There's a streak of sunlight sliding in under the blinds on John's bedroom window and painting a stripe of gold across Sherlock's pale stomach. John runs his fingers along the sunlit swath, surprised to find the skin beneath his fingertips is warm and dewy, and that the curls into which he tucks his face are damp and smell clean. He frowns. "Sherlock?"
"Mm?" replies Sherlock, as though he's only half-listening.
"Didn't you sleep?"
Sherlock shakes his head, tickling John's nose with his hair.
John shouldn't be surprised, but he is. He was already exhausted when they'd come in the night before, and that was without their hurried and hungry extracurricular activities. He couldn't imagine having done anything but exactly what he did: passing out like he was drugged as soon as Sherlock had rolled off him.
Musingly, John sits up on one elbow and regards his patient with a well-trained eye. (Switching from lover to doctor has, thankfully, never been of great difficulty for John. He supposes that something about Sherlock and the life they tend to live has an effect on him, that it keeps him on his toes and perpetually ready to face one medical emergency or another.) Sherlock doesn't look ill. He's lying quite still, his chest rising and fall slowly under his palms (pressed together like a child's during prayer; his thinking pose) and his eyes firmly closed. He seems entirely indifferent to both his own nudity and John's careful regard.
Still, when it comes to Sherlock, John doesn't quite trust his eyes. With a carefulness that would astound anyone who'd seen them only five or six hours previous (when they had been all nails and teeth and harsh whispered demands) John smoothes his hand down the bumps of Sherlock's ribs. They're alarmingly protrudent, he realizes, and he looks up at Sherlock accusingly. "When did you last eat?"
Sherlock makes another humming noise low in his throat. Otherwise, he's as still as a statue.
John sits up. "Sherlock."
An irritable little frown creases Sherlock's face. "What day is it today?"
"Monday," John sighs, not actually exasperated but feeling obliged to pretend at it, at least.
Sherlock is quiet for a moment, considering. He cracks one eye after awhile and looks at John bracingly. "Five days."
"Five-" John rushes, then snaps his mouth shut. He does a fine imitation of a goldfish for a moment before shaking his head. Sherlock makes to say something, and he lifts his hand. "No. No arguments. Five days, Sherlock? What were you thinking?"
"I believe I was thinking of the case," Sherlock says calmly, his eyes sliding closed again. "I'm not hungry, John."
"I imagine your poor body's gotten so used to the hunger pangs it's learned to ignore them by now." John slips out of bed and dons his robe in one quick, thoughtless motion. "Come on, up with you."
"John-"
"Sherlock."
The world's only consulting detective looks less like a super sleuth and more like a fussy child now, with a little crease between his brows and a petulant twist to his mouth. The sigh he lets out is enormously exaggerated, and the eye roll he grants John when he realizes John isn't backing down is so dramatic John has to fight back a smile. "I don't want any breakfast," Sherlock says drawlingly, tearing John's sheet off the bed and wrapping himself up in it.
"All right," John answers agreeably as he leads the way down the stairs. "How about soup? I've got a tin of creamy tomato in one of the less hazardous cupboards, I'm sure of it."
Sherlock makes a non-committal noise from behind him. "Bread and butter, too, then."
John quirks an eyebrow but says nothing, bustling along to the kitchen so he can rummage up the things he needs. He's long since given up trying to suss out what Sherlock enjoys eating and what he doesn't; the answer changes daily. Sherlock follows him, then falls into a chair with another overly dramatic sigh and slumps his head down on to the table, like merely being in the same room as anything edible is more than he can stand.
Like most of Sherlock's childish displays, John finds it easier to ignore this one than to try and correct it. He hums to himself (some old Beatles song, too, because he knows how Sherlock feels about pop music and enjoys ribbing him a little when he can) as he scrounges up a saucepan, a tin of soup (covered in something John hopes very much is dust, and which he rinses off thoroughly), and a tin opener. Within moments, the always-pleasant aroma of delicious tomatoes is filling the air.
It's a little harder to find bread that isn't moldy (he turns to Mrs. Hudson for that, in the end), but soon enough he's got lunch (it's not even nine in the morning, but John won't quibble over terminology; if Sherlock's willing to eat, that's good enough for him) sorted and served. He places two small tan pills next to Sherlock's glass of water, and feels a pleasant hit of surprise when Sherlock swallows them down unquestioningly before diving into his soup with something approaching enthusiasm.
John's trust issues (and Sherlock's conniving sneakery) have devolved enough that John feels comfortable leaving Sherlock to his soup while he turns the sofa into a makeshift bed. He switches on the telly (ancient Connie Price reruns, amusingly) and heads back into the kitchen.
Sherlock has eaten one entire piece of bread, and taken three bites or so from the other. His soup is nearly half gone. He yawns into his palm. "The sleeping pills are beginning to do their job," he says drowsily, looking up at John with half-lidded eyes. John suspects they were hardly necessary, but he stays mum. Either way, Sherlock is suitably exhausted, and he allows himself to be lead compliantly toward the sofa.
He burrows into the blankets and pillows John dragged out of his room, disappearing altogether except for a tuft of dark hair and his silver eyes, which peer out at John with diminishing lucidity. "A small nap," he announces, following it with a mighty yawn. "Wake me in a couple of hours. I need to talk to Lestrade about…about…" He yawns again and shakes his head, and his eyes fall closed. "Case."
"Mm-hmm," John agrees, though of course he'll do no such thing. "Sweet dreams."
Sherlock makes no reply. It's possible he's already sleeping.
It doesn't take long to do the washing up (John eats Sherlock's leftovers, of course, because he's hungry and he neglected to make his own breakfast) or to fix himself a cuppa. He heads back into the living room creakily, stretching his back as he goes, and pauses on the way to his favorite chair to check on Sherlock.
The greatest mind of their generation is being housed in a body that's currently drooling a bit and letting out breaths so deep they're almost (but not quite) snores. John's mouth twitches up into a smile, and he pats Sherlock's haunch before settling down in his chair and flipping to the news. Later he'll have to drag himself down to the shops; their most recent case has left the house in a state, and the sole contents of the refrigerator seem to be condiments and human remains. But for the time being, John's content to sit awhile, to sip his tea and listen to Sherlock's steady breaths. There's no case on today, and they could both use a rest.