The digital clock blinked 11:35 pm when Sherlock finally got home.

Of course, the fast hands of the wall clock told a little later story, but late was late.

John wasn't going to nitpick.

"Finally." He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at the detective sternly. "You said you'd be home two hours ago. I left dinner out for you, but it's gone cold. And you missed the special on the telly."

Sherlock just shrugged.

He didn't bother answering or even removing his coat or shoes, and instead retired directly to the sofa, where he let himself slump over and settle facedown on the cushions.

"Git..." John sighed, rolling his eyes. "You could have at least called..."

He considered getting the detective a blanket, but seeing as he was still fully clothed John decided against it, since it would just encourage him to stay where he was and get his dress shirt all wrinkled.

He had to be babysat, sometimes.

The arse.

But seeing as it was late, and he wasn't likely to get any sort of conversation going with the prone consulting detective, John elected to hit the sack. He looked over the few dirty dishes that were left in the sink, and told himself he'd get them done tomorrow.

He would.

If time allowed.

With one last weary sigh he padded down the hall and up the stairs, leaving Sherlock where he'd flopped.

"G'night, Sherlock..."


Something had woken John.

He sat up in the dark, blinking, but he didn't hear anything. Maybe it had been his imagination...?

Regardless, he was soon becoming aware of how dry his throat was, and he slid out of bed with the intention of going to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. His bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud, and he stretched, his back popping.

Down the stairs and through the hall found him at his destination, but there he found that all the lights were still on, just as he'd left them hours earlier.

Git...

He squinted through the sudden light, and could make out the detective still lying on the sofa, now curled up with his back to the room.

Asleep?

He ought to sleep in his bedroom, not the living room.

But that wasn't completely unexpected for Sherlock.

John shook his head tiredly and fumbled his way over to the sink, where he poured himself a glass from the tap and leaned back against the counter to drink it.

After a while he lowered the glass from his lips, tilting his head quizzically.

Was that sound coming from Sherlock...?

Surely not...

He set his water aside as quietly as he could and tiptoed closer to the sofa, listening intently.

Yes...

That rasping sound did indeed seem to be originating from Sherlock's lungs.

John frowned, looking down at him.

That didn't sound good.

Not good in the least.