"You can't be serious."
Ignoring the blatant irritation in Mrs.
Hudson's voice, Sherlock's eyes stay closed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, splayed out on the bare, yellowing mattress he is now supposed to call his bed.
The color is hateful, as is the paint on the walls of the entire room. The longer he stares, the more the barriers seem to cave in, so Sherlock opts to keep his lids shut tight.
Although, he'd prefer to focus on the revolting colors of his new surroundings. The panic of what is supposed to take place today is threatening to swallow him whole as it is.
The room is the least of his problems.
"Hm," he replies noncommittally, feigning indifference. On any other day, he'd be happy to assist in moving his items into his new home.
He would be happy to complain and annoy and snap and sulk like he does best because moving is tedious and Sherlock doesn't do tedious. He would be sure to let Mrs.
Hudson know just how much he didn't do tedious. If he were helping.
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