The game is never over.

;;—        Narrowed eyes stare at the sticky note opposite him, words not quite forming together as they should have, the alcohol finally taking over his brain receptors, making everything a lot less hard to work out; but he couldn't deduce, nor could he access the mind palace. Hands placed together, tips of fingers touching as he tried to think of the woman that was mentioned on the sticky note, and he finally gave up, throwing his hands into the air -- leaning back rather dramatically, a hand sliding under his chin quite fluidly.

Caught in the act; Sherlock’s smoking again and he doesn’t really know how to feel about it. Although he knows that he doesn’t really like it— he’s never be en a fan of that awful smell that seems to cling to you… moistening his lips, John steps out of the building, feet touching the pavement, and not very subtly clear his throat, to make his presence known, both of his hands clasped behind his back as he stares up at the sky.                                    “Horrible weather, huh?”

As the end of the cigarette touches the parted lips, eyes narrow and a heavy breath escapes through the detective's nose. Of all the people to catch him smoking, it had to be John. Although, it could have been worse. No, no it couldn't have. Taking in a deep breath, he swallowed down some of the smoke before exhaling through lips and nose, head turning to find John stood next to him, and he nodded, only slightly; smile turning into a frown.

❝Of course, how rude of me.                                         —Hello.❞

"Oh, you’re in a mood today! What’s eating you up this time, Sherlock? Is it safe to come in?”

"Well, it’s nice to see you too, Sherlock…" 

      ❝… And why would someone such as yourself be interested in an unsolved case?❞

            “I’m looking for a hand.”    ”A righty, to be exact.”          ”Kind of … hand-esque?”

❝—You've lost a hand?

          How ... bizarre.                Where was it last?❞