John sighed and turned over in bed, sleep impossible. He stared at his bedside lamp for a second, listening before he turned it on. It had been a long day… His leg and eyes and head hurt… He hadn't had time for any tea… He had been looking forward to his bed since 10am…
All of that faded into the noise coming from downstairs. Tacktacktacktacktacktacktack. Tack. Pause. . Pause. Tacktacktack… He lay in the half-shade until he could force his legs to bend. As he padded down the stairs to their living room, the noise became louder and the pauses longer. TACKTACKTACK. Pause. TACKTACK. In the silence that followed, John crept along the carpet floor and peered around the door to the living room.
A little patch of light threaded its way towards him from the gap in the curtains, showing the purple slippers of his roommate. The only other light in the room came from the laptop on Sherlock's knees: the angle of the screen threw his eyes into vague shadow, but showed clearly his little smile and the blue shade of his shirt. From here, another sound could be heard.
John cleared his throat. No response. He tapped the doorframe. Sherlock didn't twitch. After a moment, he stepped into the room and switched on the light. "Don't you have any other volume than 'loud'?"
Sherlock tacked another key on his laptop, and the other sound stopped abruptly. "Sorry?" He pulled the earphones out and wrapped them around his hand. He didn't look directly at John when he said, "Just typing up some new material for the website. I'll be quieter now. Did I wake you?"
"Sort of." In fact, John had been struggling to sleep even before Sherlock's intrusive typing. A week had passed since Sherlock had discovered Carl Powers' shoes in Mrs Hudson's basement, and the thought of it was worrying him. If Sherlock was thinking about it then he didn't let it show – he seemed unconcerned and a bit amused, as if John was losing sleep over having found a bottle of milk in the fridge. "I'm supposed to be working in the morning. And don't you have that case for Mycroft?"
"Yes, but you've said yourself that I need to start working on the website." Sherlock placed the roll of earphones on the coffee table. "Mycroft's a grown-up; he can do things for himself sometimes." He glanced up at John, then back at the screen. "And I sent him the culprit's name this afternoon."
John nodded. "Good." He moved into the kitchen now, pressing the kettle onto boil. "Tea?"
"Hmm? Oh, no thanks." Sherlock quietly returned to typing. Chp-chp-chp-chp-chp-chp-chp-chp-chp-chp. Pause. Chp-chp-chp-chp-chp. TACK. He hit the final key and closed the laptop, unfolding himself from the chair just as John filled his mug. "Night."
"Night." When John heard Sherlock's door click shut, he poured the hot water into his mug and dropped into his own armchair. Finding the batteries gone from the remote, he sighed and sat back. Odd, he thought idly, not to tell me about Mycroft's case. But as Sherlock had said, they were grown-ups. And it's not like he can't look after himself.
It was tomorrow, and John hefted the shopping onto the counter. As always happens, he was more awake at the time he'd planned to sleep than he had been at work all day. He sighed and was reaching for the tea caddy when he saw a piece of paper through rippled glass.
"Gone to St Bart's. New research needed. May be a while. Sherlock."
John smiled to himself and pulled the note out from under the empty vase. It was the second time in a fortnight Sherlock had been busy of an evening, and he planned to make the most of it. After a whirlwind of tidying, John went back to the doctor's.
"John!" Sarah looked up at him in surprise as he came into her office. "I was just about to leave…"
"I was just wondering if you fancied coming over to mine tonight. Unless you've got plans already?"
"Well..." Sarah's hesitation made John's heart sink. "Would we have company?"
"Are you counting red wine and Scrabble?" John asked, deadpan. "Because other than those welcome guests, the flat will be empty."
She suppressed a grin. "Then it's a date. I'll come over in an hour? I need to get changed out of these," she explained when he looked confused, indicating her work clothes.
"Ah. I'll see you later then." They were both smiling to themselves when John left.
When Sarah left the flat at midnight, John crept back upstairs, careful not to wake Mrs Hudson. He reached the living room and paused to take stock. It wasn't too bad: an empty wine bottle, two plates and a pizza box, the finished game of Scrabble which had delighted Sarah when she found that he hadn't been joking. It could wait for the morning, John decided, and yawned as he flicked off the light.
It was almost nine hours later when Mrs Hudson tapped on the flat's open door and came to stand inside the doorway.
"He didn't wake you, did he?" John asked, returning to his morning-after cleaning. Today he was in a dark green jumper and light blue jeans, and black shoes that bent backwards as he knelt down to reach for a dropped Scrabble tile. "Sorry if he did, but you know what he's like."
Mrs Hudson frowned, her kind face crinkling downwards. "Do you mean Sherlock?"
He paused and turned, his hand clasped around a T. "Yes." He held it out and grinned. "Tea?"
She didn't laugh, though a smile tweaked the corners of her eyes and mouth. "I was just coming up to see him, actually. That Mr Lestrade phoned me this morning, and I thought that was a bit strange because Sherlock's easy enough to reach. And I know you had your lady friend over last night (don't blush dear, I'm not stupid and you're not subtle). So I thought he might have had an early night to give you some privacy, because I didn't hear him come in last night and you're right, he usually does make a noise. So is he still asleep?"
"Erm," John stood up, "He didn't get up for breakfast. I can go and check his room..?"
Mrs Hudson nodded. "Thank you, dear."
John's reluctance to enter Sherlock's room was utterly justified. Sherlock had been known to store in jam jars the sorts of things that would make a butcher gag; human body parts in different states of decay; bloody bread buns to grow exotic moulds; bundles of hair from different animals, coated in wax and left at the back of a shelf… Once or twice John had been forced to venture in there to pick up notes or to wake Sherlock from one of his reveries, and he always left with a feeling that he needed to scrub under his skin.
He knocked on the door and tapped his foot for a moment before knocking again. He waited as long as possible to stave off the moment he would have to enter the unsavoury room. Feeling Mrs Hudson's eyes on him, he put his fingertips to the wood and pushed down on the handle. The door swung ajar and the usual waft of cool air drifted out (Sherlock had disconnected the radiator from the hot water soon after they moved in, saying that he couldn't think in the warm).
"Sherlock?" John called out before he ventured inside. With one foot over the threshold he could see the room, everything as haphazard and precise as it ever was; the shelves labelled and dust-free with their jars and petri dishes; the wardrobe spilling out, everything still on its hangers or half-folded; the bed made up hastily with a dingy jungle of clutter underneath. The room was empty.
He stayed there motionless for a moment, before stepping back into the corridor and snapping the door shut.
"When did Lestrade call you?" he shouted through to Mrs Hudson, already running upstairs to get his mobile.
"Not an hour ago… Where are you going?" Mrs Hudson leant on the banister, looking worried up at him. "Is Sherlock not in?"
"No, he's not," John said shortly, jogging past her whilst arranging the collar of his jacket, "If anyone calls for him, tell them that… he's gone out."
"What are you going to do?" Mrs Hudson almost yelled down to the front door, where John was raising his phone to his ear.
Without lowering it, he said, "Talk to the other Holmes." The carpet next to the front door lifted a bit as it closed.