Chapter 1
John sighed into his pillow. His bladder was full and he could not risk a trip to the toilet without rousing the attention of a certain nuisance. Not in this house, anyway. As John crept to the toilet on weary toes, he noticed an eerie silence had befallen the house. There was no clinking of mug on coffee table, no soft sounds of movement, no explosions, no chattering of the tele, no painful violin strokes, no Sherlock muttering to himself. Forgetting his bladder, (briefly, for one cannot forget such a thing for long) John ventured out into the kitchen and sitting room to find it empty, if not a bit tidier than last night. Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He could have been in his room, of course, but John doubted this very much. It was more of a storeroom than anything. The one time John had trekked in, the tube containing the bottom half of a bird convinced him it was a bad idea before he'd gotten past the door.
Perhaps Sherlock was as embarrassed as him. After all, he had certainly been… enjoying himself before John had called game on their shag. John put on the kettle, rubbed his eyes and promptly remembered his bladder.
It was around lunch time that a horrible thought struck John. What if Sherlock had been so embarrassed at being at John's mercy and being (perhaps cruelly, John could admit) rejected, that he'd gone out and done something stupid to prove himself. John was about to text Sherlock when he decided he just wanted to keep things normal between them, whatever normal was, so he set down the phone and turned on the tele just in time for East Enders.
It was around supper when John realised that not texting Sherlock was an out-of-the-ordinary thing to do. John usually texted Sherlock if he didn't know where he was. Se he picked up his Nokia and started tapping on the keys.
Where have you been?
JW
John wasn't sure why they still put their initials under texts; they both had each others numbers. Just a Sherlock thing, he supposed.