Nightmare On Baker Street

A POEtic Method

June 23

I was awakened at 5:23 AM (on a Saturday) by a call. I was not a morning person. By any means. In stead of even looking at caller ID, I hit ignore and rolled over, hoping for sleep. Silence settled blissfully over my flat. I grew still and began to slip from conciousness. My dreams were almost tangible. Nearly there. Fading...

My phone cried out again, tearing my from my placid condition.

"Ugh!" I groaned, seizing the phone and squinting to make out the screen with my blurry, half-lidded eyes. Sherlock. Fighting back a moan, I thought to myself, could be important, then picked up.

"Sherlock, can this wait?" I whined groggily.

"Why don't you respond to your texts?" He complained, succeeding in not answering my question.

"I was sleeping. Peacefully. Because it's Saturday, and I have off. What do you w-w-want?" I scrutinised, failing to stifle a huge yawn.

"Come to 221B."

Beep. Line disconnected.

"Come on..." I buried my face in the pillow, fighting back another miserable groan. Lethargic and exhausted, I hauled myself from the warm, ensnaring blankets and stumbled to the bathroom, phone still clutched in my hand. It buzzed as I passed over the threshold, and when I looked at it, there were five new messages. All from Sherlock. The first said, Meet me at 221B. The next: Why haven't you responded yet? Next: Is there something wrong with your mobile? And after that: I'm going to call you if you don't reply within the next five minutes. Then the most recent ordered: Come quickly. Don't bother with getting dressed.

Sniggering, I quickly replied, So... In my PJ's or nothing, then set down my phone on the countertop and began to do my makeup. As I completed the second eye, my mobile vibrated.

A question deserves a question mark.

PJ's or nothing?

He took a long time to reply after that. At least the first time he'd had a bit of a cover. Now, not so much. When it finally came through, though, it made me laugh aloud.

Whichever you feel is appropriate.

I checked my outfit in the mirror -- my black camisole, which I had neglected to take off yesterday and a pair of silk PJ pants, which were thin and blue and decorated with little purple polka-dots -- and decided that it wasn't too intimate attire. The most it did was show off my enviable hour-glass figure. And the camisole, however tight, wasn't too low cut. It still covered... Nevermind. I didn't want to think about that. Shaking off the painful memory, I brushed my hair back into a sloppy ponytail, then, grabbing my phone and a purple hoodie, I headed for the door.

Shrugging the jacket onto my shoulders as I got out of the building, I noted with annoyance that the sky was still mostly dark; dawn was only just beginning to stretch its pale pink fingers over the convex atmosphere, and the air was still, and crisp for June. I nearly fell asleep in the taxi. It shouldn't've been legal for anyone to be awake that early. I planned groggily to tell Sherlock off for making me get up, but most of the motivation faded into nothing by the time I reached 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was completely giddy when I came in, practically dancing around the flat in his joy.

"Well, don't you look happy." I yawned as I walked in. He whirled around to face me, smiling so widely you'd think he was a kid on Christmas. His adorable, boyish grin made my heart beat a tiny bit faster, and it was contagious. I couldn't help the smile that tugged at my own tired lips. I gasped in surprise as Sherlock seized me in a rough embrace, beaming. I blushed.

"He's struck again." Came John's voice from another room, and, craning my neck around Sherlock's arm, I saw him wandering round from the kitchen and looking just as tired as I felt. "The Poe killer."