John walked into the flat and shook himself as if he were a dog after a bathe. Water droplets fell from his coat and showered the carpet.
"Bloody hell," he said. "It's soaking wet out there."
Sherlock sat on the couch, legs stretched out in front of him, head reclined on the back. He had been gazing out the window but looked around when John came in. He stared at John momentarily, as though trying to figure out who he was, then smiled.
"There you are," Sherlock said.
"Here I am." John started unbuttoning his coat. "What are you doing, then? Watching it rain?"
Sherlock looked back at the window. It was indeed a heavy rain; it made the streetlights ripple and look vague.
"Yes." Sherlock sat up. He watched John as he removed his coat and hung it over the back of a chair by the fire to dry.
"I'mÃ¢ÂÂ¦ glad you're here," he said.
"Well, where else would I be?" John rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them as he settled himself next to the fireplace.
Sherlock continued staring, looking at John the way he appraised a crime scene, gathering details, data scrolling behind his gaze.
"What?" John asked. He wasn't used to Sherlock putting that look on him.
"Can I, erÃ¢ÂÂ¦ talk to you for a moment?"
"Er - sure. Should I sit?"
"If you're more comfortable that way."
"Will it be long? You look like you have something," John paused, "complicated to say."
Sherlock gestured - not to the chair behind John, nor the sofa next to him, but to the coffee table in front of him. John tilted his head.
"I do have something complicated to say," Sherlock said. "I want you near, and I want you looking at me closely."