Waking up, John felt uneasy, like he'd had a nightmare but couldn't remember it. His hair messier than his bed, he got up and proceeded to take a long shower to get rid of the feeling. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the bathroom, releasing a puff of steam and smelling like cologne. Briefly wondering where Sherlock was, then spotting the distinct form under a pile of blankets on the couch, he made himself tea.
The steam curled up from the cup in a grey sliver, dissolving into the air. Lifting the cup, John Watson took a sip and promptly burnt his tongue.
"Bloody!...Ow."
Setting the cup on the coffee table, he stuck his tongue out between his lips in an attempt to cool it. The pile of blankets on the couch against the wall began to shift, and a distinctly messy head of brunette curls emerged.
"John, I'm trying to think. Can't you ineptly burn yourself in the kitchen?"
"No." John rolled his eyes in annoyance and went back to the paper. Outside, a door slammed and shouting ensued.
"Wonder what that's about?" John said absently.
Sherlock rolled over on the couch to glare at John, only his eyes and hair poking out of the blankets.
"He's just gone and spent their daughter's college-fund at the casino. Will you please be quiet?"
John flipped the page loudly, and Sherlock huffed. Life at the flat had been peaceful for a few days. Or at least, as peaceful as you can get around Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock hadn't gotten a call from Lestrade about any cases, and the sociopath was slowly tearing up the apartment. After a few minutes, something odd was noticeable. Looking up from his paper, John noticed a strange lack of noise and spoke uneasily.
"Sherlock...?"
There was an unnatural silence permeating the flat, and the shouting match outside had abruptly stopped. There were no noises from the surrounding buildings. Sherlock threw the blankets across the room and onto John, who hissed at him to be quiet.
"Listen! What's going on down there?"
"I don't know. Stay here, I'm going outside."
"Like bloody hell I'm staying inside." Adrenaline beginning to pump through him, John donned his coat quickly and followed Sherlock, who was still in pyjamas. Mrs. Hudson's room was quiet, and John gave a quick knock on her door. She opened it a crack to see who it was, and scowled at John.
"It's six thirty in the morning, can't you bother about another time?"
"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson, just stay in your flat. Sherlock and I are investigating something happening outside, and I don't want you to get in any trouble."
John's words seemed to wake her up, and she nodded before closing and locking the door. He turned around, and realized that Sherlock had gone out the door a good three minutes ago.
"Damn!"
Marching in worry out the front door of their flat, he looked around the street for Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen. Then suddenly, a window was broken on the second floor of an apartment on the other side of the street, and John ran towards the scene.
"Sherlock!"