"It's a mathematical constant."
When she came down to make some herbal tea after two hours of sleeplessness, she was surprised to find him sitting in the leather chair and not sprawled on the couch.
"Hey. Can't sleep either?"
"Hmm." His head wobbled as he considered whether to continue. "Shoulder's giving me a bit of trouble," he said sheepishly, feeling as if he were admitting some great personal weakness. "The so-called pain killers they administered in the hospital lasted all of three hours and barely took the edge off, but the bed itself was more comfortable than I would have guessed. At least until the visitor arrived."
She looked over to the couch and tried to mentally fit him into it and saw the difficulty. She never understood how it would be comfortable for him under normal circumstances but with the injury, it was clearly not an option. She turned her head toward the stairs down to the kitchen and his room with the spare bed moved in— Ah. That would not be at all comfortable for him under these oh so very not normal circumstances either.
He watched her piece this together, and when she turned back to him he said, "So. Another sleepless night in this chair. One more won't kill me, Watson."
"No, although long-term sleep deprivation is hardly conducive to healing from gunshot trauma. But there's another solution. I'll take the couch and you move into my room until your shoulder has healed."
"Oh—"
She put out her hand to cut him off. "Less talking, Sherlock, more tending. Former-doctor's orders. Let me go put the kettle on and collect some clothes from your room, and then I'll get my room ready for you. If you could fix up the tea — anything without caffeine, I don't care what — it will be ready for you when that's done."
"Watson, this is hardly necessary. She didn't even spend a night in our house."
"It's very clearly necessary, and I'm sorry I didn't realize it immediately. You're not sleeping down there tonight, and you can't sleep up here yet, so there it is. All right?"
He wilted under her stare, dropping his head in silent acknowledgment. And exhaustion; other than that nap in the car while they waited for the Narwhal's cargo to unload she didn't think he'd slept more than a few hours since they captured Daniel Gotlieb. Once he succumbed, she suspected he'd be out for two days, like that other time. Please let there be no more times like these, she thought, knowing how futile that wish was.
He winced and bit back a groan as he started to push up with his good arm to get out of the chair, and she stepped over to press him down again, letting her hand rest heavy on his right shoulder.
"Never mind, I'll do the tea, you stay here until everything's all set. I should check your shoulder once more before you go to bed, but the floor lamp here is good enough to see by, since it's healing well. Or was, until you pulled the stitches."
The repaired stitches burned again with memory of what he'd shouted at her in the station. "Watson, I—"
"No. I know. You weren't disappointed in me. I knew who you were talking about. But if you still want to make it up to me, then drink the tea I'm going to give you and have two glasses of water for the blood loss and let me check the wound and go to bed without any more arguments. Then maybe I'll be able to get some rest around here, too." He could hear the smile in her voice at that last.
He nodded and released his breath, long and slow, letting his eyes close on a slow in-breath. She removed her hand and headed down to the kitchen.
He bent his right arm to touch the place on his shoulder where her hand had been. His eyes were still closed. An image came to mind, a circle bisected by its diameter, their relationship as reliable as it was impossible to describe completely. "Besides being a constant, Watson," he called out loud enough for her to hear downstairs, "pi is also irrational, transcendent, and very likely infinite."
A pause, and the click of the gas igniting under the kettle.
"I know, Sherlock," she called back.