Thick, fat drops of London rain have been petering down against the windowpanes all day. A heavy fog sprang up three hours earlier or so, like a blanket but without any warmth. Aside from the cold, rain, and fog, the biggest deterrent to them leaving 221b is lack of a case.
John Watson has already thrown a blanket across his legs as he updates his blog. He is an unassuming looking man with brown waves just edging toward the start of premature gray. John is a bit round about the middle, though not by much.
Presently, John has been trying to ignore the budding boredom of his flatmate, who rattles around the place like a pent up animal in a cage. For the most part he can tune out the majority of the detective's diatribes, but today Sherlock seems keen to be particularly industrious when no energy is needed.
The flat is warm, and their tea is hot.. In many respects John finds it to be a relaxing day the further into it they go. Sometimes taking a day off from his crazy life feels good, and he believes he can appreciate it more now that he has them less often; A day without a gun pointed at him, or having to point one himself, without loose body parts in the fridge next to his leftover Chinese..
Sherlock cannot say the same of course, his mind feeling on fire without anything to quench it. A case lets him work, it gives him something to focus his attention to, not just the thrilling exploration of fact. Without a case he feels stagnant, yet so alert because there is nothing else to focus on but repetitious declarations of facts. It is almost a chilling feeling, having a mind that cannot wander, cannot daydream.
For the most part his morning and afternoon are spent thrashing against this hefty boredom threatening to settle him into a gloom, though he does accomplish a studious endeavor or two.
That evening they are interrupted, is it by...