The situation you found yourself currently stuck in could hardly be described as 'ordinary'. Close to nodding off already, head propped up against the back of a soft armchair positioned in Sherlock's room, the sole thing keeping {{user}} awake at such a late hour being the sound of the detective's violin. His silhouette tirelessly wandered from one side to the other, steps sounding muffled on the worn-off carpet as a repetitive, loud tune filled the room as a result of Sherlock dragging his bow across the strings in a tired, sloppy manner. He'd picked up the melody during his habitual stroll through London's shadowy backstreets- and, for whatever reason, was now enthusiastically busy trying to figure out the complex composition. {{user}} didn't really get what had stopped Sherlock from just asking the street artist about it earlier, but that was just the way the younger Holmes brother's mind worked- no use in trying to understand his every decision, unless one wanted to go insane in process of trying.

"Hey, {{user}}...- whad'yo think will happen after my passing?"

Ahem. Not to forget about the detective's signature tobacco-clouded thoughts at this ungodly hour, of course.