"God, Sherlock. You look a mess!" exclaimed Lestrade as John and Sherlock walked into the crime scene. His face was pale (well paler) and his eyes were deeply shadowed. Curly black hair stuck out at all angles. His clothes were rumpled and he looked skinnier than ever. John limped beside him.
"I've been telling him that for days."
"Shut up both of you. I'm fine." Sherlock growled. "Mother Hens." he whispered under his breath.
"You really don't. You look as if you just had pneumonic plague."
"Don't be preposterous, John. The plague has been abolished for hundreds of years."
"Not in Afghanistan." John paused to shudder.
Sherlock and Lestrade raised their eyebrows in response. Anderson walked in the room, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He nodded approval to John and the DI but did a double-take at Sherlock's white face.
"...wow." his eyes glanced from Sherlock to the corpse that was in the middle of the room. "Which one is dead?"
"Bad insult, Anderson." Sherlock spat back "It must be so difficult to tell us apart." Sarcasm dripped heavily from his words.
Lestrade was staring at Sherlock, head cocked to the left slightly. He pulled out his phone and glanced at it, mouth forming a silent o as he realized his dilemma.
"Sherlock, go home. It's getting late."
"But we've only just got..." Sherlock usually smooth voiced trailed off into a low moan as he stared out the window. John followed Sherlock's gaze. London looked it exactly the same as normal. Same buildings and monuments. Same roads and same people. The same street-lamps were lit. Nothing has changed. Sherlock shot a thankful look at Lestrade and practically ran from the room. John stared reproachfully at Lestrade, followed his best friend out the room and stepped into the cold London Street. Seeing John had caught up with him, Sherlock wasted no time in flagging a taxi.
The cab ride home was awkward. Sherlock was staring anxiously out of the window and John wanted to ask why but didn't know how to phrase it properly. 10 minutes seemed to span on for centuries. When they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock threw some notes at the cabbie and ran inside. John limped after him, after apologizing. By the time he got into the flat, Sherlock had run to his room and locked the door, leaving a confused John in his wake.