Sherlock is a Detective

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Sleeping on the couch was not a typical thing for the detective; he had his own bed only a few feet from where he laid sprawled, but the past few nights the couch had been his choice. One leg hung over the edge of the worn cushions, an arm draped across his eyes, and his navy blue robe twisted and tangled about his limbs. Yes, this was one of the great detective's bad days; Sherlock Holmes was in a slump.

His eyes slowly peered open and his arm moved just enough to let the man glare daggers at the door as it creaked open. In walked his partner in crime, John Watson, who walked carefully, heel-toe-heel-toe, and eased the door shut as quietly as he could. It seemed to Mr. Holmes that his friend was trying to hide his presence. Now why would he want to do a silly thing like that?

"Afternoon, John." His deep voice echoed in the silent room, making the other man halt in his tracks. Sherlock elevated his arm off his eyes and looked at John with an emotionless, almost blank expression.

John halted and slowly turned back to face Sherlock. He knew the detective was in one of his bad moods and he preferred to stay away from it the best he could. "Oh, Sherlock, you're awake." He observed lamely; then mentally slapped himself for the idiotic comment.

"As much as the sky is blue..." Sherlock responded with a long sigh, stringing his words along his breath as he pieced his hands together and pressed them against the underside of his chin. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Were you with Jenny last night?" He asked flatly, making it obvious to even the common idiot that he really didn't care.

John sighed and placed his hands against the back of his chain; then leaned into it, causing it to let out the smallest squeak. "Her name is ...

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...d let a small smile slip across his face as the warm liquid dripped down his throat.

"Its morning for you, Sherlock, you've been sleeping all day." Mrs. Hudson responded, shaking her finger at him and scuttling out of the room before she could hear any recant from the detective. "Oh, and Sherlock," the old lady yelled as she hurried down the steps. "There's someone here for you!"

Sherlock looked up at John and John returned the surprised look. They hadn't had a client for a few weeks now. Slowly, both pair of eyes drifted to the doorway where a young woman stood as pale as a ghost. Her knees wobbled and she gripped the door frame, her nails digging into the old fashioned wood. Her eyes looked distant, struck with fear. When she spoke, she stammered on almost every word and her voice was nearly a ghostly whisper.

"M-Mr. Ho-Holmes, I th-think i m-might be d-dead."

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