"Sherlock," John said when he entered into the main room of the flat. Sherlock was sprawled out on the comfy chair still in his blue dressing gown, gray T-shirt and pajama pants. The TV cast an eerie pale light over the man's transfixed features. John cast a hasty glance to his watch. 17:34. He let out a breath. "Have you been watching that all day?"
Sherlock didn't respond. John noticed his violin propped up against the side of the chair, and glanced to the music stand. Composing. Again.
"Obvious," Sherlock said suddenly, in a small, sullen, distant voice. "Dull."
John stepped closer to the television. His eyes narrowed. "Is that... Hannah Montana?"
Sherlock didn't respond.
"An American kid show?" John said. "Really? Is there nothing less crappy on?" Sherlock didn't respond.
John let out a slow breath. "Sherlock, you need to get out of this. It's been a good week since..." He didn't finish the sentence. He knew he wasn't being gentle, but if he came home to Sherlock barely speaking once more he'd go insane. He should be out solving murders, not watching American tween shows on the telly. Not to mention the fact that both he and Mrs. Hudson were concerned Sherlock would turn to... less than healthy means of entertainment, if this went on too long. It had been a week since that day in the morgue, and Sherlock had spent 99% of it sitting around or playing the violin wordlessly. John wasn't even sure the last time he'd eaten. And I'm a doctor. I have to do something. But we also really need groceries...
He paused. It was mundane and uneventful, but it was a step up from sitting in front of the television all day. "Sherlock..." He wasn't sure how to word it. "I'm going grocery shopping. Get dressed, you're coming too."
Sherlock's eyes looked to him for a moment, then back down to the screen as if playing that he hadn't noticed. John waited a bit, but to no avail.
"Oh come on," John let out a sigh. "I know you haven't eaten, and I know it's been much longer than your usual not eating spells. And what if a case comes up? You'll starve."
Sherlock still didn't reply.
"Fine. If you don't come with me, then we aren't getting any food!" John said, throwing his hands up in mock defeat, and moved over to a chair, sinking into it. "If you'll excuse me, I need to go inform our fans about your impending death, and where to send flowers. Or would you prefer donations to a certain charity?" He looked to Sherlock, who was staring still, but didn't seem to pay an ounce of attention to what was playing. He let out a slow breath. John had to try something different. He pulled open the laptop, and his blog came up quickly. "The counter is still on 1895, Sherlock. It must mean something."
Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like "not the password."
John sighed. "Alright. But look, if you don't want to eat, then I won't stop you. But I won't get another chance for an evening shopping trip until Saturday, I'm catching up with Mike tomorrow night. Can you really make it another two days without eating?" There was a long pause. "You're only mortal, Sherlock."
John waited for a while, but there was no response. He sighed, and looked back at his blog. Looks like he'd lost. He'd be going out by himself and Sherlock would be left to waste away once again. He'd just check his email quickly then get his coat on, admit defeat, and go off to the store. There was nothing else he could do to convince the world's only consulting detective.
"Milk," The quiet voice interrupted his thoughts. He turned around, to the man still staring at the screen.
"What did you say?"
"...We need milk."
John found himself smiling. "Then you'd better get dressed."