I was awoken at a start by a sudden outburst of ringing running threw my head. The automatic feeling was one of unwarranted frustration a-mix with a sustainable tiredness which would no doubt catch up with me in later hours, seeing as though I already knew that I wouldn't be getting any more sleep tonight

As I sat up the ringing continued, echoing threw out the small bed room in which i currently attempt to sleep in. It wasn't exactly the most appealing room. Although I'm sure that it would be better then what ever was kept hidden in my flatmates room. The bed itself was small; covered in a blue quilt tucked tightly into the sides. (My military habits kicking in again it seems. )The curtains an unsightly gothic pattern, the walls painted a colour not dissimilar from the one in which downstairs lounge was wallpapered. Moulded in between the darkened mahogany wardrobes my odd amount of jumpers seemed to shine in the disrupted moonlight coming through the curtains painting shapes of lampposts onto my wall.

Downstairs I could hear the heavy footsteps of my flat mate, most likely running towards the door; excitement purely written across his pale face. Unlike others what would reek of distain. He was an half being loud. Thank god Mrs Hudson was out. We'd never hear the end of it.

But let's face it to get a call in the middle of the night wasn't in the norm in this day and age. Hell I don't think it was ever in the norm. Most would ignore a knocking at the door. Dismissing it as unimportant till the morning hours, when they were available. And the sleep wasn't calling to them back to their perfect dream world.

But then again this wasn't any one. This was Sherlock Holmes. That clever sociopath that I find myself going on escapades with, all too often.

And it was at times like these that people normal comment on how I could put up with Him. How I could bear to share a flat with Sherlock, how I could share my life with Sherlock. Well the answer was a simple one.

Life's never dull

And strange callers in the dead of might certainly proved my point. Something was bound to erupt from this. Good or bad, Sherlock and I both knew this all too well. Him probably, more than me. Hence why the downstairs door was now open and along with the somewhat usual British weather Sherlock was shouting for me.

'John!' I tensed as His voice lingered in the air; etched with fear and horror. Sherlock never got afraid, it wasn't in his CV. But still he repeated my name for a second time, a little quieter than before. It was when I heard his voice. That awful sing song voice I memorised from that night that haunted me and Sherlock so much.

'Ohh Jonny boy.'

Moriarty...