The sun filtered through the windows of 221B, creating iridescent stripes across the otherwise dark apartment. Slouched into the armchair, blinded by one such stripe, Dr. Watson began to stir. He squinted his eyes and turned his head away at the unwelcome brightness, blinking away the drowsiness and reaching around him to silence the brutal ringing of his cellphone.
"Watson," he said impatiently once the receiver reached his earlobe.
"Five minutes."
John rolled his eyes and over exaggerated a sigh, "Why didn't you text? You love the texting."
"You weren't responding. Four minutes."
The call switched off and John fumbled with the keys on his phone. He scrolled through five text messages sent within the last five minutes. He decided they were a countdown, and they were all sent by his eccentric flatmate that he had lovingly tagged "Idiot Savant" in his contacts list.
He shrugged his shoulders, made it off the couch, and traveled the short distance into the cluttered kitchen. No tea, and it seemed as though Mrs. Hudson hadn't been up with any breakfast. Not that she should, Watson thought to himself, she's not our housekeeper.
Within three minutes he was out on the street heading toward St. Bartholomew's, wishing that his flatmate was more in the tea brewing business than the crime solving business. The streets were fairly quiet since it was only about 6 a.m. and the morning traffic had yet to kick up. Watson stopped when he reached the corner of Baker Street and relented. Taking a left instead of his intended right, he walked briskly in the direction of scones and coffee. He smirked. Today he was feeling particularly rebellious.