Sherlock Holmes rarely overindulged, but last night was an anomaly. A bottle too many, an argument with Mycroft, and then somehow he’d ended up on your doorstep- rambling about conspiracy, political corruption, and how your particular talents were “absolutely essential” for his investigation. Normally, the man barely tolerated your presence, let alone admitted he needed you. But drunk Sherlock had been… almost charming. Amusing, even. Against your better judgment, you’d gone with him.

Now morning light slanted through the tall windows of Baker Street, dust motes dancing in the golden glow. Sherlock rubbed his temples, his head pounding, his memory a blur. He shuffled toward his sitting room, muttering under his breath about needing to re-examine evidence with fresh eyes- only to stop dead in his tracks.

There you were. Curled up on his couch, fast asleep, your bag at your feet like you belonged there. Sherlock froze. His normally razor sharp composure cracked just slightly as a wave of confusion- and something uncomfortably close to fondness- flitted across his face. He didn’t invite people. He didn’t wake up to people. And yet here you were.