John was woken by a clatter and the sound of something heavy dropping from Sherlock's room.
He stuck his head out of his bedroom door and shouted, "Sherlock, what the bloody hell just happened? Everything alright?"
There was no response, so John left his room and descended the stairs tiredly. He paused outside of Sherlock's room. It occurred to him that the only times he had been in Sherlock's room was when he had set something on fire, or had some other experiment-related mishap.
"Are you okay? I heard a crash," John said, leaning against the door.
"I need help picking up some glass... and maybe some stitches," Sherlock replied.
John entered the room swiftly and surveyed the mess. The was a large, broken beaker on the floor, and some sort of green oozing out of it. Sherlock's hand had been cut, nothing too deep, but it would need to be mended by John. John left the room to get the broom and bin in the kitchen, and stopped in the living room to get his first aid kit. After living with Sherlock for nearly a year now- he had learned that he must always be prepared to tend to whatever injury the brilliant detective might get due to an experiment or rough case.
"What were you doing at 3 in the morning with a beaker full of some strange green liquid that is now starting to fizzle?" The doctor asked his injured flat mate.
"I was testing the effects of hydrochloric acid on spinal fluid, and the beaker just broke in my hand," He replied in a frustrated tone, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.
The army doctor sighed as he swept the shards of glass up and put them in the bin. He placed the broom against the wall, and focused his attention on Sherlock's hand. As he took the detective's hand, he couldn't help but notice the sudden flutter in his heart. He blushed, and looked away quickly, and began to clean the wound. Sherlock hissed when the disinfectant hit his cut, and John quickly wrapped it in gauze and medical tape.
"Try not to use that hand too much for a day or so. If that's all, I'm going back to bed. Try not to set the flat on fire, and please get some sleep," John said sleepily, leaving the room.
As he was approached the door frame, the lanky detective muttered a small, "Thank you," and then returned to his work.
Walking down the hall, the doctor realised how odd it was for Sherlock to thank him. Not that he was unappreciative, but the world's only consulting detective was not one for "Please's" and "Thank you's." He also mentally slapped himself for overreacting when he took Sherlock's hand. What was that? He had never been nervous and fluttery around Sherlock before... and Sherlock had never been that polite to him like that... He shook the thought from his head. They were both just sleep deprived. That's it, sleep deprived. He thought nothing of it until the following morning.