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Sherlock Holmes entered the bedroom of his friend and biographer, one hand holding a guttering tallow candle against the dark of midnight at Baker Street. Dr. Watson was a single bundle of bedclothes, wrapped and deep in peaceful slumber.
How many times had they begun a case together this way, deep in the dark hours of the morning, Holmes pulling at the traces and Watson roused out of his bed? Once more unto the breach, dear friend.
"Come, Watson, come. The game is afoot!" Holmes cried, the hand not holding the candle shaking his companion by the shoulder through the bedclothes.
The only movement from the bed came in the form of a hand reaching out from the counterpane, groping briefly on the nightstand past the pocket-watch and hairbrush, and finding the object of its search – the Army revolver.
Which was then aimed directly at the detective.
"On the other hand," Holmes responded smoothly, after a moment of blank staring, "there's really no reason why you couldn't follow in a later train. I'll just leave the particulars, shall I?"
The gun barrel nodded an affirmative.
"Sorry to disturb your rest, old chap. I'll just see you in the Cotswolds later this morning." Holmes backed out of the room.
Watson set the gun back down and once more burrowed into the blankets.