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 Life was flowing excitedly through London’s streets on that strangely warm November Saturday night, but in the flat on the first floor of 221B Baker Street there were no lights on. Its occupants were in fact sound asleep in their own bedroom, despite the fact it was only 11 p.m.

Sherlock and John had been busy with a case that had been revealed to be very interesting (from Sherlock’s point of view) but also very tiring (from John’s point of view), meaning both men had slept very little in the last four days. Finally that afternoon they were able to catch the criminal and Lestrade had arrested him. 

Once they got back home, after the usual cup of tea John insisted on having, both men were utterly spent and decided to go to sleep. 

Sherlock fell asleep the second he buried himself under two heavy comforters, his room being the colder in the flat in his opinion. He woke up from a nightmare a couple of hours later with a gasp, panting like he had just run a marathon; his subconscious played bad tricks on him sometimes, making him relive in his sleep his worst fears when he had no control over his emotions. It was 1.52 a.m.. 

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howlingmary79

November 2016

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