Sherlock had stayed up the entire night. He'd checked in on John every hour or so and left a bottle of water on his bedside table after his first trip upstairs in case John woke up at some point feeling dehydrated. He'd actually tried to wake the drunk intentionally just to get some fluids in him, but he'd been extremely resistant to his efforts.

At around eight o'clock AM, he'd made a few calls and procured two train tickets to Hampshire for that evening. After that, he reclined on the sofa and closed his eyes for a short nap. He assumed John would be up and about sometime before noon and that would act as a sufficient alarm system for him.


Something stirs him just after ten o'clock, but in the foggy haze of not enough sleep, he can't tell what it is. He looks around the living room and mumbles his flatmate's name. No, he's still upstairs and it doesn't look like Mrs. Hudson's been by either. Something tells him to go check on his friend, so he stumbles his way up the stairs without bothering to straighten his suit or his hair beforehand. "John?" he repeats as he approaches the bedroom door.

Headache. Hang over. Nightmare? Odd time, but yes. There'd been a nightmare. Usually Sherlock could predict them well enough to either prevent or interrupt them, but he hadn't noticed the warning sings the night before. Masked by the drink.