I pushed the door open. Dad was asleep on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. I snickered to myself, because Sherlock was untidily sprawled over most of the rest of the bed, half over Dad, still fully clothed. He’d clearly pulled one of his marionette acts, wherein he bounced about in full Sherlockitude, then exhaustion had overtaken him and he’d collapsed like his strings had been cut. It was something of a miracle that he’d actually made it to the bed before losing consciousness.
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