For a certain time, if not a long time, one had to put up with a semblance of calm. Or, if one could put it that way. Sherlock thought of it this way only because up to a certain point he had not had any little things to think about as well.

But now it was. And its name was John Watson. There were no objections, even partly there was almost a sense of satisfaction from the thought that the constant listener of the detective's thoughts out loud was not emptiness, but a real person.

And he got used to it. Maybe further more than he planned and wanted to accept. It was because of this that Holmes's gaze was nervously focused on the clock. Apparently, John was late at work at the hospital. It was not that it was stressful, it was just difficult to give a name to a certain feeling.

"When will you be home?"

Sherlock finally overcame himself, deciding to send a message when curiosity of course got the better of him.