Tuesday morning.
Just awoken, Sherlock was curled up in the rocking chair he used as a bed, leisurely eating a sandwich Edward had brought him, covered with a wool coat.
Sherlock had low blood sugar. If he didn't immediately eat something or drink some sugary water or honey water upon waking, his brain couldn't start working.
It could be a congenital problem, or perhaps he just didn't like eating.
If Edward hadn't brought him breakfast, he probably would have just settled for some honey water.
"You're going to get a stomach ulcer if you keep this up, Hermes," Edward said, sitting in the chair next to Sherlock's desk, his voice grave.
He also held a similar sandwich. Soft white bread stuffed with beef, onions, cheese, lettuce, and plenty of cheese sauce.
It was the portable breakfast that Edward had instructed his house's cook to prepare in advance the night before.
Because he knew Sherlock wouldn't eat breakfast if he could help it.
