John and Sherlock were sat in their armchairs in 221B, reading and writing. John had to still find a job that he was happy about and could stay awake in. For the meantime, they were both unhealthily content solving various crimes and mysteries. The weather outside was bleak, and it had just started to drizzle. Sherlock's only correspondence in the past week had been from Mycroft, and Sherlock had, of course, ignored it.
John had occasionally gone out to the shops and had a text from Sherlock's older brother, but no cars had picked him up off the streets for the past month, and that was saying something.
"Hey Sherlock," John said looking up from his blog, "aren't you meant to be meeting Greg at Scotland Yard in about five minutes?"
Sherlock's eyes were sharp and full of energy: he was getting restless; their last case was over a week ago. He looked up from pretending to read his newspaper with a look of confusion and said "Greg... Greg. He's-"
"For Christ's sake, Sherlock," John said. However much he denied it, the lack of cases was getting to him too. "Greg Lestrade, the detective." He sighed. "You introduced him to me and you didn't even know he was called Greg until we went to Dartmoor."
"Ah, Dartmoor... the Hound of Baskerville? I rather enjoyed getting out and about, though Dartmoor is nothing compared to London." John nodded vaguely in agreement. "Hang on; did you say I'm meeting him?"
"Yeah," said John, his fingers typing away once more.
"Oh God… Bye John." Sherlock grabbed his coat. Taking no notice of his surroundings, he nearly knocked over Mrs Hudson, who was carrying a tray of tea through the door. Sherlock hastily apologized and went to hurry off.
"You're going then," John called down the stairs, closing his laptop and standing in the doorway.
"Of course I'm going," said Sherlock, "what do you mean? Why wouldn't I?" He turned his collar up on his coat, at which John chuckled. "We haven't had a case for a week. We're getting bored and you are putting on weight."
"Well for one thing, you hate going to Scotland Yard for cases, you prefer Greg coming to you here. For another…" he stopped suddenly, realising what Sherlock had said. "Did you say I had gained weight?" Sherlock halted in his steps and looked at John quizzically.
"Yes that's what I said. Isn't it obvious? Your shirts are getting tighter on you as are your trousers." He suddenly blushed and turned away for no apparent reason. "Anyway, are you coming or not?"
"Yes," said John, snatching his coat off the arm of the chair. Did Sherlock just blush? He thought, as it wasn't like Sherlock to be embarrassed at all, let alone for one of his deductions.
Sherlock normally didn't care at all what he said, but for the whole journey in the black cab, Sherlock avoided John's gaze, and answered his questions with monosyllables.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"Do you know why Greg's called us – you – in?"
"No."
Eventually, conversation (if that's what you could call it) petered out. When they arrived at Scotland Yard, Greg greeted them at the gates, and Sherlock's one-word answers disappeared. As it turned out, Greg had called them about a case that took Sherlock ten minutes in Greg's office to solve.
They went outside. As they waited for a cab, John decided to risk Sherlock going off in a mood to find what the matter was.
"Sherlock?" Sherlock grunted. "Have I done something? You haven't been interacting with me all day. I mean, you usually talk to me for hours even if I'm not there." A taxi pulled up and they clambered in, asking for Baker Street.
Sherlock leaned back and sighed, making sure his coat collar was up. "It was… nothing John, I haven't been feeling myself today and I wasn't very aware. A pained look crossed Sherlock's face, but he relaxed further into the seat, closing his eyes.
The taxi pulled up in Baker Street, but Sherlock made no sign of moving.
"Sherlock," said John shaking his shoulder, "we're back." He suddenly noticed that his companion's breathing was irregular, as was his heartbeat. Sherlock fell to the floor.