Cold, creeping, a sensation of rushing water tumbled through Sherlock. It seemed to run down from his shoulders and become a thick cloak around his shoulders, then down his back. A deep sense of forbidding crept upon a sleeping Sherlock like a panther, stalking in the undergrowth looking for its next prey. The world's only consulting detective shot straight up on the couch, rubbing the back of his head. When had he fallen asleep? Sherlock stood up and pulled by the curtains to the flat he shared with John, who could easily be called his best friend, oh alright, his only.
The darkness outside was complete. Only the very few meek street lamps provided any light, and that light was slowly fading away. After he solved his current case, a murder of a whole group of small children in a light-night day-care facility, he would have to check out what had happened to keeping the city clean, bright, and safe. Sherlock looked at the horizon, seeing the distant warmth of the sun that was starting to peak over the crowded and stuck-together city buildings. Might as well get ready.
John woke early, not as early as his flat-mate, mind you, but still early enough to see the first brilliant and golden rays of the sun sneak there way into his window, between the curtains. The window had been left open, and the air smelt clean and fresh, full of passed and promising rain. The doctor from Afghanistan had been aware Sherlock had passed out on the couch, after four consecutive nights and days of working on a case, without food nor sleep, so he walked out of Sherlock's room gently. John had been helping Sherlock with their case, or rather acting as someone Sherlock could recite his findings and deduce things aloud to, and after Sherlock had been simply too tired to continue, John decided to sleep in his friend's bed, too tired and lazy to walk up a flight of stairs.
The kitchen smelt wonderful. This was a pleasant change, as Sherlock mainly used the kitchen to house experiments and therefore usually smelt of death and/or decay. The sink was full of dishes, and a single plate sat invitingly on the table. Sherlock's microscope and tissue samples were pushed up against the coffee maker, files took their place. The dinning table was barely visible beneath stacks of paper. A mug was filled generously to the brim with steaming coffee, the plate on which a scrambled egg and two pieces of toast was clean. John Watson had no memory of cleaning the plates, but the sink was empty. He walked over and opened the cupboard to find the cups, plates and bowls neat, clean, and in perfect order so one would not have to shove things around to find what they needed. The food was getting cold, or so it looked to John. It was a pity to waste food that whoever had worked so hard to prepare.
Sherlock bustled in to find John sipping the last of his coffee, his eyes glaring intently at one of the many files on the children who had been killed. He left his coat and scarf on, not bothering to remove what he soon would be pulling back on. He slid into the chair opposite to his companion. "Are we going to the crime scene today, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at his still-coat-clad friend.
"Yes. Lestrade finally asked us up." Sherlock said, absentmindedly.
"About time." John said, trying his best to sound fully awake.
Upon John's last sip of his coffee, Sherlock jumped to his feet and dashed toward the door. As usual, John was expected to follow close behind Sherlock. He heard the door open, and decided it was time to chase after Holmes, onto the crime scenes he so indecently enjoyed.