Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson

Baker Street, half past nine in the morning.

A gray London sky outside—no rain, no sun, just an even light, spilling over the room like an old sheet. A cool mug, with dried coffee stains at the bottom, sat on the windowsill. The air was thick: a mixture of burnt bread, old wood, and the slightly sweet tobacco left over from last night's pipe.

John sits at the table, hunched over his tablet. In front of him is a plate of untouched scrambled eggs, the yolk already coated in film. He chews automatically, staring through the screen, and every now and then runs his hand over his unshaven cheek. The fingers of his other hand mindlessly fiddle with the edge of the tablecloth.

Sherlock stands by the window, his back to the room. He's wearing only a shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing a thin strip of his spine beneath the fabric. He slowly traces his finger across the glass, drawing invisible lines, his gaze following the passersby below. A ray of sunlight from someone's watch glides across the ceiling, but Sherlock doesn't turn around.