The door of the flat is flung open in anger and slams the wall.
"John, it's late. Kindly think of Mrs Hudson, rather than yourself."
"Me? I'm the one thinking of myself? Are you serious?"
"I just don't see the point of taking on a case with no victims or criminals in it."
"It wasn't a case, Sherlock; it was a charity murder mystery night."
It has been a misunderstanding too far for John Watson. Every argument has failed, every attempt to elucidate the concept of the evening fallen flat on its face. John isn't wasting another word on this. He's going to bed. Slams another door or two along the way and all.
And yes, perhaps there's a slight… rough edge of guilt, with Sherlock. Not quite a pang. Definitely not a stab. A mild abrasion. He doesn't really know what John's getting at, but he knows he's annoyed.
Nevertheless, he's always been a strong-willed sort. Why, he got along fine for all those years before John ever showed up. And for company, he could make it seem quite as though there were two of him, and indeed once challenged himself to a fight after cheating in a game of chess where he himself was also the opponent. He's not going to let something silly like a failed effort at a night out irritate him. Not visibly anyway. So that John will hear how unperturbed he is, he goes through the motions of making tea, raiding the fridge.
Nothing.
Well, some cheese. And John will know if he closes the fridge without taking anything out. He'll think it's gotten to him, affected his appetite. No, determinedly, ignoring all the warnings about cheese before bedtime, Sherlock grabs this sorry shard, all that's left of the block, and bites into it as he takes his tea to the sofa.
His phone is buzzing silently in his pocket. He takes it out, reads Mycroft's name and without answering, sends it arching like a dart into the armchair. Then settles back with his tea, determined to finish the cheese though his eyes are already closing.
"A case," he says to himself, with a derisive laugh (to remind himself that he is, indeed, derisive of the whole event), "With no victims or criminals in it… What could be more tedious?"
There might be just the smallest moment where his eyes slide shut, but only a moment. He opens them in a flash, remembering his tea and grabbing it upright before it can spill. And just then, when he is about to set it down on the coffee table and allow himself to fall asleep, someone decides to knock the door. In the middle of the night. Sherlock almost doubts himself for a moment, listening intently. But there it is. Soft, but constant. Insistent. A little thump like punching a cushion. Not that he's ever done that; things don't get to him, or not in that way. Little thumps, over and over and over.
So he gets up, since it's clearly not going to stop, goes and opens the door, cursing John for being such a heavy sleeper.
At first, he finds himself looking out into an empty hallway. Then, down by his knees, he hears an irritable little cough and looks down.
A rabbit, no less, knocking his door in the middle of the night. With pale golden fur and a grey waistcoat, glaring in a bored sort of way at a pocket watch. A rabbit carrying a long, black umbrella.
"It's after midnight. What are you doing here?"
"Sherlock, why don't you answer your phone when I call?"
"Oh, how long have you got?"
"This is no laughing matter," Mycroft snaps, twitching his nose (though perhaps he can't help that). "It's the tarts. They've gone missing."
For a heartbeat, there may be a slight tremor of excitement on Sherlock's voice, possibly, probably not, just a touch; "The Queen's tarts?"
As he turns, he sees Mrs Hudson climbing the stairs, slowly appearing over the tops of Mycroft's long, silky ears. She has a tray in front of her, with a fresh cup of tea on it, with a plate of biscuits which are just calling out, 'Eat me'.
8 Hours Later…
Listen. Now just listen and listen well and don't make me tell you again; Professor James Gordon Moriarty does not do mornings. Mornings are for people who are not their own bosses. Mornings are for disgusting, hopeless, rat-race sort of people, not for the like of him. Which is why it is only with very great trepidation that he answers his mobile before the sun has even made it round to his window. Very great trepidation indeed. The number belongs to one of dozens upon dozens of business associates. Therefore, it will either be a very serious problem being related to him, or he's going to have to kill whoever's on the other end of the line. Either option, it's going to be a hassle he doesn't need.
And there's a second reason; this time, this one first morning in long, long months, he was already awake when this happened. That was one strange bloody dream and he can't make it go far enough away to let him sleep again…
He answers, "You have no idea how good this is going to have to be."
"Are you alright?"
"…Beg pardon?"
"I had a really awful dream and you were in it. I was asleep in a giant Irish coffee, and you kept poking me awake to make me sing. And Sebastian was there, with bunny ears on, and he kept dunking biscuits in my coffee-bath, and you were-"
"Wearing a really big green top hat, in this dream of yours."
"…Yes," says the voice on the line, stunned. "How did you know that?"
"Come over later. We're bombing a cheese factory."
Kate wakes first, slow and woozy from last night's various exertions. She lies a while in peace, wondering what could have wakened her. Then looks across the bed to see Irene in clear distress, with sweat on her brow, tossing her head back and forth on the pillow. Kate reaches over, shaking one ivory shoulder; "Irene? Wake up, it's only a dream."
"…no… My tarts!... mine… get'em back now! …no…"
So Kate shakes harder, "Irene!"
Irene suddenly sits up. "Off with his head!" she cries, before the real world and the new morning sink in, and she looks about, stunned. "I… I had the strangest dream."
It will be long, uncertain hours before Kate stops wondering why Irene stares so hard at her neck, why she trails her fingers in a single, very straight line across her throat.
John, by comparison to the rest of the world, slept very well. Oblivious to the pain and confusion crossing London like a rash, he gets up in the morning and wanders across the living room to the kitchen. It's only as he's waiting for the kettle to boil that he turns and sees Sherlock still lying on the sofa.
"Have you been sulking out here all night?"
"Not sulking," comes the quiet, trembling reply. There is something wrong with that voice. It makes John look closer, and notice the strange angle of the forearm thrown across the eyes. Sherlock is holding his head, blinding himself entirely.
"What's the matter with your eyes?"
"Can't open them. Not until I know, not until I'm sure. John, the face, the face painted on the wall… is it grinning?"
Thinking this is all a bit much, a bit elaborate just to cover up his misbehaving last night, John nevertheless sighs and glances up at the wall. "Sherlock, it's always gr-"
"Well, then, does it have ears like a cat, damn it?!"
"…No, of course not."
"Oh, thank God," groans Sherlock, with palpable, genuine relief. The forearm is flung away and he jumps to his feet to check for himself, scanning the wall with the attention of a microscope for any trace of ear or grin. He stops as a new and equally urgent thought grabs him, before he leaps acorss the coffee table and dives to retrieve his phone from the armchair. "Have to call Mycroft. Check on the tarts-"
John chokes, clears his throat, "Excuse me?"
"Not answering," Sherlock mutters, pacing to the window and back and back to the window again. "Why isn't he answering?"
Mycroft is still asleep. His alarm clock has been going off for hours now. And his phones, both mobile and landline, are all ringing off the hook. People are concerned. It isn't like him, after all, to be so very, very late…