As John bolted up the stairs, the cell phone still whispering to him in the darkness of his pocket, he could hear odd noises coming from the flat. Awfully loud noises.

A sharp bang throttled John's ears as he swung open the flat door. The doorjamb's wood splintered, and John ducked, shaking.

Sherlock stared calmly at him, a gun in his hand. "You're back, finally. I need some tea."

John clenched his fists as he got to his feet, dizzy. "What the HELL do you think you're doing? And…is that my gun?" he shouted.

"Quiet now, you'll wake the neighbors," Sherlock said drolly. "And yes, it is your gun. I don't have one, so I thought I'd borrow yours. I was studying splinter patterns on wood as caused by bullets. Oh, and you're out of said bullets now."

The apartment was quiet and still as Sherlock lazily dropped the gun on the end table and went back to laying flat on the couch. John stared, astonished. But not at Sherlock's ways. Those were anything but new to him. He was shocked by the overwhelming silence. Because the voice had stopped whispering to him.

He shakily drew the phone out of his pocket. "Sherlock, I may be going mad," he said quietly.

"You? Mad? Never," Sherlock said, staring at the smiley face on the wall.

"There was a voice, on my cell. And it kept talking after I hung up. It was the voice from last night."

"What voice from last night?"

"The voice from, well, the head in the fridge."

Sherlock sat up. "John, don't be ridiculous—"

"I know, I know," John said, slumping down into one of the armchairs and tossing the phone onto the end table. "It's physically impossible. You think I don't know that?"

Sherlock looked at him intently. "Well, Lestrade finally got back to me. Took him way too long, but that's what happens when you deal with smaller minds, of course. There's a new lead on this serial burglar, and we've got to go straight away." He stood up.

"You mean you've got to go. I…I think I need to have a lie down," John said, holding his head.

Sherlock looked vaguely disappointed. "But John, I need to have someone to talk to who isn't an imbecile. Come on! Adventure! Danger! You love all of that!"

John looked at Sherlock, slightly surprised. "You do quite well by yourself, you know. You like to lock me out of crime scenes anyway."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes. "Right. Well then. I'll be off, I suppose."

"Right," John said, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock sulked out the door, turning his coat flaps up. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm so glad we're alone, John," the voice whispered, the phone laying on the end table.

Something moved inside the fridge. And then it laughed.