Holmes was sulking.

There was really no other way to put it. He was definitely sulking.

That alone would not have bothered me. I had seen the best and worst of Holmes' moods, and though they could be a trial, they were part of the man.

Nor was this particular foul mood anywhere as bad as some I had witnessed. This was mild, nothing to concern oneself over.

Or so it would have been, were it not for the reason he was sulking.

He was sulking because Inspectors Gregson and Lestrade had not been available when he had called upon Scotland Yard today, and consequently he had had to work with Hopkins and Bradstreet instead, which I had thought was a rather nice turn of events, given that he got along better with those two anyway. Holmes could barely look at Gregson or Lestrade without insulting one of them some days, and it was usually Lestrade who caught most of it. Having Bradstreet and Hopkins, who usually managed to avoid most of Holmes' criticims, along had made things go by so much more smoothly.

But now Holmes was sulking, wondering where the two could have gotten themselves off to, and where they could be going, and what was so important that it had called them away from the Yard.

I wondered if he realized he sounded like a boy who became angry when the two little boys he liked to pick on suddenly weren't there and realized he actually liked them.

Probably not.

There was a knock on the door that was more of a thud, really. I waited, hoping, as late as it was that it was a customer with a case that would interest Holmes. The distraction would be good for him.

Apparently it was not meant for either of us, for we were left undisturbed in the sitting room. I looked over at Holmes' misery ridden form, and wished for something to keep him occupied.

I started at the sound of a second thud; this time the sound came from Holmes' bedroom rather than from downstairs. Holmes and I were across the room in seconds and carefully entering his room. Nothing was out of place.

I started again as something hit the window. Holmes and I went to it, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw the hand.

A second later I realized it was attached to an arm, and that it was waving almost frantically. I threw open the window without thinking, and stared as someone scrambled through the window and into Holmes' bedroom.

Holmes, more wary than I, had seized my cane as we left the sitting room and now used it to prod the panting figure that was now lying in his bedroom floor.

"Down!" The intruder snapped, and I didn't hesitate to obey the command. Neither did Holmes, I noticed. There was something about the man's tone of voice that said you disobeyed him at your own peril.

Our visitor pulled the shades shut, and scrambled to his feet. He peeked out, once, then scrambled from Holmes' bedroom to our sitting room.

Warily we followed the shadow into the other room.

Lestrade was closing the shades and retreating rather quickly across the room. I stared.

"Lestrade?" Holmes, too, was at a loss for words. Neither one of us spoke as the man stood there, slightly out of breath.

"You're bleeding." I finally said. It was all I could think of to say.

His gaze strayed to his arm, which was indeed bleeding. "Oh." He panted. "Think someone stabbed me."

"Did you climb up the side of the house?" Holmes finally asked.

"Yes. Hope you don't mind." Lestrade replied, as if it were a perfectly normal course of action.

"Call Inspector Lestrade, Holmes. Someone's been sneaking into our house." I joked, and Holmes chuckled. Even Lestrade cracked a short-lived smile.

"Need to get Gregson." Lestrade darted out of the sitting room and back into Holmes' bedroom. He peeked out the window. "Be at the back door in ten?" He gasped.

"Certainly." Holmes said as Lestrade pulled up the window and climbed through it. I watched him go, amazingly surefooted even in the night. Then I closed the window and locked it.

"It looks like we might find out why Gregson and Lestrade were busy this morning after all." I said with a great deal more lightness than I felt. Something about this felt terribly familiar.

But Holmes was already like a man reborn as we retreated from his room.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes does not belong to me.