Holmes sits in the parlor, his long, lanky legs crossed over each other, his pipe puffing softly between his lips. His eyes are half-lidded as the early morning light streams through the gently stirring curtains.

He is wearing his favorite dressing gown, the dark brown one that so compliments his pale skin, and his arms are sprawled on either side of his chair.

You stumble into the parlor, clothes rumpled, your hair disheveled from sleep. A mug of tea is clutched loosely in your hand.

“Holmes?” you question drowsily. “Whatever are you doing up so early?”

“Thinking, dear boy. Ruminating.”

You grumble softly. “You should be sleeping.”

“I could say the same for you. You usually remain asleep until far later in the morning. Why are you not still in bed?”