Chapter 1: Richly Deserved

John. We're out of milk.

-SH

Dr. John H. Watson rolled his eyes. Sherlock was just in the other room. Why couldn't he call out to John like a normal person? Picking up his mobile from where he'd placed it on the edge of the tub, John began to type.

I'm in the middle of a well-deserved bath. Must it be now?

It was only an instant before his mobile pinged with a reply.

I want cereal, so yes.

-SH

There was only one response to that, of course. Get it yourself, dammit. And on that note, John switched his mobile off and tossed it to the bathmat with a happy sigh.

Sherlock, sprawling on the living room sofa as was his habit, regarded his mobile with distaste. Recently, this had been happening more and more: John ignoring him, John disregarding his requests. It was a disconcerting turn of events. Even Mycroft had noticed it. "So, little brother," he'd said, "your flatmate's finally growing a spine?" There had been further jibes, which Sherlock had not deigned to grant space in his mind palace. No need to waste space on his precious hard drive with Mycroft's needless negativity. But he couldn't deny the trend. John was, more and more, not available to look after Sherlock's needs.

A week later, Sherlock attended a case alone for the first time since John had moved in with him. "Honeymoon period over?" quipped Donovan; Sherlock turned away without a word. Only later did he realize this might have betrayed the emotion he was trying so desperately to hide.

At least it was an engaging case. A dead man had surfaced in the Thames, the pockets of his overcoat stuffed with living rats. Ten days later, a dead woman had surfaced in a similarly rat-infested overcoat. The papers were calling it the Case of the Killer Cat and sensationalizing it horridly. God, Sherlock hated the papers, their never-ending quest for bigger and bloodier crimes. They had no appreciation for subtlety. Of course, it didn't help that they kept reprinting the awful photo of him in the Hat. Back then, though, John had been right beside him, wearing a hat just as silly…

Sherlock sighed and then cast a furtive glance around to make sure no one had heard him. At least the case kept him busy. Yes, the cases kept him entertained. The cases would always be there for him.

John wandered down Baker Street, his heart full of that peculiar gladness that comes with a flawless blue sky. Work in the surgical ward had been busy but fulfilling and he had a date that evening. It seemed to him that the sun had never burned so brightly nor the London air smelled so fresh. Even the pigeons, dirty little birds that normally irritated the crap out of him, appeared friendly and charming. Before he knew it, he was humming an old show tune of the sort that had driven Harry batty in their youth, and nearly skipping down the sidewalk.

It surprised him, then, to see Sherlock practically moping along towards him. Sherlock's head was nestled in the collar of his enormous coat, and the ubiquitous scarf was knotted tighter about his pallid neck than the temperate weather would seem to merit. In fact, the bones were jutting out of his face even more sharply than was usual, and dark circles marred the pale skin beneath his eyes. Sherlock had lost both sleep and weight. Concern smote John like a blow to the heart.

"Sherlock!" he called, hustling forward. "Sherlock! Are you all right?"

The answer was as harsh as anticipated. "Of course I'm all right, you fool," said Sherlock. "Why must you be so raucous in the middle of a public street?"

"For the love of— I was only expressing concern, Sherlock. It's something people do."

"Well, do it somewhere else." And with that, Sherlock slammed the door to 221B shut, leaving John out on the sidewalk.

John wandered around for a quarter of an hour, attempting to regain the bliss he'd felt just a moment before. Amazing how a single conversation with Sherlock could depress him so thoroughly. He knew he shouldn't let Sherlock get to him that way. After all, the man was a high-functioning sociopath or what-have-you. A little surliness around the edges was only to be anticipated. But John couldn't help but remember Harry's words, the last time he'd seen her. "Don't be a doormat, you fool," she'd said. "Don't let him walk all over you like that. It's idiotic."

Why was it that all the important people in John's life only ever insulted him?

Author's note: Hello, Irillia here! I'm new to this whole fanfiction thing and would love some help and guidance. Please stop by the comments; it'll make my day!