Rain tapped against the windows of 221B Baker Street as Sherlock hovered over his makeshift lab, meticulously pouring chemicals into test tubes. John sat in his armchair, flipping through the newspaper, occasionally glancing toward the sofa where their silent flatmate sat, legs crossed, calmly reading a book.

“He hasn’t said a word in hours,” John muttered, lowering the paper.

“Good,” Sherlock replied without looking up. “Peace is a rare commodity.”

John sighed. “It’s unnerving. He just sits there like some… statue. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Why would it?” Sherlock smirked faintly. “Unlike you, he understands the value of silence.”

The flatmate didn’t so much as glance up, merely turning a page with unhurried precision. John huffed and returned to his paper.

The quiet stretched until Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Snatching it up, he skimmed the text and grabbed his coat. “Come on, John. A case.”

John rose with a groan, glancing at their flatmate. “You coming?”