30th July

Sherlock stares up the ceiling of the bathroom. There's a particular case, a particular clue that he's missing. Lestrade has taken him off the case, because New Scotland Yard has already arrested someone. They have arrested the wrong person; Sherlock is sure of it. Scotland Yard, as it was, was full of idiots who said otherwise. Unfortunately, without evidence, even Lestrade couldn't do anything.

There was nothing, virtually nothing, at the crime scene. There had been no other outstanding clues. No other evidence. There was something that they were missing... something that he was missing.

It is, literally, driving him crazy.

He is in the bath, stretched out in the way that he can, utilizing every inch of space within the porcelain enclosure. One arm, the right one, in fact, rests lazily across his stomach. The left arm is still, propped up on the edge of the bathtub, three nicotine patches forming a crude triangle like symbol. He's being careful not to get those patches wet. He needs those patches.

A sigh exits his lips, body heaving, water moving gently with the motion. It's rather hot- he doesn't take baths in other way except exceedingly hot. The mirror has long since steamed over and there's sweat on his face; he pays no mind to either, only fishes around in his mind for something, anything, that he has missed.

He sinks slightly lower in the water, leaning his knees against the sides of the bath. Uncomfortable, but he doesn't need to be comfortable to think or bathe. John says he's too tall. Sherlock lazily hangs onto the idea that his response revolves around the bath being too small. Either way, he doesn't care.

He raises a hand, carding his fingers back through his wet hair. There has to be something, something, he knows, but what-

He pauses with his fingers still tangled in his hair.

Shampoo. Of course. The shampoo...!

Sherlock stands rather abruptly, the water crashing over the sides of the bath and onto the floor. Paying no mind to the mess, he grabs his dressing gown off the floor and wrenches the bathroom door open.

He is somewhat surprised to find John outside the bathroom door, hand raised as if to knock.

"Shit- Sherlock, what- what the hell? Put on clothes!"

Sherlock frowns and helps John out of his way, padding with a sopping body towards the kitchen. Somewhere between the bathroom and the kitchen, he works his arms through the dressing gown's sleeves, although not bothering to tie the sash.

"Sherlock, you're sopping wet! You're dripping all over the floor!" John says, in a scolding tone of voice, Sherlock reckons, but he doesn't look up. "What the hell is so important to walk around in the nude, anyway?"

"Case. Shampoo. It's the shampoo, John; we've seen this before!" Sherlock snaps, reaching for a slide for his microscope. He just had to test it, just needed the proof...

"It's poison?"

"Most likely," Sherlock ascertains, pirouetting to grab a pipette off the kitchen table.

"Oh, for God's sake," John mutters. "I'll just get you some clothes." His voice trails off as he walks, Sherlock assumes, back to Sherlock's room.

Sherlock deletes the conversation that John has just insisted on having, instead submerging himself head-first into solving the case.

Welcome to the first day of the first annual Week of Sherlock Holmes! Oh, I am so excited, because, you know what, it's actually legit. It's not an obsessive thing I've made up! And it feels great!

Anyhoo, I'll be doing a fic a day for the next six days, one for each day of the Week (July 30th - August 5th). They will be unrelated, random things that are, just basically, days at 221B Baker Street.

To my prompter, I know you said you wanted a plot. But. It's so hard to create a plot for a drabble that I want to keep short. I am sorry. But I hope you like it, nonetheless.

Reviews and follows are fans partaking in the first annual Week. (Well, and they make me happy. xD) Thanks for reading!