Chapter Text
If there was one thing that Sherlock Holmes loved to do- it was talk.
It didn't matter the hour, or the location. It didn't matter if John was glaring at him reprovingly over a cup of coffee that he hadn't yet had the chance to drink, or if an international crime lord had a pistol pointed to his head. It didn't even matter if anyone else was listening and it could be about virtually anything.
Sherlock loved to hear himself talk so much so that John had a secret suspicion that he must practice clever quips and one-liners all night in the mirror when any sane human being would be sleeping.
In fact, on more than one occasion John had returned from an errand to find Sherlock still chattering away in the dining room, tossing bits of paper this way and that, seemingly unaware that their conversation had ever stopped.
John liked to pretend that this was an irritating trait of Sherlock's, but in truth he often found great comfort in it. It meant that no matter how deep into the night it was, his quick-witted flatmate would always be there with a grand monologue to chase away the dreadful silence and the nightmarish memories that lurked therein.
That is…if he hadn't already been shaken awake by the man himself, who FAR too often would pull John from his bed with wild eyes and the feverish assurance that this “could absolutely not be done without his assistant.”
(John did often wonder as to just how much he was truly needed. Surely, if he was that integral to Sherlock's work, the pompous ass would think to pay him.)
It was a Sunday morning when John walked downstairs to an entirely monologue-free flat. He didn't notice at first, as he padded groggily into the kitchen and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, but by the time he had brewed a cup of coffee and managed to drink half of it without being interrupted by a triumphant shout of “That's it!” or some innocuous household object whizzing by his ear, he knew something was amiss.
Outside, the gray London sun was beginning to filter in through the drapes, and John swore he could hear the bits of dust floating down to hit the burgundy carpet, it was that silent.
“...Sherlock?” It came out sounding strained and a touch too loud for the uncharacteristically serene morning. John cleared his throat self-consciously. Dread settled low in his stomach as he began to fear for the worst. His hand was just closing around the handle of a rarely-used broom- a piss poor attempt at self defense - when he heard a very small, very un-Sherlock-like, “mhm?” from the living room.
“Sherlock, is that you?”
“...John?”
Well, that was Sherlock's voice, no doubt. But John had never heard him like this before. The self-important lilt had vanished from his voice and he sounded…scared?
“Sherlock, what's-”
The detective in question was lying on their beaten-down beige sofa, feet dangling off of the edge because he was just so goddamn tall. He was dressed in the same trademark ensemble John had seen him in two days ago, which wouldn't be consequential except he was soaking wet and covered in a grisly mixture of grime and blood.
John's fingers twitched against his coffee cup handle and he grimaced. His immediate instinct was to fly to his friend's side and peel back the layers of clothing to check for wounds. But. Sherlock didn't appreciate being touched. And he had always been able to patch himself up well enough before.
John forced himself to take a swallow of his cooling coffee with false nonchalance though his throat felt tight. His doctorate was truly going to waste.
“Are you all right?” He asked carefully, not wanting to inadvertently insult his pride. “Are you injured?”
Sherlock took a slow, shaky breath and paused, as if mulling the question over. Gingerly, he patted down his front, as if checking for bullet wounds. “No.” He said finally, in that same, small voice.
John raised his eyebrows to his hairline. Sherlock never responded to anything with a one-word answer. He didn't even know he was capable of it.
“Right. Why haven't you cleaned yourself up, then?”
Sherlock frowned, and for a frightful moment it looked as though he might cry. Instead he huffed out a sigh and said in a downright quavering tone, “Got tired.”
What in God's name…?
“You…got tired?”
“Mhm.”
“I…” John paused, dumbfounded. He needed to get a little closer to check if his pupils were dilated, but… “Sherlock, are you-” He stopped himself abruptly, remembering what had happened the last time that he'd brought up the famous detective's drug problem. “...ill?” He finished lamely.
Sherlock furrowed his brow at the question. “Rhinovirus: cough. Nasal congestion. Hoarseness. Body aches. Headaches. Fatigue. Low-grade fever of 38.3 to 38.9 degrees Celsius. No.” He paused meaningfully. “Stupid question.”
John blinked. Sherlock looked up at him from the sofa with an expression he could only think to describe as petulant, and barring the blood and grime, there was something oddly endearing about Sherlock's unusual demeanor today.
“Well, excuse me for being concerned about my frie- flatmate.” John quickly corrected himself. Sherlock didn't have friends, evidently. An oddly sad expression crossed Sherlock's face but he didn't correct him. Instead he mumbled, “Have to go?”
“What?”
“Work.”
“You said you're not ill, so. Yeah. I expect Lestrade is wanting you in.”
“Hate him.” Sherlock groaned. “He's so stupid.” A long suffering sigh. “Everyone's so stupid.”
“So you've said. Listen, if you don't need me for anything, I was hoping that I could go out with Jeanette again today. I've hardly been able to get away at all this week and you know how women are.”
“I don't.”
“What?”
“Know how women are.”
“Right. Well I suppose I could always set you up with someo-”
“And I do need you.”
John must have let his disappointment show on his face because Sherlock's face crumpled again like he might cry, which was a strange and unsettling sight.
“Sorry.” Sherlock muttered and John's ears perked up because before this very moment he was certain that hell would freeze over before Sherlock Holmes ever apologized to anyone.
“What…? Sorry, what did you say? I don't think I heard you correctly.”
“Nothing.” The curly haired man rolled over and buried his face in the cushions like a shy cat and John felt that he must truly be losing his faculties.
“John?” He spoke up suddenly in a meek voice. “I think I do have rhinovirus after all.” He punctuated his sentence with a painfully obvious fake cough and John couldn't help but laugh out loud at the absurdity of it all.
“Of course you do. Well, I had best phone Lestrade then, hadn't I?”
Sherlock popped his head up, clear delight written all over his features and John felt a little light-headed. The only explanation is that today was simply not real. He must have bumped his head harder than he thought in that case they had two days ago and this was all an absurdly pleasant dream. Leave it to him to have an entire dream centered on Sherlock being nice to him. Best not to examine that too closely.
…
Lestrade's voice over the phone took him out of his dreamlike state, just a bit.
He didn't believe that Sherlock was ill, of course, because no one had ever seen Sherlock ill before. Even on death's door, he never permitted himself to rest and even ringed with purple, sleepless circles, his eyes never lost their sharp, calculating gaze.
There was always some matter of life and certain death for him to attend to, and if there wasn't, then he would dig until he found another all-important case to consume his entire being for the next 72 hours or so until he was bored again.
John had read somewhere once that sharks can't ever stop swimming or else they will die. Sherlock, then, in this way and in many others, was like a shark.
In the back of his mind, John was glad for whatever strange affliction had overcome Sherlock today if it meant that at least he could finally relax.
But then re-entering the living room, he wasn't so sure. Sherlock was still lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling where a suncatcher was throwing colorful, iridescent patterns on the drywall. The sight gave him pause. It reminded him vaguely of an infant staring up at a mobile from its cot. The feeling was reinforced when he noticed that Sherlock was chewing on his knuckles as he watched.
“Hey now, you don't know where that's been, do you?” John tried playfully.
To his surprise, Sherlock widened his eyes comically and took his hand out of his mouth as if he had been honestly admonished, and suddenly John felt very awkward.
He was not at all used to being the one to fill the silence, or even have the opportunity to finish his sentences. When it came to Sherlock, God Bless Him, he couldn't get a word in edgewise. Not that he particularly minded, of course. Sherlock almost always knew what he was going to say before he said it anyway.
“Right. Well. I suppose you'd like to have a shower?”
He didn't realize he'd phrased it as a question until Sherlock bobbed his head up and down in agreement but made no move to get up from the sofa.
“Well, it's all yours.”
Sherlock stared at him blankly.
“I'm…I'm going to see if we have anything for brekkie.”