@weepedwords sent : Over the last few days, Sherlock Holmes had been brooding. It was less obvious to most people in the way he would slum over his chemistry set. However, as it grew into the evening, it had become more and more obvious with the way he would pick up his violin and play a rather mellow tune. Everyone who knew him, would assume rather simply it was because he had no case. No one in the past week had come to him crying: Murder! Murder! Murder! Usually, having nothing to do did irk him a little, but this time that was not the problem. This time, he had his own personal dilemma that had arisen every time he had passed the bedroom, the other roommate had occupied. Key word, occupied. Dr. Watson now had spend most of his nights in the detectives own room, rather than his own. The younger man had begun to like it, too. So, in short, there was no need for another bed. Sherlock spend the late evenings debating what to do, and after the third night, finally he had chosen what to do. Get rid of it. John had an appointment with a patient that day, and when he came home, mid afternoon, he found Sherlock where he had been for the last week now. The tune of the violin however seemed…lighter. However, it didn’t stop, not until the doctor had reappeared after entering his bedroom. They could always make it into a study. Only then did he drop the bow from string, peel his eyes open, and give Watson a tiny smile, “ Dr. Watson, ” despite what they were, he still liked the formalities at times, “ Is there a problem? ”
john is all too familiar with sherlock's melancholia. at some point, one learns to overlook it — they have not had a case in over a week, and the detective often goes rather stir-crazy without something to look into. a hilarious sort of irony, given the way that sherlock often complains about his customers' and the stupidity of some of their cases. the good doctor has not questioned it, even when the violin's sad tones had filled the quiet of 221b at evening. it is simply sherlock in one of his moods ; he will work through it eventually.
on the third day of this apparent brooding, john has work of his own. an appointment with a patient, nothing too serious. just long enough to keep him away from baker street for a few hours. upon his arrival home though, john does take notice of the fact that the sounds of the violin are ... more peaceful. it seems the detective has managed to yank himself out of whatever he was in. medical bag in hand, john moves to carry it into his bedroom, and the sight that meets his eyes once he enters said room has him stopping directly in his tracks. his bed, gone. an empty spot where it once sat. leather bag drops to the floor, the doctor spinning on his heel and marching his way right back into the living room.
sherlock's question, uttered with feigned innocence and formalities, has john narrowing his eyes. jaw tightens, and john cannot resist scoffing. “ where the bloody hell is my bed, holmes? ” tone is one of exasperation, the doctor stepping closer to the detective. “ what have you done with it? ”
