Sherlock, in contrast to John, hated snow in the way that only a seasoned Londoner could. It was inconvenient, it was everywhere, and it stopped all businesses in their tracks. It turned into slush in mere moments and coated everything in wet filth. He would much prefer a nice summer's day or, if it had to snow, for it to be done elsewhere so that it didn't impede his enjoyment of life.

The living room floor was cluttered in all the things from the kitchen, a rather ripe smell filling the room thanks to things from the fridge and freezer already starting to sour in the piles that Sherlock had put them in. Pieces of pottery from the dish now littered the floor too, sharp obstacles that Sherlock only just avoided standing on with his slippered feet.

"It's not right, John, don't you listen to anything I say? I've explained twice already."

To an empty chair.