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Sherlock has a new case about a mysterious man with many faces-- a man who calls himself The Doctor. Could this man be the same one that he met when he was a boy? Could he be the one who haunts his...
It hadn’t been a very eventful day, John thought. In fact, it had been rather dull. Sherlock had spent the entire day in his chair, gazing at the ceiling with glassy eyes. John had learned to expect this kind of behavior from him. In the beginning he had tried to talk to Sherlock, but he was often ignored. John supposed this was better than Sherlock’s seemingly abandoned tendency to abuse drugs when bored. It took many a whispered conversation with Lestrade to finally discover this.
That morning when John emerged from his bedroom and found Sherlock sprawled on the chair, he simply nodded and put the kettle on. Although he rarely acknowledged it, John always made a point of making Sherlock a cup of tea. So there the cup sat, lonely and cold and untouched, and there John sat on the couch, frowning at his flat mate.
“Are you going to sit there the whole day?” John asked, his voice cracking a bit from lack of use. Sherlock looked slowly around at him, his eyes dead.
“Don’t you have any cases? What about the O’Connoly case?”
“Finished. It was the nanny.”
John sighed. He might as well stop asking now, or Sherlock would be irritated. It had been two weeks since his last case, and Sherlock was becoming more and more despondent each day. John worried that one day he would wake up and his flat mate would be in a coma.
John drummed his fingers on the table. He needed to find Sherlock a case. Even if he had to make one himself.
Hey, that’s an idea— John’s thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the door buzzer.
“I’ve got it, dears!” Shouted the voice of Mrs. Hudson from downstairs. John heard the soft murmur of voices coming from downstairs, but he couldn’t make out what was being said. Seconds later, John was blinking up at the figure of Mycroft Holmes.
“Hello, Sherlock.” Mycroft greeted his brother, smiling coldly. Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and rolled his eyes, returning his gaze to the ceiling. Mycroft sat down in the chair across from Sherlock, leaning his umbrella against the chair.
“Come from the bakery, have we Mycroft? I do hope you can get that custard stain from your lapel.” Sherlock’s voice was dull.
Mycroft glanced at his lapel, narrowed his eyes, and tugged a hankercheif out of his pocket. Dabbing at his lapel, Mycroft placed a Manila envelope on his lap.
“I have a case for you. One that we need help on.”
“It’s probably boring. Stop wasting my time, Mycroft.”
“I’m sure once you learn about this one, you won’t consider it a waste of your time.” Mycroft seemed to be satisfied with his job of removing this custard from his jacket, so he returned the hankercheif to his pocket. John thought he could still see a faint smudge of custard, but decided not to mention it.
Mycroft pulled a couple of pictures from the envelope. From where John was sitting, he could see that they were pictures of three different men.
“These pictures are all of one man. We believe he has had multiple cosmetic surgeries in the past five years. This man has sabotaged many major operations. From what we understand, he by the title The Doctor.” At Mycroft’s words, Sherlock sat bolt upright and stared intensively at his brother.