Author's Note: Its been several years since I have turned my hand to writing, and I fear that I am seriously out of practice. But Sherlock is a series that I enjoy a great deal, and I have wanted to take a try at writing a drabble fic for quite some time. So I hope that you don't find these to be to terrible, and that you enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them. Also, if anyone would care to suggest prompts, I'd be happy to take them.

Pale beams of sunlight streaked in through the edges of the window where the curtains failed to prevent its entrance, patches of golden light dancing across the floor and part of the bed. One of those patches located itself directly on John's face, causing the man to groan and roll over in a futile attempt to return to the land of sleep. Rarely did he ever sleep in, but he and Sherlock had been up very late last night, and it had not been a matter of working on a case.

The thought of the previous night brought a smile to the corner of John's eyes and a contented sigh from his lips. His initial reaction had been shock when Sherlock had suddenly kissed him, but John's shock had very quickly given way to passion and he'd begun responding to that kiss with his own. It had, of course, led them to ending up in Sherlock's bed, his room being much easier to reach when it came down to things.

John stretched his arm out beneath the blanket to catch Sherlock's hand in his own, only to find the other side of the bed completely empty, the sheets cold. John's eyes opened, and he found that he was indeed alone in bed. It wasn't that he hadn't expected Sherlock to be up already, the man rarely slept unless he had to, but John had hoped that after last night, the genius detective wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get up this morning. It looked like he was wrong. And if Sherlock was already up, there really wasn't any point in John lingering in getting up, either.

So when he came out of the bedroom, hair a mess and wrapped in one of Sherlock's dressing gowns – his were upstairs, after all – he was surprised at the sight that awaited him. What he had expected to see was Sherlock sitting at the table, bent over one of his experiments. Yes, Sherlock was sitting at the table, but it had been cleared of all of the beakers and test tubes and other things that often cluttered its surface. Set upon the table instead was a lovely spread of eggs, bacon, toast and jam, and juice.

"Good morning, John," Sherlock said, his lips tipped up at the corners in the merest hint of a smile. "Thought I would make you some breakfast."