Classy, Pride, 40's

A bit like a good murder...

...always exciting with a bit of muck around the edges.

Sherlock Example.
John - The Game
A loud nasally sniff was the only answer Sherlock offered John this time around. This blasted head cold was driving him mad, even more so then the stagnation of not having a case. The inability to carry out his experiments - a single sneeze would ruin any results he would get - was bad enough. Let alone the fact the Lestrade had stopped contacting him over even the most mundane of case’s due to his sickness. His cold wasn't that bad, really. All in all thought it was making the consulting detective wish that John hadn’t locked away his service gun, a few more holes in the wall might have been enough for him to crack a smirk.

As it was Sherlock had yet again camped out on the couch, his body comfortably covered in his sleeping attire and robe. He had recently showered, his hair was still damp in fact, dark curls hanging limp and slightly drippy. Seeing as the congestion made laying on his back not an option, he was curled up on his side, knees tucked close to to his torso, his attention every so mildly caught by a show on the television.

“John,” His typically deep voice was also somewhat nasally, though it did sound much better the it had in previous days. “How is it that people find this stuff entertaining. I’ve been watching for all of five minutes and I already know the whole plot line. She’s obviously sleeping with her own brother.”

Beside him on the floor sat Zarif, his long tail lashing slowly from side to side. While Sherlock’s mood had taken a turn for the worse, his daemon’s was positively dark. The black tabby had already unleashed his claws most of the furniture in the living room, and it seemed a bit of the wall paper as well. The feline turned his eyes to the telly and snorted softly. “Yes.” The cat’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “ And we’ll bet they’ll bring the mother up soon enough, oh..there she is now." 


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