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At 4:15 in the morning John was awoken by the stringent chords of a violin. He groaned into the pillow and fumbled around in the bedside drawer, looking for his earplugs, but couldn't find them by touch. He huffed and propped himself up on his elbows. He glared at his pillow for a minute, hoping the noise of dying cats would stop by itself…it didn't.
He resignedly turned on the bedside lamp and searched the drawer properly. Nothing. He frowned in confusion: the earplugs were always in this drawer, specifically because Sherlock liked to compose (if you could call it that) at all hours. He didn't use them for anything else. So where could they have…oh. Oh no he didn't.
John practically leapt out of bed and raced down the stairs to the living room. Sherlock stood facing the windows, torturing his violin. He didn't even turn around when John entered the room. The good doctor strode to the self-proclaimed sociopath and ripped the bow from his hands.
Sherlock didn't startle, but he did hiss as the hair of the bow jerked harshly over his fingers. The man looked down and met the tempestuous blue eyes of his roommate. "John? What are you doing up at this hour?"
John almost strangled him then and there, but his hard-won control took the reins and managed to keep his voice even. "No-one would be able to sleep while you're molesting that instrument, Sherlock."
The genius frowned in confusion. "Why not put ear plugs in as usual?"
John rolled his neck, repeating the mental mantra of 'will not strangle, will not strangle, will not strangle' as he replied. "I would, Sherlock, except they've somehow disappeared from my bedside table. You wouldn't know anything about that would you?"
Sherlock considered for a few seconds before understanding brightened his expression. "Oh yes! I used them in a experiment on the growth rate of a certain species of moth larvae."
John's eye twitched. Actually twitched in one great jerking spasm. "Right…right. They're being used in an experiment on moth larvae. Of course." He shook his head. "Since that's the case, could you please stop torturing that," he pointed at the violin with the bow in his hands, "until I'm not trying sleep? That is, until I've left for work in just over two and a half hours."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I wasn't torturing it John, obviously, I was just trying to calibrate the correct resonance needed to‒"
"I don't care right now Sherlock. I just want another two hours sleep. Will you please stop applying this bow to that instrument until I'm no longer present in any area of the flat?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again but nodded. He put the violin back in its case and flounced over to the sofa, collapsing into his thinking pose. John sighed and turned for the stairs, calling over his shoulder, "'night Sherlock." He got a vague grunt in reply. He trudged up the stairs and crawled back into bed, snuggling under his blankets.
Then he was woken by the sound of agonised screeching. He glanced at the clock, saw the luminescent numbers 5:30 and growled under his breath. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and was about to stand up when the screeching stopped abruptly. He waited for a minute then lay back down.
As soon as he was rolled back up in his blankets the screeching started again. "Dammit," he muttered and dragged his palms over his face. He looked at the clock again: 5:32. "Dammit," he repeated and dragged himself out of bed. He seriously doubted he'd get to sleep anymore, not with Sherlock in this sort of mood.
He plodded down the stairs and into the living room for the second time that morning to find the exact same sight as the first time: Sherlock murdering his violin in the name of experimentation. He wandered over to his infuriating roommate and again plucked the bow from his light grip. He turned it over in his hand and realised it wasn't the same one he'd used earlier. He frowned at Sherlock. "Why a different bow?"
Sherlock smirked. "I seem to recall you asking me not to apply that particular bow to this particular instrument until you weren't in the flat. As you so rightly deduced, this is a different bow, and therefore exempt from the terms of our agreement. When do you leave for work again?"
John really wanted to punch him, but it felt like too much effort at the moment. "I need to leave here by seven."
"Excellent. Why don't you put on some tea since you're up? But we'll have to drink it from glasses: the mugs are full of mold cultures."
John didn't want to know. Really. He wandered into the kitchen and set the bow across the table, not caring if it ended up covered in something nasty. He heard Sherlock humph from the living room and then soft footsteps as the genius followed him. He smiled at that and went through the motions of making a pot of tea.
Once it had steeped, he poured two glasses and turned to find Sherlock standing directly behind him. He startled and tea sloshed over the edge of the glass onto his hands. Boiling hot tea. He yelped and dumped the glasses back on the countertop before rushing to the sink and shoving his hands under the cold water. He sighed in relief and ran the water for two minutes.
Once the heat had mostly disappeared from his skin, he dried his hands carefully and turned back to the tea. Only to find Sherlock standing directly behind him. Predictably, he startled again, but at least he wasn't holding hot tea. "Dammit Sherlock, why are you following me like a lost puppy?"
Sherlock tilted his head (which John thought was also quite puppy-like) and grabbed both his hands. He twisted them this way and that, inspecting between the fingers before declaring "you'll be fine."
John rolled his eyes and removed his hands from Sherlock's grasp. "Thanks for the diagnosis Sherlock, I don't know what I'd do without you."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Sarcasm John? You can do better than that."
John glared at him. "Maybe I could if it wasn't half past five in the bloody morning and if I was running on more than four and a half hours of broken sleep."
Now it was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes. "Oh please, John, I routinely run on less than five hours sleep and I'm perfectly fine."
"Well I'm not you Sherlock, and I'm not sure you're perfectly fine either."
"I know you're not me John, nobody is close to me, and I'm sure I'm perfectly fine, and my own opinion of myself is the only one that matters."
John continued to glare at his infuriating flatmate but couldn't think of a comeback to that except, "what about Mycroft?"
Sherlock's gaze sharpened on him. "What about him?"
John knew he was on shaky ground and went carefully. "Surely if anyone is close to you, it would be Mycroft; his mind may not be quite as fast as yours, but it's not too far behind."
Sherlock just looked at him.
John cleared his throat awkwardly and looked away from that too-intelligent stare. "Tea?"
Without moving anything but his lips Sherlock said "yes please, you know how I like it."
John turned his back on the enigmatic man and set about pouring them new cups of tea. This time he turned around without the glasses in his hand, with the expectation that Sherlock would be directly behind him again. He was not. John sighed in frustration/confusion/annoyance (a common enough occurrence around Sherlock) and picked up his cup of tea. It made him feel infinitely better to be drinking tea regardless of what was going on around him…except, perhaps, during life-or-death situations. He smiled to himself and took another sip.
"John, where's my tea?" came from the living room and John's sudden good mood dampened.
"In the kitchen Sherlock, come and get it if you want it." John was so not in mood to pander to Sherlock's whims this morning.
"Bring it out to me John, you're closer."
John rolled his eyes, but saw that the man had a point. Then he sighed at his self-deception. It wasn't that Sherlock had a point (though he did), it was more the fact that John could hardly bear to deny him anything, even when he was angry/confused/annoyed at him.
He grumbled to himself, but still took Sherlock his tea. The infuriating man had the nerve to smirk at him as he accepted the glass. John had a moment of wanting to pour the liquid over that mop of dark hair but restrained himself: he'd be the one cleaning the mess off the couch and possibly the floor.
Sherlock's smirk broadened as if he could read John's thoughts. John had considered that possibility for a number of months when he first moved in, but after a few experiments of his own (involving graphic mental depictions, ones Sherlock wouldn't be able to ignore) came to the conclusion that no, Sherlock couldn't actually read his thoughts.
He didn't bother glaring at the man, knowing it would have no effect, and instead settled into his chair with the morning paper and glass of tea. There was peaceful silence for all of four and a half minutes before Sherlock leapt to his feet and strode towards his violin. John recognised the danger immediately and, by a hair's breadth, managed to thwart it by grabbing the violin before Sherlock could.
"No Sherlock, no no no no no." He sat back in his chair and placed the violin across his lap. He re-opened the paper, but kept a hawk-eye watch on Sherlock for any sudden movements. The detective pouted at him for all of five seconds before flopping back onto the couch in a sulk. "You wound me John."
Without appearing to look up from his paper John replied "not half as much as I'll wound you if you start torturing this thing again."
Sherlock huffed and rolled over, his back to John.
The doctor chanced a quick direct glance at him and grinned at the obvious petulance in his posture: facing away from the room, arms crossed, knees drawn up as far as the couch would allow, back and neck stiff. He almost chuckled but quickly realised that would be a bit not-good in these circumstances.
John settled down and read the paper, occasionally sipping his tea until it was gone. He didn't notice and kept reading. Halfway through an article John realised his eyes were scratchy and dry. He rubbed at them and checked the time. It was only 6 o'clock. He groaned quietly, not sure if Sherlock was asleep or only thinking, and decided that he could afford to close his eyes for ten minutes; he had enough self-discipline to wake up when he needed to, and he'd set his phone alarm for six-thirty anyway.
What he failed to remember was that his phone was upstairs on his bedside table. And due to his dislike of being jerked out of sleep (he got enough of that in Afghanistan, and from Sherlock) the ring was a quiet, gentle one. So it rang and rang at six-thirty; then again at six-forty; and again at six-fifty; and then again at seven until Sherlock got sick of listening to it and turned the phone off completely.
At 1pm John blinked slowly awake to the dulcet sounds of Brahms' violin concerto. He spotted Sherlock in front of the window, yet again, playing the exquisite music on his violin, which was quite unusual. He smiled as the man swayed gently in time with his playing.
He realised that Sherlock's legs were encased in sunlight: the sun didn't come through that window until afternoon.
He leapt from his chair with a shouted expletive and promptly fell onto the chair opposite when his left leg decided to give out on him. He swore again at the pain in his shin where he'd bashed it. He whimpered a little, then sternly told himself to get a grip. He'd been shot for God's sake, and even then he hadn't whimpered. He straightened up and glanced at Sherlock, who'd stopped playing, and was met with a smug look.
John narrowed his eyes. "What did you do?"
Sherlock attempted an innocent look, but he really wasn't very good at them, not to John. "Nothing John. I assumed you'd set alarm if you wanted to be on time to work."
John narrowed his eyes further. "So you stopped my alarm. Probably turned the phone off at the same time. Any particular reason you're trying to get me fired?"
Sherlock gave him a slightly impressed look that John tried not to preen under. "You're learning John. Can't you figure out why I'd want you fired yourself?"
"Hmm, so you do want me fired. Fantastic. We'll continue this discussion when I get home tonight." Without another glance, John turned and took the stairs two at a time up to his room. He was dressed and presentable in record time and leapt down the stairs two at a time; more dangerous than leaping up them, and much faster than being sensible.
He left the flat without bothering to say goodbye.
John turned his phone on as he slid into a cab. 15 texts and 6 missed calls. Most of them were from Sarah: asking where he was, was he ok, could he still come in to work because there was an inundation of people with flu. One text even asked if he'd been kidnapped again, and if so, could the kidnapper currently reading his texts let her know so she could call in another member of staff to take his shift. The message following that one, some thirty minutes later, told the kidnapper to never mind because apparently no one else was available as they'd all come down with the flu as well. He grinned and tapped out a quick message saying that he was on his way and he'd explain when he got there.
Ten minutes later he was paying the cabby and clambering from the taxi with very little grace. He hurried through the doors of the surgery and Jane, the receptionist, looked at him with relief. "Thank God. We were afraid you'd been kidnapped again." She looked him up and down, tilted her head, and stated, "it was something to do with Sherlock."
John nodded. "He turned off my phone, probably to get me fired…or maybe he was letting me get some sleep…more likely he wanted to get me fired."
"Well tell him that Sarah probably wouldn't fire you even if you never came into work again, she respects you too much. And you're really good at your job." Jane smiled flirtatiously, though John knew it wasn't with intent: she was happily engaged and had been for years. So he laughed with her before retreating to his office to set up for the barrage of clients.
Eleven hours later and John was exhausted, physically and mentally. Jane had gone home hours ago; so had Sarah after making sure he'd be ok to lock up, and he'd finally finished the last of his paperwork.
He was rather zombie-like as he went through the motions of locking everything around the surgery. He stayed that way even after he'd hailed a cab, and as he climbed up the stairs to the flat.
He was met by blissful silence.
John smiled and felt a tension he hadn't been aware of leak from his shoulders. He leisurely removed his coat, scarf and shoes before collapsing in his armchair. He really needed to get to bed (he had to be at the surgery at 8am and he was wrecked) but he also wanted to sit for a bit in the quiet; it was so rare he figured he should treasure it while he had the chance.
John wasn't sure how long he sat there thinking about nothing, but eventually his back started to protest its lounging position. He sighed and stood up, mind already skipping ahead to pyjamas, bed, sleep. And in no time his zombie-tired head was hitting his pillow and being dragged down into the depths of dreams.
And then, about an hour later, he was woken by the sound of screeching strings.
He tried very hard to hold on to his control. He knew shouting at Sherlock could have the opposite effect to what he wanted (that blissful silence from earlier), but as the strings soared into the range of ear-piercing, that last tether of you-don't-really-want-to kill-him snapped. Like a twig.
John leapt from the bed and raced down the stairs two at time. He barged into the lounge room, marched over to Sherlock and tore the violin from his hands.
He snapped its neck. In two. The harsh crack was immensely satisfying. To ensure his madman flatmate didn't attempt to try and play the broken instrument regardless, he took it with him as he calmly went back to bed. Without a word.
As he shut the door to his room he considered that he may have overreacted.