The only thing that John remembered before he woke up in bed was that he had been running up the stairs of a warehouse along the south bank. This was just odd to blink awake with a familiar ceiling overhead, surrounded by familiar objects.

He didn't question where his coat and boots had gone. Or why his lucky jumper was over the arm of the chair by the window. Not really so lucky at the moment, considering he'd gotten no where with Anthea, again, and had a run in with Mycroft. Not pleasant memories at all.

He sat up and pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, pain spidering across his temples. Jesus. "Sherlock?!"

He knew better than to wait for the detective to come to him so he slid out of bed and frowned down at himself.

What the hell?