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[It was the worst blizzard that London had endured for three hundred years. That's what the news reports said before they all cut off, the power lines giving under the weight of the snow. It started as just inclement weather (everyone take care out on the roads!), and then escalated into proper warnings (the emergency services recommend you stay indoors), and had finally ended in full lockdown (up to 65% of Londoners are trapped in their homes today).
John had been in the flat, the familiar Baker Street flat, helping Sherlock to track down anyone who might be assisting in enacting Moriarty's from-beyond-the-grave comeback. It had just made sense to stay an extra hour or two until the snow let up. Big mistake, as it turned out. Now he was fully snowed in with an extremely bored and agitated Sherlock Holmes.
No radio. No internet. No TV. No electricity of any kind.
Sherlock hasn't said anything for fifty-seven minutes, probably a relief to the poor beleagured John, but that's because he's busy. He has to do something to occupy his mind, and he's chosen the fridge. Slightly manic movements have helped him get literally everything out from the fridge and freezer, distributing it all over the living room floor. There's everything from a glass jar of thumbs in formaldehyde, to three half eaten tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough ice cream.
His treasure trove assembled, Sherlock crouches on the floor and begins to move things around, organising them and then reorganising them in an ever more frustrated manner. It takes only a further fourteen minutes before he stands up and shouts, explosively:]
DAMN IT!
[Before throwing a ceramic pot of left-over stew at the wall, where it shatters with a loud crash.]
John had been in the flat, the familiar Baker Street flat, helping Sherlock to track down anyone who might be assisting in enacting Moriarty's from-beyond-the-grave comeback. It had just made sense to stay an extra hour or two until the snow let up. Big mistake, as it turned out. Now he was fully snowed in with an extremely bored and agitated Sherlock Holmes.
No radio. No internet. No TV. No electricity of any kind.
Sherlock hasn't said anything for fifty-seven minutes, probably a relief to the poor beleagured John, but that's because he's busy. He has to do something to occupy his mind, and he's chosen the fridge. Slightly manic movements have helped him get literally everything out from the fridge and freezer, distributing it all over the living room floor. There's everything from a glass jar of thumbs in formaldehyde, to three half eaten tubs of Ben and Jerry's Cookie Dough ice cream.
His treasure trove assembled, Sherlock crouches on the floor and begins to move things around, organising them and then reorganising them in an ever more frustrated manner. It takes only a further fourteen minutes before he stands up and shouts, explosively:]
DAMN IT!
[Before throwing a ceramic pot of left-over stew at the wall, where it shatters with a loud crash.]
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