John was probably having an entirely normal day util he returned to his flat. The sound of snoring from behind the door, however, probably alarmed him. It was chorused with Blackheath's louder, more guttural snores, and more than likely aggravating the neighbors.

Sherlock was fast asleep on John's armchair, with his friend's pitbull curled up on his feet to keep them warm. He didn't typically make so much noise (at least not in his sleep), but the travel to the City had worn him down more than usual.

He couldn't have been in the flat for more than a few hours, but already it looked like he'd lived there for ages. His coat, now a short, more discreet, blue shooting jacket, was draped over the slightly ajar bathroom door. In the small kitchen, the sink was full of the used dishes that weren't splayed across the table. An ashtray had been placed by the window, which was opened a crack for a filter as a cigarette uselessly burned down against the ceramic. Hardly domestic bliss, but John's flat was one of the few places left where Sherlock could actually be himself.

Naturally, he'd neglected to even tell John he'd be stopping by. In all the madness of government crackdowns and public shame, some things needed to remain sacred.