John frowned at the clock, then at his phone. Who on God's good earth was texting him from that number. Bits of his dream still floated around in his head and as he propped himself up on one elbow to look at the words, he remembered a haunting echo of Sherlock's voice.
"It's not the end, John."
The screen seemed too bright. He squinted at it. Mary rolled over. 4 Am.
"Work?" she mumbled. "Emergency?"
John's heart was in his throat as he stared at the text, then rolled out of bed.
"Afraid so. Go back to sleep."
He almost didn't remember to get his clothes all the way on as he rushed out the door, through the sleepy city to Baker Street.
Come now, if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway.
Time to get back to work, John.
SH