It was moments like these John Watson knew he loved living at 221b.
The flat was quiet. Sherlock had finally solved the case keeping him up for three days with very little food. Needless to say, he had fallen asleep on the couch he usually sulked on, as soon as he had returned to Baker Street.
John let out a sigh. As a doctor, and as Sherlock's friend, he had worried about his health, and had it not been for Sherlock cutting him off, when John had tried to remind him to sleep, he would have asked him to eat sometime, too.
He looked at his flatmate across the room, enjoying the silence. Not that Sherlock had been talking much; he had primarily been silent, or walking aimlessly around, or worse, played the violin in the middle of the night. The silence roaming at 221b was more of a tension free silence. There was no threat, no deadline, not anything than a heavy, steady breathing.
John stretched and started to look around, in case Sherlock should turn and tell him to quit staring. He had done so once or twice before, and it had been equally embarrassing both times. He drummed his fingers quietly on the arm lean of his chair, to prevent him from falling asleep, too. It had become somewhat of a bad habit, and he had to shake it off.
He got up to the kitchen and opened the tap, to make tea, when he heard Sherlock's voice clear from the living room. "Tea for me too, please" was all he said.
John smiled. He had already measured up enough water for two, just in case.
AN: thank you for reading - comments and criticism is welcome, and I hope you enjoyed it.