"Mmh... What?" John mumbled and buried his face in the pillow.

He did not have to open his eyes to know there was dark all around him. And to know there was the detective standing in his bedroom he also did not have to do it.

What on earth is he doing here? It's bloody night for heaven's sake! was something he would most likely thought if only he wasn't so awfully tired (it is pretty hard to use your brain for some another things than the control of breathing and heart activity when you are in fact still asleep).

"...John," the intrusive yet – due to the deepness and the sonority of its tone – attractive voice was heard again, sounding a bit insistent.

"What is it?" the doctor inquired more mumblingly (since his mouth was pressed to the pillow) and then slowly rolled over on his side.

"Wake up," replied the voice (it was more of a command actually).

John opened his eyes and squinted into the dark: there, of course, stood his flatmate.

The dusky, soaring figure, merging in with the gloom of John's bedroom, was giving the impression of a creature emerging from darkness, of something fragile – a ghost that disappears if someone switches on the light.

But John knew it did not work that way. He knew the man because of whom he's narrowing his eyes was really just a man, flash and bone, and no supernatural being created from shadows or smoke – cigarette smoke – or something like that. It was Sherlock. And Sherlock would definitely not disappear – under any circumstances.

"Haven't you somehow mistaken our bedrooms?" he asked in a way clearly driving at the fact that this kind of thing was absolutely impossible to happen to someone like his flatmate, and that he was aware of it and therefore his question was not meant as a mock at Sherlock's intelligence and inability to remember the location of his own bedroom. No, the question was asked only because of John's pure frustration caused by that despite he knew all this, the detective was still standing in his very room.

Sherlock – who surprisingly did understand what his friend had in mind – however, had no time to start a pointless conversation. "Get out of your bed," he said and, a bit impatiently (maybe ruthlessly), yanked John's duvet off of him, "Now."

"What the–!" the doctor jolted and inwardly thanked God that he (unlike Sherlock) always slept in pyjamas. "Seriously?" he said and after sitting up at his bed and switching the bedside lamp on, he turned at his flatmate who'd thrown the cover away – on the floor.

"There's no time for waking you up gently."

"Really?" he wondered. "So you're telling me this wasn't the gentle way?"

Sherlock didn't answer - apparently he'd managed to also wake up John's sarkasm.

"What are you even doing here?"

"Hm? What?" he jerked his head and turned at John with a questioning look; somehow he managed to lose himself in thoughts.

Wonderful, flashed through John's head. "You. My bedroom. Night. Why?"

"Oh. Yes," the detective was back again. "We have a case."

"We have a case?" John repeated doubtfully. "Couldn't it wait till morning?"

"It is morning already."

"Eh. Sunrise, Sherlock. Sunrise."

"In half an hour. Just enough time for you to get up and do those things people usually do at the morning before going out."

John sighed in defeat (he did not think that gobbling up a half-baked toast while loading a gun were things considered as those which people usualy do at morning, but he also did not intend to discuss it). At least it seemed to be a tricky puzzle (if not Sherlock would surely wait until morning – well, John hoped he would) and those occasionally took about two or three days to solve, and since it was Thursday, it might then easily last till Sunday, which would mean: no family dinner. "Fine."

. . .

I've surpassed myself :D (2 updates in one day - don't worry, it won't happen again)