John closed the door and leaned against it. He had treated runny noses and sprained ankles all day. Through his pounding headache, he heard the violin. He was sure if he had to listen to those particular three bars of Paganini again, his head would explode. It didn't.
Upstairs, Sherlock was still standing where John had left him this morning: deep in thought, staring out the window. His bow danced over the strings, giving voice to his frustration. He hadn't cracked the case yet.
John took off his shoes and pullover and slipped his hands around Sherlock, nuzzling his neck.
An elbow in John's stomach woke him abruptly as Sherlock climbed over him in a hurry. He grabbed John's face and gave him a hasty kiss.
"The blue paint!" Sherlock yelled and disappeared through the door.
"Huh?" John sat up, blinking against the bright light from the hallway.
"It was in the car from the very beginning!"
John wrapped himself in a blanket and went after Sherlock. He got to the living room just in time to see Sherlock's dark coat disappear down the stairs. Sitting down on the couch he listened for the sound of the door slamming shut.
With his hands full, Sherlock tapped the door shut with his foot and went up the stairs two steps at a time.
He found John sleeping, curled up on the couch, and took a moment to adore the sight. Smiling, he sat down his bags on the coffee table and pushed John's legs aside to sit down next to him.
John turned around sleepily and laid his head on Sherlock's lap. "Did you solve the case?" he asked.
"Of course." Sherlock nodded towards the bags. "Breakfast."
John frowned. "Is that Thai take away?"
"Like I said," came the answer, "breakfast."