A loud and abrupt rap on the door disturbed the silence that
captivated 221B. John was the first to wake, blinking helplessly like a new
born child as he was snatched from his dream and pulled into reality. His back
clicked into place after an awkward sleeping position had left it almost
crippled. He stumbled across the room to the window and tore the curtains open,
unintentionally disturbing the hangover he was experiencing from the previous
night.
A second knock, this time sounding louder.
John threw a hand to his aching head, each pound on the door
was worth ten to his recovering drunken mind. Sunlight was now pouring into the
bedroom from the window, filling the room with a brilliant glow, revealing all
the little dust particles that would normally have gone unnoticed. Outside, the
sky was untouched by clouds, bright and blue like the eyes that now peered in
through the letter box of their flat.
‘Hello?’
John could just about make out the voices coming from
downstairs. God, why couldn’t Sherlock get up and see to them? Didn’t he know
that John had been out all night with Sarah?
‘Hello? Anyone
ther-‘
‘Zoe, behave!’
‘No one’s in. We might
as well leave.’
A new voice suddenly integrated with the previous two.
‘Ah, gentlemen! And
young Zoe too. Please, come in.’
John stopped. Was that – it couldn’t be – Sherlock was
actually up?! He staggered over to the door to get a better listen. The voices
had stopped in the hall. Everything had gone quiet. Why weren’t they coming up? Unless – oh, they
must have gone into Mrs Hudson’s for a bit. Perfect. Just enough time to give
him a chance to get dressed. He sorted through the pile of clothes lying next
to the bed; the shirt from last night, a pair of jeans from two weeks ago - at
this stage, anything would do. He threw on a pair of trousers and the jumper
he’d bought last week and ran a comb quickly through his hair. Finally he
managed to open the door and make his way downstairs; stopping quickly in the
kitchen to tend to his headache and dry throat.
***
