(no subject)

Sherlock has a booth by the Window and a glass of something sweet and cold and frothy. He wasn't very specific when he ordered it. It tastes a little like caramel and a little like oranges, but it's almost completely colourless except for a faint iridescence clinging to the tiny fragments of ice.

There are dark smudges under his eyes; he never retrieved his coat, and his shirt and pants are scuffed and torn and dirty from his repeated tumbles; he is slumped on his bench to a degree that almost makes him look average height, until you glance beneath the table at the location of his knees. The most telling thing about his condition, though, is the fact that he is staring into his drink with an expression that indicates he is too tired to actually see it. And he doesn't look up at small intriguing noises.

In short, he is not paying attention.