Sherlock belongs to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
The following is rated T for: drug references, drug use, language, violence, and quite a lot of gore.
Enjoy! If you feel it's worth your time, please review. The feedback's appreciated.

It was 12:00 AM, and I was wide awake.

I wasn't quite sure what had woken me; the only thing I was aware of was that I was completely aware. This alert response was a reflex left over from Afghanistan. Useful in combat situations, sure, but five thousand kilometers away in a peaceful flat in central London? It merely became a nuisance.

It was quiet, the only disturbance to the silence being the occasional ebb and flow of the sound of cars.

I rolled over. Sarah had pulled all the blankets over to her side of the bed, tangled inextricably in the sheets. I smiled.

That must have been it. It was terribly cold in here, no wonder I had woken.

Cold…why was it cold? I was almost positive Sarah had turned the heat on.

I sat up, squinted. The light from the alarm clock was dim enough to tell the window was open. That wasn't right. It had been closed since we moved in.

I scanned the room, trying to see if maybe something had fallen over. I felt like it was a noise that had prompted my abrupt return to consciousness; had a pigeon flown in the open window?

And then something, something big, something blacker than the black of the cold, dark, room, moved.

There was someone in our room. A human, I mean. Definitely human. A little tall, but undeniably a human being. Probably a burglar.

I could take him.

I sat up, unplugged the lamp, and slid out of bed. I was wearing socks. My footsteps made no noise. I raised the lamp, straining to see in the darkness. The intruder seemed to have vanished into thin air.

A hand seized my wrist.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," whispered a voice in my ear.

"Holy shhhh-Sherlock?" My heart was pounding a tattoo against my ribcage. Christ…

"Always good to see you, too." I couldn't see, but I could hear the smile in his voice.

"Sherlock! You nearly gave me a-what-how the hell did you get in here?"

"Window."

"You came in through the-"

Sarah tossed in her sleep, muttering incomprehensibly.

"Shh," murmured Sherlock. "Don't want to wake her…"

"Don't shush me!" I hissed back furiously. "You couldn't have used the bloody front door?"

"At least I knocked," he whispered, annoyed.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed, taking this in stride. "Okay. Okay, fine. Why are you here?"

"It's urgent."

"Urgent." My mind immediately leapt to the worst of conclusions: the flat had been blown up. Again. Or Mrs. Hudson was dead. Or Mycroft. Or both. Or, said the sensible part of my mind that wasn't still freaking out about finding someone in my room who was not supposed to be there, there's a particularly interesting murder that needs you attention.

"Yes. Get dressed and come with me, no time to explain."

"You had time to knock."

He rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, impatient as ever. It had been a month since I last saw him; Sarah and I had been honeymooning in France. I had been back two days and already texted him sixteen times.

"Alright," he said finally. "Meet me downstairs, in the kitchen. Five minutes."

He strode out of the room and shut the door behind him.

"Closet," I whispered.

He strode back out. "I gathered."

This time, he picked the right door.