Bond's Room, 18 Apocalypse Avenue, Early Monday Morning.

Although his eyes flew open, Bond didn't wake with a start, or melodramatically sit up, gasping and panting. In fact, apart from the light sheen of sweat, there was nothing to indicate he'd had anything other than the soundest, deepest, most comfortable sleep in years. He definitely didn't look like this was the third or fourth time he'd woken for the exact same reason.

Glancing at his clock, seeing the glowing numbers mocking him, he gave up on sleep and got out of bed. He paused only long enough to pull on a pair of shorts before pulling out the bag stored in the small fire safe under his bed. Once at his desk, he ignored most of the bags contents, at least beyond a check that they were all still there and intact, interested only in the slim white phone. Pulling up that final text message, he turned on his computer, trying to access MI6 databanks, only to be stymied once again by whatever it was that that enabled him to be eighteen months in his future, but wouldn't let him contact anyone back in the past. He was certain that M had planned on that too.

Carefully returning the phone to the bag, then the bag to the safe, he stretched back out on the bed, resigned to spending what was left of the night staring at the ceiling.

[Establishly.]

Office Hours [All Day, Monday]

The air in Bond's office was a little less repressed than usual, not that he'd admit it was mostly due to the night he'd had, and despite the way he was focused on his computer, Bond seemed almost ready to jump out of his skin at the slightest disturbance.

Not that he was in any mood for it.

[Door's closed, post's open.]