It was late. The book Harry had insisted on, The Hobbit, lay beside the off-white pillow on a bottom bunk, looking across at the back of one 15 year old John Watson. A desk light silhouetted his hunched pose. He was perched onto an old wood desk furiously writing away so that every five or so minutes he would have to wring out his left hand, and every so often attempt to alleviate the strain by switching the pen to his other hand. The heart rate of his words, however, made him abandon his sympathy for his cramped appendages, again and again. Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
If convenient, turn light off.
SH
And a timed 30 seconds later:
If inconvenient, turn off anyway.
SH
John swiveled around to look up at the form coiled in a blanket on the top bunk and grumbled.
"Sherlock," he sighed, "why is it that I can't, for once, stay up with one light while every other day your experiments are conducted with all the bright sights and sound effects to produce a great deal of my more horrifying dreams."
The coated creature just burrowed deeper into the covers.
John took two fingers to massage his forehead, then used his right hand to knead the soreness out of his ink stained palm. After a brief pause, he smiled resignedly, shut off the lamp, and shuffled across five feet of haphazardly booby trapped floor and slid onto his allotted mattress. "G'night."
A muffled and sleepy hmm was heard from above.