John woke up to the sound of violin music seeping up through the floor, thick and raw like honey right off the comb. He moved to haul himself out of bed and immediately regretted it. His muscles felt like rubber bands all stretched to their limits over a bonfire. The early morning light bypassed his eyeballs entirely and burn straight through the back of his skull. It felt like his second day of bootcamp all over again, except this time around he was trapped in the body of a useless, broken old man.

He wanted to lie in bed and cry until life got the hint and left him the fuck alone. But his bladder demanded that he get up, grow a pair and take long, hard piss. His stomach agreed, provided they grab a bite on the way. He begrudgingly admitted that they were right and hauled himself out of bed.

"Sleep well?" Sherlock asked as John picked up his morning cup of tea from the kitchen table, where it sat every morning. The vampire was dressed in the same suit he wore yesterday. He still smelled faintly of italian restuarant and blood. A violin perched on his shoulder like he was born with it. He looked fresh as a daisy in a detergent commercial and John hated it.

"Very well. Woke up badly." He grunted as he sipped at his tea. A little cold, but still excellent. The taste of it sunk into his system like an internal massage. He took a seat at the kitchen table. "Are you one of those people who own fifteen of the same outfit? Because there's no way you slept in that."

Sherlock smiled mysteriously. John considered how mysterious it would look with four or five teeth missing. He set aside the violin and sat down in his armchair. "Didn't sleep. How's your arm?"

"Sore." He mumbled into his mug. After a second's consideration, he re-thought the question. Shouldn't it be a little more than sore? He raised his arm to take a look at it. There was still a slash on his forearm. Not terribly deep, but at least five inches long. John didn't have much of a chance to look at it the night before, but he was sure it hadn't healed half-way on it's own in the last 12 hours. He vaguely remembered the feel of something wet and cold. "Fine, actually. Did you… do something to it? While I was asleep?"

"Yes, I did." Sherlock stood to casually fiddle with his sheet music. Or at least, a stage actor's idea of casual. "Although, I don't think you were exactly entirely conscious at the time."

John sighed and took a long sip of his tea to buy himself a little time to sort through his patchy memory. "You do understand that it's... not very good to sneak into someone's room and do things to them while they're asleep, right?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not a complete imbecile, John. Let me remind you that you did, in fact, give me permission. And it's not as if I did anything unseemly to-"

"Sherlock, calm down. I'm not angry with you." John tried diffusing the froth Sherlock was working himself into. Luckily, he deflated pretty quickly. "Actually, I'm glad you did... whatever you did. I'm just saying, next time try knocking."

"Uh. Yes, well..." The words staggered out of his mouth, bashfully. "Next time we're chasing a serial killer, you could try a little harder not to get kidnapped."

John snickered as Mrs. Hudson swept in with breakfast. "Finished another case so soon, Sherlock? I was sure you'd be taking it easy." She chattered pleasantly as she laid out a plate of bacon and eggs.

"I was. That case was simplicity itself. When the crime scene is that flashy, the murderer is usually more than happy to hand themselves in. Or they get caught up in the theatrics and get sloppy covering their tracks." Sherlock sighed, leaning back in his armchair. He picked up his bow and began to leisurely stroke it across a well-used block of rosin. "Either way, I thought it'd be a nice, relaxing way to spend the evening."

John shot him an incredulous glance. He was considering the possibility that perhaps the words 'nice' and 'relaxing' meant something different in his language.

"Well... maybe relaxing isn't quite the right word." Sherlock conceded.

"No, dear. It is not." Mrs. Hudson cooed gently, flitting into the living room to set a bowl of fresh fruit on top of the pile of clutter on top of the coffee table. She quickly swooped around Sherlock's chair to peck a kiss on his cheek. "But I'm glad you enjoyed yourself."

Sherlock took a moment to preen before lifting his violin back up to his chin to play a light, fluffy melody. John shook his head in amusement and finished his breakfast in a contented, music induced haze. The events of yesterday floated through his mind like the memory of a dream. Setting up elaborate traps, sprinting through dark alleyways, being kidnapped by strange men spouting stranger warnings. How could it be anything but a dream?

He considered the strange man and his warnings/threats/accusations. His well-manicured words drifting through John's mind as he glanced up at the skull grinning down at him from the mantlepiece. It suddenly occurred to him that the odd piece of decor was a bit… small. "Sherlock."

He hummed his acknowledgement over his violin.

"The man who kidnapped me. He said a lot of… stuff. About you. And well… I was just wondering…"

The violin music faded. Sherlock squinted at John inquisitively, but said nothing.

"Is that skull real?" He attempted to make it sound casual. Just a passing curiosity. But he knew at this point he had a better chance at making his bacon regenerate into a living pig and fly out the window.

The violin let out an ungodly shriek as Sherlock pulled the bow in a harsh downstroke. He set them both aside and stood with a growl, his face pulled into a grimace of severe distaste. "I need to make a call."

He swept out of the room without another word.