Bored and injured. Nothing remains but my somewhat sad dreams of romance. And seeing as my beloved is currently away on business, I must be content with Sherlolly, with one of my classic twists.

John was sitting in his chair. With his newspaper. For once. He was not being almost blown up, he was not being fired upon by snipers who apparently had the very convenient ability to turn invisible, he was not being forced to evacuate the flat because of some stupid failed experiment involving rats, amino acid, and a severed human limb, and resulting in a luminous, toxic, yellow mushroom cloud. (Or should that be, 'another experiment involving rats, amino acid, and a severed human limb'? It had been known to happen.)

The things Sherlock had done...

But that was the thing, wasn't it. Sherlock wasn't here this morning. He was off somewhere, probably killing cadavers with a (horrified) Molly, or torturing Anderson and Donovan with bunnies (again).

For once, in so long, he could sit quietly and read his paper. He smiled softly, and flipped his paper over to the photography columns. The outside edge of the page was lined with two-inch square pictures of things like trees, flowers, people facing the river, all in bright colors. But he only really glanced at these. His eyes were caught by the larger centre piece in the middle of the page. It was a beautiful black and white photo of a couple sitting side by side on a bench, somewhere in one of the many London parks. They were kissing, their heads leaning in. The woman on the left was shorter than the male, and had to stretch up to reach her partners' lips. The male was leaning down slightly.

The setting sun sparkled on the river in the background. So, park with a view of the river. He imaged Sherlock checking his phone for the picture's background. John chuckled.

The picture was quite beautiful, and it made John relax a little, just looking at it. He smiled at it.

"YES! TRIPLE MURDER! BRILLIANT! JOHN, DON'T WAIT UP!"

John almost fell out of his chair as Sherlock suddenly came racing past him. He recovered quickly though, and yelled after the Consulting Detective's back, "WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU? I THOUGHT YOU WERE OUT!"

Sherlock bellowed something unintelligible. John thought he caught something about a corpse. He made a mental note not to go anywhere near Sherlock's room.

He sighed, and flipped his paper back over his face.

Great, fine. Let Sherlock have some of his kind of 'fun'.

John sighed again.

Sherlock needs to get out more.

I'm positive I'm gonna write a 'Death Via Bunnies" story now. Should be up in a few days.

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