The next morning, John Watson woke up to the sound of unfaltering violin. He went downstairs and into the living room, yawning. "Did you sleep at all, Sherlock?" No response. 'Well', John thought to himself, 'he isn't exactly talkative when we're in the middle of a case. Actually, he's never talkative.' Suddenly, Sherlock threw his violin on the chair and flopped onto the sofa, his hands pressed together under his chin. "Bloody mind palace", John muttered to himself while spreading his favourite strawberry jam on a piece of toast.
They sat like this for a while; Sherlock with his eyes closed and who-knows-what going at 100 miles her hour through his head, and John at the table, eating toast with jam and wondering what was going to happen on that day's episode of Parade's End when they both heard a noise, weeeeewwwwwwooooooooooooooweeeeeeeeeeewo, from outside their flat. John jumped up, rushed to the window, and saw a big blue box that wasn't there last night. "Sherlock?"
