He was in one of his moods. Again. We had a good case and he slept for a day after eating thirty pounds worth of takeout. This was normal and I used the reprieve to see Stamford and some of the other guys from Barts. I didn't notice my mobile's battery died halfway through the night.

Angry stomps sounded in the hall and the loo door slammed.

For someone who currently isn't talking to me he sure says a lot.

It happens sometimes after he gets more manic than usual. He sits on the couch and sulks (dramatically). The best way to pull him out of it is to leave out an interesting article that will allow me to ship him off to the morgue for eyeballs (or whatever) or get him another case.

When the sulks coincided with what Mrs. Hudson has affectionately termed a "domestic" I have to take naps in the park because he'll play his violin every time I try to sleep. I also have to turn off comments on my blog and change my password every three hours. If it went on long enough I'd find toenails in the sugar.

It's a wonder I haven't strangled him.

Sometimes I'll start a fight when he sulks to ward off the depression. He wasn't kidding when he said he doesn't talk for days. He just sprawls across the couch with his hands under his chin and a hopeless expression. He only gets up to use the restroom and he only drinks tea when he gets up.

The first time it happened I had to bail Harry out of jail and stay with her a few days so I could find her stash and get her sober enough to go to work. I didn't think too much of it until my second day back and Mrs. Hudson informed me he'd been like that the entire time I was gone. Five days he'd been living on tea and coffee. Thankfully Lestrade called with a case because nothing I tried could get him to even open his eyes.

A horrible screeching made me jump. The book I'd been reading was on the floor. Apparently I'd fallen asleep in my chair, again. I rubbed my face. I couldn't take much more of this. He stopped the drags of the bow that produced the tortured sounds and started playing my least favorite song.

I knew why he was doing it. My phone being off was one of the only things that he found completely unacceptable. (He found a lot of things mildly unacceptable though.) Ever since the pool incident he basically stalked me. If I left when he was asleep he'd text me, call me and eventually track my phone's GPS if I didn't respond. The other time my mobile was off he showed up at the pub and insulted everyone until I gave up and left then he berated me the entire taxi ride home. After two days of his particular brand of abuse I finally figured out he did it because he was scared I'd been abducted again.

Sociopath my arse.

The sleeve of his second best dressing gown pulled up and I saw three nicotine patches.

I scowled. He was going to kill himself one of these days. We'd come to an agreement that he was only supposed to go above one when he was on a case. Not that he ever followed it.

The song finished and the strangled wailing started again.

Most people would leave.

I opened my laptop and found that comments had been enabled again. I had 52 new comments in the queue to moderate. I smiled and it fell from my face as soon as I started reading them.

"The wife is the mastermind. She'd been funneling the funds from her trust fund into the dummy corporation and used her contacts from AmeriCorps to run the drugs. She would have tolerated the affair but he started snooping and she couldn't risk him exposing her." from username: ClearFromPage4

I deleted it and kicked the (ruined) novel at him.

"The season will end with the Doctor being shot. His friend will save him in the next season and they'll track down the shooter, corner him in the University and he'll be mysteriously shot dead in that season finale before they can get any information from him." from username: CilcheAndBoring

Most people would move out.

I deleted it.

"Eventually it'll come out that his major love interest was the head of the evil corporation. He'll have to make a choice between killing her to save his friend or allowing her to kill him so they can get married." from username: HeWillShootHer

If I hadn't kicked the book I'd throw it at him.

I deleted it.

Most people would punch him.

"But the shot won't be lethal if they want to continue the series after that season." from username: IDoNotKnowWhyYouWatchSuchDrivel

I deleted it.

Most people would punch him repeatedly.

"Ratings will fall after that and the series will end on a cliffhanger." from username: YouShouldJustStopWatchingNow

Most people would kill him.

"The characters will never get together in that American show. The series will end with him in jail to protect her and her never realizing it." from username: TheyWouldNotHaveBeenAGoodCoupleAnyway.

I slammed the laptop closed and tried not to throw it at him.

I took several deep breaths and glared at the back of his head.

The bow trembled and the long note in the middle of my second least favorite song wavered. He huffed and started abusing the strings in frustration.

My anger dissipated. I counted the days since he last ate and it was at least two. He'd only had one meal in a week. Usually he'd steal some biscuits from the tray Mrs. Hudson brought up because she'd "accidently" baked too many when he thought I wasn't looking but he wasn't doing that this time.

Add the nicotine that he thought I didn't notice he only overdosed on when we fought for too long and he'd inadvertently off himself for sure.

"Sherlock."

He didn't respond beyond starting the song over at a lower volume.

"Damnit Sherlock I said I was sorry!"

No response beyond the volume increasing.

I had two options: one would be to pour my heart out and explain that I knew he cared and I'd feel the same way if he disappeared for hours with his mobile off. (Sherlock wasn't the only one prone to stalking- not that I'd ever admit it.) Since that option had a high probability of failure, I could hear him spitting the word sentiment in my head along with a myriad of insults, I only had one other option.

It's not that I hated this option. I actually loved it. What I hated with his smug smile. He oozed self satisfaction for days whenever I gave in and did this. It would be unbearable if it weren't for the fact that I would finally be able to sleep peacefully through the entire night for at least a week if a case didn't pop up. He'd also delete the rest of the comments on my blog and be nice to me for a few days. Well, nice for him.

My head fell forward and consequently the shock made me jerk it back up in response. I rubbed the resultant pulled muscle.

Another note wavered and his hand was shaking when he gave up (after a hissy fit of shrill sounds) and set the instrument down. He theatrically spun around and his robe billowed out as he threw himself onto the couch and curled up into a ball facing away from me.

Sometimes I wondered why I put up with him.

He (gracefully) flailed around on the couch with huffing discontentedly. He didn't shoot any glares at me and I knew he was angry enough he'd keep this up for at least another two days if I didn't fix it.

He wouldn't be this angry if I had gone to the regular pub and he'd been able to find me. He also wouldn't be this angry if I hadn't gotten inexcusably drunk, nearly mugged and stabbed. After I'd slept it off and listened to Sherlock's (loud) castigation with a horrible hangover I pieced together the night from blurry memories and worried texts from Mike.

And the new hole in my jacket and the bandage on my arm.

The girl I'd been seeing broke up with me when I'd called her after Sherlock passed out. (There was no other term for it; I'd had to carry (drag) him down the hall and get him under the blankets because he'd disabled the heater, again. And left the window open, again. "Cold helps me think, John!") Apparently I'd missed her sister's wedding and my excuse wasn't acceptable. (I forgot and my phone had been turned to silent during the all night stakeout. I didn't remember to turn the ringer back on until just now. I was tackling the killer about the time the rings were being exchanged.) It was a pity, she put up with Sherlock and my disappearing for days due to cases better than most. (Plus she was pretty good in bed.)

It was Saturday so I joined Stamford etc. on their weekly piss up to drown my sorrows. One of the guys suggested a different pub because he was trying to get off with one of the waitresses and no one was opposed. I ended up on the other side of London in a seedier neighborhood than I would have liked. I could take care of myself, of course, but I was a popular target due to my size and "fatherly" clothing. Usually my well worn threads kept me from being mugged since I looked like I didn't have anything of value (and I wouldn't if Sherlock didn't "accidently" break anything I owned that he hated and replacing it with something worth more than the rent).

I was already a little squiffy and ready to pack it in when we were rewarded with free drinks from the waitress. I could only guess she was trying to get the enamored man sloshed by the end of her shift so he'd go home with her. The scotch was brilliant and seemed to magically refill its self. It wasn't until last call I realized it was two am and getting a cab would be impossible without Sherlock (who must have sold his soul to be able to conjure them out of thin air whenever he needed one). I was completely arseholed and managed to lose track of my companions as well as the direction of the tube station.

The last part was clear from the worried texts I read once my mobile was charged.

I vaguely remembered a guy demanding my wallet, phone and watch. I also remembered thinking it was a good idea to fistfight with the now knife wielding man who was twice my size. Then there was a familiar swishy coat and a timely punch that threw the trajectory of the knife away from my chest and into my arm. The expletive left my mouth when I saw the blood. The last thing I remembered was being manhandled into a cab by a livid Sherlock.

I sighed at my memories and got up to change my bandage. I couldn't remember doing so in the last twenty four hours since I'd normally do it before a shower but there was no possibility of hot water until Sherlock was appeased.

The stitches were neat but not done by a professional. I knew from the first time I saw them they were done by a mad flatmate who hated hospitals. A mad flatmate who hated hospitals and must have called his "arch-enemy" for my whereabouts. I wondered what woke him in the first place and thanked whatever it was for preventing my bleeding out on the kerb due to my own idiocy.

When I came back to the living room Sherlock was either napping or pretending to be asleep.

I threw a blanket over the lanky git and went down to Mrs. Hudson's to bake his damn biscuits (that apparently only I could make properly) with a small smile.

OTP Idea #422

Person A likes to make cookies for Person B, but doesn't actually say they're for Person B because they don't want Person B to look so smug.

Link: Tumblr