John had never been much of an early riser, but the army had drilled it into him hard, and eventually it had stuck. He was awake with the birds these days, regardless of how much sleep he'd had or how late Sherlock had kept him up, dissecting ancient cases or bits of eyeball. In the mornings, if he lay just so and was very still and quiet, he could hear the telltale clicking and buzzing of Sherlock in bed below, texting – probably on John's own phone.
However early John woke, Sherlock would be up before him. He wondered hazily if his flatmate ever slept at all. If he had a case on Sherlock would lie on the sofa, eerily corpselike, or pace sometimes, covered in sticky-back patches. But he never really slept. And if no cases were forthcoming then it was always John who levered himself out of the sofa first and declared that he was going to bed and no he would not be watching another rerun of QI on Dave. He imagined Sherlock, zombiefied, watching Top Gear at 4am. Maybe he really never slept at all. Maybe he was nocturnal and spent his days hibernating until John came home from the surgery. Maybe he sat in front of the phone all day, waiting for Lestrade to call. Maybe.
He wondered if Sherlock could hear Mrs Hudson pottering away in her downstairs flat. John supposed that she was an early riser too. You've got to be on your toes if your husband is a double murderer.
Some days John would be up and out and barely see Sherlock before rushing off to take blood pressures and tend grazed knees. Weekends he might lie in bed till noon, listening to the cars and tourists in the street below, before descending to find his flatmate in a dressing gown, wielding a broadsheet. Some days there would be a buzzing on his bedside table and John would lean over to find a phone – usually Sherlock's – and a text along the lines of: 'Downstairs. We have a case.' or 'I've texted Sarah. You're ill today.'
Today it merely read: 'Toast?'