John straightened the knocker of 221b, simply to infuriate his detective friend, as he let himself into his old home. Of course Mrs Hudson had allowed him to keep his key, even in the years after the fall when he had neglected to visit the memory-rich flat. Guilt creeped back to the forefront of his mind as he remembered the reason for his visit. He had once again not entered Baker Street for about a month, he and Mary were busy fixing baby Watson’s nursery for the imminent arrival.
At first he had swept away the lack of communication with his friend: “he’ll be busy with a case” he’d told Mary, or “he’ll be documenting the effect of varying humidity on peoples’ choice of breakfast cereal”. Only when a worried Molly Hooper had alerted John that she had also not heard from Sherlock in weeks did John become concerned. He knew his friend had a soft-spot for the timid pathologist, if not for the experimental possibilities of the cadavas in the morgue.
To make it worse, Mrs Hudson was visiting family in Devon. With her motherly presence absent from Sherlock’s routine, who was to know how he was coping. Had he let his adictive tendencies take over again?
John crept up the stairs, wary of what he may find in the eccentric flat with its eccentric resident. As he neared the top, a persistent, regular bleeping grew louder and louder. As he gently knocked the at the door… THWACK!
John rushed into the room to find a red-eyed, greasy-haired Sherlock screaming at his mobile phone.
"Oh for God’s sake John! I was one off my high score!"