a number of other artifacts liberally carpeting the floor, the work station, and every available surface.

There are two bodies lying insensate in the dark room -- Holmes, sprawled across the mattress on the floor, and Watson's bulldog, lying on its side in a corner.

"Damn the man," Watson mutters, and without a second glance at Holmes, he goes straight to his dog's side. Once he has established that the pup is indeed still breathing, Watson rises from his crouch, shooting Holmes's unmoving frame a very dour look, and he makes his way through the chaos to the mattress. He puts a boot in Holmes's ribs and gives a none-too-gentle prod. "Get up."

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"I was very deeply moved," Holmes says.

Thankfully, the vicinity of the nearby pub serves as a valuable distraction.

"From a virtue to a vice," he declares, and promptly marches towards it.

"A most unsubtle diversion," he says, grinning, but he keeps pace willingly enough. They duck through the small group gathered at the door and step inside the pub (the sign hanging overhead declaring the establishment as the White Hart). Watson doffs his hat.

Holmes is very well aware of that; however, he knows Watson will keep up behind him easily enough.

His own hat has mysteriously disappeared already (it may be difficult or even impossible for him to find, later, given the number of drinks he will likely have consumed by that juncture).

The place is fairly crowded, but not overly so; there are several places at the bar. Stools are available but Watson elects to stand, unwrapping his scarf and curling his fingers to bring the feeling back into them.

Beside him, Holmes is peeling off a pair of gloves, and Watson's eyes abruptly narrow.

He holds out a wordless hand.

"Didn't think you'd miss them," Holmes discreetly says.

He gently places them into Watson's hand right around the same time that he indicates to the man behind the bar to serve him a good scotch.

Watson's hand, for the record, is ice cold.

"Of course not," he says, signaling for a whiskey and slipping the gloves into his overcoat pocket. "What ever would a man ever want with his own gloves?"

"He could bask in the glow of his own generosity and selflessness."

Holmes settles on a barstool with his drink, winking cheerfully.