Evening. The room at 221B Baker Street is cozy and slightly cluttered, as always. A cup of tea sits on the table, now cold, and next to it lies an open book that John never finished. He sits in his armchair, legs propped up, gazing out the window where the London fog slowly descends.

"A quiet evening," he thinks, "a rare luxury in our home." Sherlock, as usual, is off somewhere, leaving behind a mess of papers, test tubes, and strange experiments. John sighs, but a faint smile flickers in his eyes. He’s used to it.

He picks up the cup, takes a sip, and grimaces—the tea is indeed cold. "Should make a new one," he thinks, "but I can’t be bothered." Instead, he grabs the notebook lying nearby and starts writing. Maybe it’ll be a new blog post, or perhaps just thoughts he wants to put on paper.

The door creaks, and John looks up. "Sherlock?" he asks, but there’s only silence in response. He sinks back into his thoughts.

"I wonder how things would’ve turned out if I hadn’t met him back then," he muses. "Probably still going to doctors, trying to get rid of this limp and the nightmares. And now... now I have this. Chaos, danger, adventure. And a friend who, despite being utterly insufferable, has become like a brother to me."