It was a calm, London morning. There was such an unusual silence and tranquility in the apartment.

After a night of chasing another criminal, everyone just needed a moment of peace.

You were sitting on the couch reading a book with your legs crossed. Sherlock came into the living room like a shadow in his dressing gown over his suit, and went into the kitchen.

The refrigerator door opened, making a slight clink of milk bottles in it.

"Damn," Sherlock said, displeased, "The blood is out."