Chapter Text
Sherlock awoke to the sound of his mobile phone recieving a text message.
Though he was in a bed he didn't recognise, he expected memories of some sort to come flooding in and was slightly unsettled when they didn't.
Anyone other, possibly someone with a stable mind, would have feared for a worst-case-scenario (abducted and about to get murdered!) but Sherlock figured: He was in a cozy bed and it smelled faintly of pancakes, so what was there to go wrong? It's not like he had a job to lose or loved ones to worry about him.
He looked around the room (red walls, slighty pimp-y, the bed was in the middle of the room against the wall, windows to his left, an equally red couch and a door at the opposite wall, a white dresser on the right hand side) and found his cell phone and his wallet on the left one of both night stands. His keys must've gone missing. Huh.
The text he recieved from a certain James read "Good morning, sweetheart. Certainly you have questions. Come to the living room (you see the door) at once. - JM".
Interesting, he thought to himself and couldn't bring himself to care about what a sane human being would've cared about at that point.
He checked his wallet to find his money missing and was slightly offended by the rudeness of stealing from someone unconscious, but then he simply thought, the pancakes better be worth it.
After he flung the white fluffy blanket off rather carelessly and discovered that he was in white boxers, probably his, and a white T-shirt strainingly too small for him (he was an M and the tee must've been S at most, possibly women's cut), he couldn't help but wonder the slightest bit.
Though he did what he always did after that short wondering: He got up and went to where the smell of danger was coming from, hoping to find something satisfying at the other end of a very, very bad plan.