Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade is tired. He just wanted one good night's sleep. But oh no, someone decided to stumble across a body at six in the morning. That someone, Dudley Dursley, was still wheezing. He was already pink enough, but now he looked like a pig. Lestrade's already thinning patient was thinning out still. He walked up to Dudley who was sitting down busy clasping and unclasping his hands.

"So you came here to retrieve your folder and discovered the body?" the silver haired DI asks Mr. Dursley.

Dudley nods while futilely trying to control his breathing and trying not to look at spot where he had found the body. Well he could, as the body had been taken away fifteen minutes ago. What he could not fathom in his muddled state was why he was still here.

"Look Mr. Dursley you can leave now but don't go too far away."

His slow brain gets what the detective means, "You think-"

"It's a police thing."

Dursley nods once again and leaves. That was a nightmare of epic proportions. He now has to call his secretary and cancel his appointments. He needed a day off and he needed to talk to his wife.

But before he left the scene of crime, he hears the detective shouting at a subordinate, "What is this wooden stick?"

Dudley peeks at the "stick" from the corner of his eyes. A shiver runs down his body. He knows what that is.

Sherlock Holmes was bored. He had completed a case two days prior which was too easy. The Magnussen issue was still out there. He thinks he knows what he wanted to do but he wasn't sure it could actually work. Plus John was back at Baker Street, still sulking and angry. And his bullet wound still stared back at him every time he looked in the mirror, reminding him about that night.

He was staring up at the ceiling, contemplating shooting the wall again when he gets a message. The phone was on the ground. He considers calling John but decides against it because it is seven thirty in the morning and John might be still sleeping. The phone pings again. He picks up the phone anyway. He smiles.

Found a body. Jane Doe. Gunshot wounds. -L

Shooting was post mortem. COD unclear. -L

Perfect. Sherlock is now a flurry of activity. First he throws away his dressing robe, not caring where it falls. He jumps in and out of his bathroom in a record of two minutes. He grabs his jacket and runs upstairs to rouse John.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouts, "JOHN, CASE!"

John Watson almost falls off his bed. He was dreaming about babies and rainbows when he sees an unicorn transforming into a fierce dragon shouting out his name.

"Dra-wha-huh?" John mumbles as he tries to wake up. He still thinks a dragon wants to eat him, but instead he sees the world's only consulting detective looming over him in his six feet tall frame. "Oh." John mutters, his mind clearing little by little.

"No time John. Here, your clothes," Sherlock says as he throws a handful of clothes at John's face. John rolls his eyes and leaves the comfort of his bed as Sherlock prances out of his room, talking about something "COD, unclear, wonderful". Wonderful indeed, John grumbles as he mistakenly wears his shirt inside out.