John Watson looked down at the sleeping form of his very own Consulting Detective, curled up against him as if John was Sherlock’s favourite teddy bear.
When Sherlock Holmes set his mind to something, he did it one hundred per cent. A case, an experiment, running across London after a suspect, or lounging in his old dressing gown and a funk. Or sex, John thought happily.
Or, indeed, sleeping.
John glanced to the bedside clock he had remembered to re-set to daylight savings time. If Sherlock didn’t wake up soon, they were going to be late.
Sherlock slept like a stone, like a log, like the world’s largest baby.
John shook Sherlock’s shoulder. “Wake up, Sherlock.” The sleeping man grunted softly, held onto John a little tighter, and slept on. John sighed. Time for the big guns.
“I need to tell you something. It’s important”, he whispered. “I had a letter from the hospital administrator. They want to transfer me.” Sherlock tensed under his hand. Yes, he was definitely awake. “They want to transfer me… to Cardiff.”
Sherlock’s eyes flew open and the man did not so much sit up as spring upright like a human Jack-in-the-box. He looked at John, aghast. “Cardiff?” he mouthed.
John dissolved in helpless laughter. There was only one word he managed to get out.