Something was amiss in 221B Baker Street. Everything had seemed to slow down, gradually grinding to a halt. Sherlock wasn't himself and John was at a loss about what to do about it. In the beginning John was able to at least have Sherlock look at case notes, to which he would often respond with his favourite phrase of 'obvious', but things were changing. The unusual cases, the cases that needed some thought, were being ignored. If Sherlock looked at the notes at all, he would likely respond with an indifferent 'I don't know.'; a phrase that more or less didn't exist regarding Sherlock till now.
The doctor in John had always subconsciously kept a record of Sherlock's sleeping and eating patterns but in the past few weeks he had been carefully recording everything to do with Sherlock. The information lay in a small notebook that was always kept on him. And now Sherlock wasn't eating at all. Before it had been difficult enough to have him eat the necessary standard of calories to prevent things as simple as dizzy spells and fainting, but now it was impossible.
The days dragged on as Sherlock became more and more distant. His table experiments were looking neglected and despite John's encouragement, which was notably very rare until now, they looked to be staying that way. Specimens which had been worked on for many months were left forgotten to the point of filling the apartment with an awful stench. When John asked if he could throw them away, the question was met with a nonchalant shrug, stunning John to complete silence for many hours. He grew more and more worried with the stress beginning to effect his sleep. There was also the constant press from Lestrade, Mycroft and other potential customers adding to his ragged appearance and anxiety and he was truly suffering. Before the fourth week was up, he knew it was time to take action before Sherlock pushed both his and John's body too far.
On this particular day, Sherlock was distant as ever, watching the somewhat torrential rain pour down onto the street and the unfortunate pedestrians below. John walked into the living room looking worse for wear after an unsettled attempt at sleep. Looking at Sherlock, he made the effort to sound as cheery as possible with his morning greeting.
"Good morning Sherlock! It's raining a storm outside, isn't it?"
John recognised it was a dismal attempt at conversation and wasn't surprised that silence was his only response. Moving into the kitchen, he frowned as he searched his weary mind like the night before for ideas that would more or less force Sherlock out of the house. The only somewhat coherent one consisted of a mental institute and while that almost sounded like it could work, he deemed it too risky for now. But for how long it would stay that way, he didn't know.
"Would you like a tea?" John called from the kitchen.
There was no response so, with a sigh, he began making one for Sherlock anyway. Letting his mind wander as he poured the boiling water into the teapot, he wondered almost wishfully what it would be like to have a normal roommate. Naturally, he knew he would get bored of it quickly, especially after his sporadic and (lets face it) crazy lifestyle but it was always nice to pretend.
John was caught up in his daydream but it wasn't long before a scolding pain tore him back to reality.
"Oh FUCK!" he swore before biting his tongue to stop the stream of curses that would've followed. He'd burned a significant part of his hand, including his index finger and thumb with boiling water. Dropping the kettle a little harder than he should've, it splattered more boiling water across his shirt, narrowly missing his face. He clutched his hand frantically and lunged towards the sink in the desperate attempt to douse his hand in cold water.
"John, let me."
Sherlock had appeared out of no where and was turning on the tap whilst gently holding John's injured hand. John started at his silent appearance but allowed Sherlock to take over.
With surprising care, Sherlock turned on the water on a low setting and held John's hand under it while he searched the cupboards his long arms could reach. His hands found a bowl and he moved John's hand slowly from the flow of water, filling up the bowl before gently lowering the burnt hand into it.
"Excess pressure from the water can damage the skin cells further, preventing a faster recovery", he said in a dull voice.
John simply nodded, not registering the words, the pain of such a severe burn making him bite his lip to suppress any gasps at the cold water hitting the burns.
"Stay." Sherlock commanded. John again only nodded with a grimace, inwardly cursing at himself for being so clumsy and stupid.
"It's the fatigue,' he reassured himself. 'I wouldn't have done it otherwise. I just need a decent sleep already."
Sherlock swept almost gracefully back into the room with a damp cloth, a towel and a small tub of what looked like some medical grade ointment. Removing John's hand slowly and pat drying it with the towel, he unscrewed the ointment and started lathering it on. John unconsciously hissed at the sting it caused, cursing himself further for looking so weak. Sherlock looked up at him, studying his face. John caught his eye and Sherlock quickly averted his own, refocusing on the burnt hand but handling it significantly more gently.
"What's going on Sherlock?"
John stood their, staring at Sherlock's face, waiting for a response. When none came, he continued.
"You've seemingly not moved an inch in the past four weeks. You've sat in that chair for 27 days straight, every day, every hour. Why?"
Still no response. Silence enveloped them but John didn't let in linger.
"And then I injure myself, only a small burn too, and suddenly you're out? You're active, you are helping, it's almost like you suddenly care abo-... "
John stopped suddenly at Sherlock's unexpected reaction of dropping his hand somewhat painfully and returning to the living room. With a murmured curse, John returned to applying the ointment onto his burns himself. No doubt Sherlock had acquired this from the lab, possibly after burning himself a number of times during experiments. The idea of Sherlock injuring himself so carelessly seemed impossible but John saw no other reason as to why he'd have it on hand.
Walking to his bedroom, John pulled out a small medical kit and finished dressing his hand before returning to the living room. Sherlock was back in his chair, his long legs curled up in front of them with his fingers curling around his knees. John leant against the doorway, supporting his injured hand tentatively whist studying Sherlock.
Sherlock looked worst for wear. He needed sleep, he needed food, he needed a shower.
"He needs someone..." John thought before he could stop himself.
John turned away quickly so Sherlock wouldn't be able to see the traces of pink creeping over his cheeks. Why had he thought that? He'd suppressed those feelings long ago; they were not okay to be feeling, John was not okay with them. Gathering his composure, he turned back around to see Sherlock staring at him. As Sherlock's ice blue eyes seemed to pierce his mind and search through his thoughts, John forced himself not to show any inclination that he was uncomfortable under Sherlock's keen gaze.
"Sherlock..." he rasped, shocked at the way the words barely escaped his throat. Clearing it, he tried again.
"Sherlock, we need to talk. Please."
Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly and he turned his head to resume staring out the window.
"Please Sherlock..." continued John, not even bothering to keep the needy tone out of his voice. "I really do need to talk to you. We need to talk. I need to know what is going on."
The sigh that escaped Sherlock was barely audible but John heard it, and noticed that Sherlock seemed to curl further into himself. John walked slowly forward, still nursing his tender hand, as Sherlock turned his head slightly to look at him.
"I suppose I do owe you an explanation. John, please sit down."