Disclaimer: I do not own BBCSherlock, Sherlock Holmes, or John Watson. Nor do I own/live at 221B Baker Street.

A/N: A rather short drabble I may edit/reupload at a future date. I'm not entirely happy with it, but I wanted to post it as-is for the time being. Hopefully it will improve and be reposted, but if it isn't, well, writing can't be great (or even good) all of the time.

Non-beta'd/edited. Reviews and critiques welcomed and encouraged.

Thanks for your time/Patience,
-Selvine

John hadn't been aware at the time of moving into 221B Baker Street that there would come a time where his military history might be frowned upon. In fact, for the most part, Sherlock seemed to relish the way his companion bolted into action whenever something – or someone – was afoot. It had become customary for the pair to make any endeavor of the sort together if at all possible, which meant Sherlock had quite often woken John at the most absurd of hours to chase a lead. Usually, though, the younger Holmes had done his waking from the door.

John slept in a small bed – your usual twin – the mattress the only real luxury he could afford. His bedroom had always been small in comparison to Sherlock's. The detective always received the best of whatever was in the house. Recently, neither member of the duo had been receiving much sleep, and Watson was feeling the side effects. Grogginess, draining and nauseating, had forced the doctor to retire to his bed as quickly as possible the night before. Upon hitting the mattress, his eyes closed, the soldier had fallen into a deep sleep.

When Sherlock arrived at the door to his companion's room at two in the morning, fully dressed and ready to go, he hadn't expected to find the task of waking his flatmate so difficult.

The first attempt at waking John consisted of the usual call from outside the door. Then a louder call, and knocking on the door. Following those attempts, as polite as they were, came the opening of the door, knocking, and shouting at the lump on the bed. Much to the younger Holmes brother's dismay, Watson didn't budge.

Disgruntled, Sherlock temporarily left the room before returning with a tray of various items. A horn, megaphone, cymbals, violin, and more all lay out, ready for use. One-by-one, the detective utilized the items, trying to wake his partner "in crime", and failing repeatedly.

Finally, Sherlock moved to the bed and reached out to touch John's shoulder. Instantaneously, the detective was flat against the ground, an angry veteran pinning him in place, a gun to his temple. Startled, the black-haired man lay completely still and stared up at his flatmate with a calm smile. Slowly, Watson's hearbeat slowed, and the gun moved away, the safety clicking back into place. The soldier rolled onto his side, shaking with anxiety and staring at the wall in front of him.

Minutes passed, and Sherlock straightened, standing and rearranging his clothing accordingly. When he was sure he looked appropriate, an elegant hand extended to the man on the floor.

"I'm sorry" the words were whispered, dripping with the agony of the realization of what the doctor had almost done. Nodding, Sherlock gripped Watson's hand and yanked him to his feet.

"As well you should be. Your sleeping in has lost us a half hour of productive activity in this case." Turning, Sherlock headed toward their door, waiting for John to dress himself before smiling and nodding at the street below.

"Come, Watson. There are games afoot."

Smiling, John Watson followed. He may be eccentric, but Sherlock was sometimes the best friend in the world.