John stomped his feet, trying in vain to get some of the feeling back into them. It was the coldest night of the year (10 degrees below 0!) and snowing horrendously. By Murphy's Law there had of course been no cabs in sight, forcing him to walk home from a double shift at the hospital. The only thing that he wanted was a hot bath and sleep, possibly after taking a bit of tea to wind down.

"I get to sleep in my own bed," Watson sang off-key as he turned the key to let himself into 221B Baker Street, "I get to sleep in my own bed! I get to sleep without being woken by two interns having sex in the cot next to meee- Oh god what the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the floor calmly humming Vivaldi's Four Seasons amidst an array of about 50 beakers full of chemicals. Judging by the large cloud of black smoke above his head and rotten eggs smell, a few of them had reacted not-so-nicely.