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John rolled over, and his bad shoulder woke him up. He rolled back, wondered what that snuffling sound was, and fell back to sleep. Moments later, something cold and wet nudged him in the ear. He grumbled and batted at it, then fell asleep again. Then something licked him, and he rocketed out of the bed like a pheasant.
"Sherlock!" he bellowed.
Not surprisingly, his flatmate failed to materialize and explain himself. John flailed his way to the lamp and switched it on.
Sure enough, there was a big floppy dog in his room. The door was closed; he checked and found it was even still locked -- well, locked again, most likely.
John yawned hugely and sat down on the bed. The dog humbly put its head on John's knee, and looked up at him soulfully. John absent-mindedly scratched its ears. "Well, who's a good dog, then?" John asked.
The dog thumped its tail gently against the floor.
John sighed. He was really tired. It had been a long, long day at the surgery, and it had followed a long night of chasing Sherlock round town while he solved a jewel theft for the Met.
"House-trained, are you?" John asked the dog.
It thumped its tail.
"Right." John yawned again. "Up you get."
The dog scrambled onto the bed and curled up on his feet. John went back to sleep.