It was well past midnight when the phone rang.
Victor Trevor pulled himself from his bed tiredly, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he slipped his on his house shoes and pulled on a satin robe that matched his pajamas.
He swore under his breath, realizing that the phone had already been ringing when he woke up, and he'd be to late to answer.
A high-pitched Beep! rang out through the apartment, and he sat down in the leather chair. His brown and black striped cat jumped up into his lap as he crossed his legs and rested his head on his fist. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that he'd neglected to shut down his computer, and the screen was still lit up to display "The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson."
"Victor, please, pick up. Please," a deep voice pleaded through the answering machine speaker. "I know you're there. You can either pick up, or I'll proceed to tell you exactly how I know, and you hate it when I ramble on like that."
Victor swore, picking up the phone while continuing to pet the cat, which purred and stretched in ecstasy beneath his hand, flexing it's white paws and allowing it's claws to peak out. "Sherlock Holmes," he sighed. "I haven't heard from you in years, and when you finally do call it's at," he paused to check the clock, "1:45 in the morning. What can I do for you?"
"I need to disappear."