05:45 hear the first creaks of the bed upstairs.
05:52 get worried when no movement surfaces.
05:53 relax when John coughs.
06:01 John comes downstairs.
06:02 John gets ready for the day in the bathroom.
06:05 shower water runs.
06:06 make (attempt) breakfast.
06:23 John enters the kitchen and eats (kiss the wrinkles around his eyes and brow).
06:35 watch some telly with John.
08:36 John goes to work.
09:00 Work.
12:00 worry about John.
13:00 Work.
18:34 John comes home.
18:35 ask him how his day went (JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn).
18:37 hear reply and nod at all the appropriate times (JohnJohnJohnJohn).
19:00 make (attempt) dinner.
19:26 spend time with John (John).
20:00 breathe in John (he is amazing).
20:01 taste John (he is fantastic).
20:02 appreciate John (he is extraordinary).
20:03 love John (he is Sherlock's).
20:38 go to bedroom.
23:52 (try to) sleep (JohnJohnJohn).
The cracks and crevices of his brilliant mind is throbbing a headache that could singlehandedly destroy the human race. Pressure from his nimble fingertips can't quell the tremendous impulsion to dig nails into temples and claw out the bundles of nerves stationed on his skull. Sleep will help. A handful of paracetamol will, too. He desires for the calming effect of the analgesic on his mind, practically melting the relief into the folds of his brain.
Laziness devours all, and his bed covers beg for the skin atop his figure to comfort the soft downy of the sheets, the pillows. His feet stumble over one another, and his toes get caught on the bed post before he falls into the mattress, groaning a deep baritone of volume.
The thump-thump-thump of his heartbeat is the lullaby that sends him to slumber.
05:59. Sherlock Holmes knows when something goes amiss. The sound of John Watson's footsteps coming down the stairs two minutes early shakes at the internal clock resting at the base of Sherlock's skull. He gets the impulsion to leap up from the piece of furniture, dive to the feet of his boyfriend, and wrap himself around his tan legs. He wants to pinch at the nerves on his ankles, pick at the nails on John's toes to try to decipher the meaning of their motion.
Instead, he stays in bed, pulling the comforter around his thin body to console the trembling of his shoulders, the rapid pacing in his mind. He talks of reassurance and never-ending theories to the wallpaper. "Oh, John's needed in the loo. The inefficiency of the aging male's bladder control is much cumbersome." Eyelids droop over his blue orbs, and pale lips form language not even a philosopher could interpret.
And soon, his ears perk at the noise of the bathroom door creaking open, the floor groaning at the weight of the other patron residing in the flat. Sherlock springs forward from his bed, head spinning and wrist curving to check the time on his watch. 06:05.
He's going to be sick (calm down, calm down—breathe). The acids in his stomach swishes around like a thrown back digest of mouthwash, causing a horrible reaction with his head and fingertips as he tosses himself to the doorknob, yanking back the wood at such a force the hinges obnoxiously squeak.
John has exited the bathroom eighteen minutes ahead of (Sherlock's) schedule.
This just simply won't do.
To add insult to injury, the blond man has already fixed himself a meal of buttered toast and a cuppa, which holds the ability to enhance the ambience of home by its mere scent. He turns his head around, staring at the disheveled appearance of the detective before grinning and munching on the toast (golden in the center, slightly—no, very—burnt on the edges). "Good morning," he comments, eyes soft and everything good in the world.
Sherlock is a stuttering, bumbling child. He slowly moves across the kitchen, bumping his hip into the Food and Experiments Table along the way. Shaking limbs fall around John's shoulder, smashing the breakfast in between their chests. "Sherlock," John sighs, maneuvering his own appendages to take a hold on the taller man's waist. "Yeah, yeah, I missed you, too. Now, will you—hey!" He pulls his cup of tea away from Sherlock's grasp after watching the black-haired adult shove his piece of toast to the floor with a smack of his palm. "What's going—?"
"I was supposed to make you breakfast," Sherlock insists, skimming fingers onto John's shoulder blades.
"Well, you usually do, but I—"
"I was supposed to make you breakfast," Sherlock repeats, the tips of his fingers hooking under the scapula. He pulls them upward, hearing the lightest gasp escape from the doctor's lips (oh, how he loves those lips).
"Sherlock, hey, ow."
"Your pain tolerance is astonishing, John." He runs his hands down to the small of his back, tapping at the columns of his spine.
"Oh. Um. All right. Thanks." Sherlock receives a curt nod, and that's enough for the pungent juices in his digestion system to settle and allow his lips to scrape against the crow's feet and laugh lines plaguing John's face.
17:22. As he heads home on the tube, Sherlock is thumbing at the imprint on his wrist left by his watch. He admires the way the metal presses into the skin like a soft drink leaving a ring of condensation on a coffee table. It moves a shiver down his spine before forcing his hands to slip the sleeves of his Belstaff over them. The thick wool gets caught on the loose skin on his fingertips, disturbing his sensory cortex and the Normal expression he had accompanied. He smashes the sore bits onto his head. Damned barbed wire cascading around the horrid eye-sore of a privacy fence snatched on his hands, tugging off the top layer of his fingerprints. It was all so Extremely Obvious, and he was such an idiot to go over the fence rather than going around the back of the house like the rest of Scotland Yard.
Everything was so fascinating, though. The look of utter shock on the gardener's face when he was caught red-handed with the murder weapon of the young woman and her fiancé in his coat pocket (oh, my Lord; this case) will be the factor of the pleasant endeavors he shall encounter in his dreams for the days to come (if he ever sleeps).
But now—now, the thrill of solving said case isn't helping to soothe the pulsing headache fabricating underneath his burning fingertips. He should've worn his gloves; they could have at least created an extra barrier to protect his identity.
Thump-thump-thump is the rhythm pounding beneath his fingers, matching the pace of the adrenaline speeding through his veins. The constant murmur of children and adults talking back and forth, the off-putting banter of the couple sitting beside him, and the smell of rainfall and mud are twisting his senses, grabbing at the nerves in his temples and tear ducts and squeezing, squeezing, squeezing until he pops (calm down, calm down—breathe).
He wants to claw out the hair attached to the nape of his neck.
The woman sitting across from him has her sleeve awkwardly folded on her shoulder in such a way that twitches his arm muscles with the urge to reach out and fix it—reach out and fix everything wrong on the tube at the moment (that squeaky light fixture, the grab rail with too much handprints, the stain on the floor, the sick movement of the rocking cart, the rough surfacing of the seats).
Sherlock does not want to be here right now.
18:16. He was almost late.
Almost (how).
Late (dreadful).
John is to come home (according to Sherlock's schedule) at thirty-four past six.
And (he).
Sherlock (thinks).
Almost (he).
Missed (might).
Him (die).
He barely had time to acquire a small bottle of super glue to smear over the breaks in his fingertips (more convenient) before his internal clock brought him to excitable tremors. The stench of adhesive hangs in the air, and although it might be peeling away the fine hairs in his nostrils, nothing can stop the startling alarm from sudden happiness of seeing his blogger.
So, he decides to patiently wait on the Thinking Couch, fingers in the shape of a steeple and pressed against his lips, eyes as watchful as a dog on the door.
John doesn't come home at thirty-four past six, though.
He doesn't come home at thirty-five past six either.
Sherlock allows the clock to pass the forty-five minute mark before letting his body fall into a state of panic. His phone is the object of his mania. The screen gets furiously tapped and pounded by Sherlock's fingers as he types out a text. Despite his roaring emotions, he manages to send a cohesive message.
Where are you? SH
But he doesn't get a reply.
He sits back on the piece of furniture, touching his bottom lip, pinching at the flesh, eyes narrowed at the fireplace.
Sherlock doesn't move until he hears a jingle of keys, a pair of footsteps, and the door to their flat swing open at forty past seven.
The perpetrator is John (thankGodthankGodthankGod). His coat collar is still upturned to his neck, and his shirt tails are visible underneath his oatmeal-colored jumper. Right now, with his cold and tired blue eyes, John is the epitome of a Bad Day at Work.
"Hello," he greets, offering a smile to betray the feeling of dread crawling under his clothes.
Sherlock wants to comment on John's appearance, swoop down and save this poor doctor, but that normally takes place under "18:35 ask him how his day went (JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn)". His previous schedule does not add up one bit with the events unfolding before him. Perspiration collects on his brow, and he nonchalantly wipes it away as he shifts in his seat. "Ah, there you are. I was getting worried."
"Yeah, well. I got your text."
"And yet"—he pushes his hands to his temples—"you didn't reply."
"'Course not. I was working." John shrugs on his coat after fixing the collar. Tossing it on the back of a chair, he makes his way into the kitchen.
Sherlock's blood begins to boil. He hears cabinets opening, tea cups being pulled out (no, no, he's supposed to make dinner, it says, it says—"19:00 make (attempt) dinner"—but it's forty-four past seven now, and this doesn't work at all—he needs to delete and process and repair and—and—and—and).
"Fancy some take-away?"
John's inquiry about dinner is absolutely harmless. He probably opened the refrigerator, and after seeing sheep's brain on a platter, shut the appliance door and pushed the organ into the farthest part of his brain—perfectly normal. It's all fine. It's just John being John.
But (he's).
But (losing).
Well (control).
Sherlock blows up—metaphorically and literally.
A wave of agile limbs and outlandish language pierces the air and all the objects around it. John has the ability to catch a tossed lamp, but lacks in the category of "apt to console a person during a mental breakdown". Nonetheless, he still tries (it's all wrong, all wrong).
He holds Sherlock (don't touch).
He pats his back (not a child).
He suggests for a different dinner plan (he thinks that's the problem?).
But no matter how hard he reasons with the detective, he is shoved away and yelled at and gets to watch the other stomp off and lock himself in his bedroom, shouting words about control and a schedule that John just Wouldn't Understand.
So, John eats take-away with the sounds of a rampage in the bedroom over.
Sherlock is lying facedown in a pile of comforter underneath his periodic table. The sheets are a shade of cream against his snow-white cheeks and charcoal hair, and it's all frustrating.
Everything is simple for Ordinary People, and it sickens him to no end. Ordinary People don't have to cope with the burden of following schedules, following lists, following something that'll control their pointless lives.
He groans.
His brain is a scrambled egg on a sizzling frying pan, an experimenting teenager coming down from a hit of LSD, a dog chasing its tail. He has a headache that could shake the Earth's core into soft tremors, and the adhesive on his fingers is peeling away the top layer of his skin. He shouldn't have picked it off; there're pink stains on his blankets now.
"I need," he announces to the wallpaper, "to rewrite the whole thing." He makes a move to proudly stand on his feet, but the room turns into a tornado, and he decides to continue lying on the floor.
Sherlock squeezes his eyelids closed several times over the course of the next two minutes. Kicking the gears in his mind to start working again only complicates his headache, but it seems to let the Order of Things lay itself down in front of him like a wooden marionette. He takes hold of the strings and fabricates a performance full of wild requests and impossible features.
The first thing to be displayed is the act of walking out his bedroom to confront John and toss him onto the couch and have him right then and there.
Sherlock has his palms flat on the ground on either side of him in the motion of getting up when his bedroom door opens—without much of a knock—and pushes him back to the carpet, now in possession of a nonplussed expression and a sharp pain in his hip. Twisting and turning, he manages to roll onto his back before shutting his eyes and moaning at the pain in his side.
"Oh, there you are. Shouldn't lie by a door like that."
John, John.
"You shouldn't be here," Sherlock mumbles, hands spreading across the floor to brace himself against a wall in order to sit.
"I wanted to make sure you were all right." John has his hands hanging by his sides, his lips pressed together in some sort of agitation and confusion. "You did kind of run off and—"
"You ruined my timetable."
John stares at the one on the floor. "I was going to say 'become bonkers', but yeah—ruined your timetable seems more"—he slowly nods and looks off to the side—"like you."
Sherlock abruptly stands, urging his balance into the slightly askew setting. He grasps the door in an attempt to comfort the impulse to lie back down and pull the blankets over his head.
John studies him, eyes dipping down to his toes and back to his eyes. "All right?" Sherlock waves it off, and John frowns a bit, choosing to chew on the inside of his cheek rather than face the problem head on. "So, uh, I'll be leaving you to your… cleaning?" He gestures to the mess Sherlock has made of the bed covers before spinning on his heel and walking out. A thought has obviously popped into his plain mind for he comes back into the room. Scratching his neck, he says, "I noticed the smell of glue when I came home, and I was just wondering if I should be concerned—"
"No, everything is fine."
"All right. Okay." John nods. "I'll be off." He makes no move to leave for the second time, though, and Sherlock desperately wants to give in and scold John for (once again) messing up his schedule.
Instead, he blinks at the shorter man and looks at his stripped bed, the headache behind his eyes slowly dripping away after a few mental revisions. "What time is it?" he absently asks, already knowing it's forty past eight (and he's cheering because it proves John has some sort of internal clock that informs him of what's next on the list that Sherlock carefully plans each morning). He decides to let go of the door.
"Uh." John digs out his mobile from his pocket and checks. "It's, uh, 20:40, wait—20:41." He nods and puts the device back. "Why?"
Sherlock only grins, and it's his Real Smile and not the Normal Smile he displays for everyone else. He can practically feel John's blood rush through his veins, heating the flesh on his cheeks as he smiles back, deepening the lines on his face. "What is it? Did I do something?"
"John, you did everything." With a swift grab at the doctor's hands, Sherlock pulls them over to the mattress and assures John that yes; everything is all right and fine.
23:16. Although his previous (and now current) schedule says sleeping should be achieved at eight 'til midnight, Sherlock believes his burnt-out mind can allow slumber to take over him this time (and possibly more—if only, if only).
"I know you're weird," John starts, then sighs when it doesn't come out right. "You know what I mean? Well, of course you do."
"Mm. Get the covers. My feet are cold." John obliges. Once Sherlock feels the heat of the shorter man against his back, he rubs his cheek against the padding of the bare bed. "Start over," his voice rumbles. "Think before you speak."
"You're a git," John points out into his right shoulder blade. His teeth scrape against the skin. "Okay, all right, uh."
"Hm."
John chuckles behind him. "Shut up."
"Mm."
John is silent for several minutes before he feels comfortable enough with his choice of words to try speaking again. He has to shake Sherlock awake in order for him to spill them, however. "I'm ready."
Sherlock groans and pulls a handful of sheets to his face. "Shoot."
"I know you're weird—"
"You started like that last time. I advise you to try again."
"I wasn't done!" John says, pinching a part of Sherlock's spinal column that protrudes from his skin. Sherlock hums in acknowledgement of the subtle pain, but stays quiet and considerate of John's struggle to understand the English language.
"Okay," he mumbles, settling against the mattress and furrowing his brow at a freckle on Sherlock's neck. "You're a bit… off. I know that, and I try my best to, I don't know, help and all, but, uh, you have to pitch in every once in a while. We don't need you having another fit." He sighs. "So, I don't know, inform me of what we're doing that day? I don't want to 'ruin your timetable' like I did today." Sherlock lightly jumps at the touch of John's hand on his side, John's fingers pressing in to rub at each of his ribs. "I'll try to text you if something comes up at the clinic, and I'll try to make everything centered around your schedule or whatever you have up there." He touches one of the detective's curls before nodding and grinning. "Understood?"
Sherlock lazily raises his head and looks over at John, lightly clicking his tongue. "I know your mind is above that of Normal People, but I highly doubt you thought of all that in that period of time."
John's face completely falls, and Sherlock is punched in the arm. "You're a brat."
"Obvious. Anything else?"
"No."
"Good." He flops back onto his stomach and closes his eyes.
"Right." Sherlock can feel the bed shift under John's motions of getting comfortable. "Give me some of the blankets."
"My feet are cold."
John, already knowing this battle is lost before it has started, shuts his eyes.
Sherlock doesn't speak until he hears John's breath start to slow and indicate sleep. "I do understand."
"Sherlock, damn it." John rubs his face with both hands. "Understand what?" He drops his hands, his right one falling on Sherlock's back. He doesn't move it.
"You asked me if I understood. I do."
"Awesome. Can I have some of the blankets now?"
Sherlock softly smiles into the sheets before scooting close to the doctor and passing over a good portion of the covers.
"Yeah, you're a git, Sherlock. Hogging all these from me? And for your feet? They were by your face!" Sherlock is nudged in the side with an elbow, and he only laughs. John soon joins in.
A chorus of delightful, harmonious chuckles floods the bedroom, and it doesn't fade until the watch on Sherlock's wrist flashes 00:00. John groans a bit and moves his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder. "We have to sleep."
"Dull."
John's lips spread into a smile, and they kiss at the curve of Sherlock's skin. "In the morning," he begins, reaching out and sketching a connect-the-dots picture on Sherlock's back with his freckles, "you will tell me all your plans and anything relating to them, okay?"
The smell of adhesive still burns at Sherlock's nostrils, and his headache is still there (but not really there); and although he may not actually fall asleep until the clock strikes three, he mumbles a "yes, John" and tucks a mental post-it note that reads "06:03 tell John everything (because they love each other very much)" after "06:02 John gets ready for the day in the bathroom" and before "06:05 shower water runs". Sherlock may have to follow John around the small vicinity of the loo in order to inform him of the day's plans, and it may go over into the time John is intended to bathe (he'll just have to join him), but Sherlock is prepared to do that in exchange for their sanity levels to decrease some.
And with John's gentle fingertips painting a canvas of anonymity on his naked flesh, Sherlock can guarantee that he is able to handle the slight schedule change, too.