Inspired entirely by "The Sign of Four" by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (The Master! Bow down to him NOW!) Enjoy please guys!

Rest Easy Now

It wasn't even two days into the case and already, John was exhausted. They'd followed up false leads, went running through London traffic after a man who didn't know anything, waded through the marsh to find a pair of old boots, and ended up getting caught in a horrible storm. They were trying to track a set of footprints leading God-knows-where when the sun poked its head up over London's skyline. Sherlock took one look at his friend and colleague and ran a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up on its curly ends.

"Let's go back to Baker Street," he said at long last, his deep voice reassuring. "You need breakfast and I need my laptop." John didn't argue, but was altogether too exhausted to talk much. Sherlock hailed a cab and the two men returned to their flat in the wee hours of the morning.

Upon the return to the flat, Sherlock fetched his laptop and pulled his knees up to his chest, his eyes fixed on the computer screen. John set the tea water boiling and went to take a shower. When he returned, Sherlock had open folders precariously balanced on the arms of his chair, papers sliding out the edges. His laptop was balanced just on the edge of his knees, barely resting on his thighs at all, papers and a monstrous, heavy-looking book that John could scarcely believe Sherlock had lifted all on his own open and taking up most of his lap. It was an old volume, and dust flew from the pages when Sherlock turned them, his fingers gentle but fast on the elderly pages. He had a small notepad wedged into the seat cushion, a pencil trapped between his white teeth. The unoccupied hand was busy holding his computer steady, for it wobbled on the unsteady, bony surface that was the young man's knees. Every so often, he would push at the mouse pad with a single long finger to keep the computer from sleeping, and his eyes flickered from the book to the computer, occasionally drawing the laptop into his lap to type hastily.

John knew Sherlock hadn't been sleeping well. His face looked drawn and had a deathly pallor to it, a tinge of fever coloring his cheeks a faint pinkish hue. His hair was damp and wild from the many times he'd ran his hands through it in frustration or absentmindedness. He was still fully dressed, coat and all. His trousers and shoes were caked with mud from the marsh and his clothes were soaked through from being caught in the rain. His ears were red and windblown, his scarf a thin rag about his neck. There was a long scratch across one side of his neck where the man they'd been chasing cut with his knife. It was a superficial wound, John could see, and red blood was smeared around its vicinity, some of it ending up on his scarf and shirt collar. Sherlock had, many times after the encounter with the man, held his neck, but John thought nothing of it. He'd not seen Sherlock get injured, and the man had shown no sign of being wounded. He'd pounced on the retreating felon with the ferocity of a big cat upon its prey, and thus earned himself that cut. John felt guilty for not seeing and attending to it, but reasoned with himself that Sherlock wouldn't have let him treat the injury, anyway, so intent he'd been on the case. Exactly like a well-trained scent hound on the trail of a fox.

John had thrown his wet clothes straightaway into his hamper, to be washed later after he'd had some breakfast. He was fully dressed again, ready to follow Sherlock at a moment's notice. Despite his seemingly languid pose, Sherlock was practically twitching with excitement, one knee now tapping—almost toppling his computer over—as he paged through the volume in his lap. His hair was still wet from his shower, and he ran a calloused hand through it. He'd taken part in all of the adventures that Sherlock had led him to, but still the taller man had managed to get himself into more trouble. While they were wading through the marsh, he'd slipped into deeper water while trying to catch or grab whatever it was he was after (he didn't do John the courtesy of telling him—all he did was gasp and lunge forward) which submerged him for a moment. John helped to pull him back up, coughing up marsh water, and Sherlock allowed a few seconds of repose to remove some water grasses from his hair and clothes. No wonder the flat smelled faintly of pond water. John had to smile, for the whole event was funny after the initial heart attack of Sherlock's sudden disappearance under the dark, murky water.

John was about to go and fix himself a cuppa, offering his help to Sherlock afterwards, when his stomach gave a long, dark growl. John groaned, placing a hand over his belly. He hadn't had a bite to eat since the case started, and as usual barely had time to finish his breakfast before Sherlock dragged him out the door. He felt dizzy from the realization, and wondered how Sherlock was holding up, pondering how in hell the man could push past his basest needs in favor of intriguing cases. For a long moment, he wished he had the same power—Sherlock really looked overwhelmed and he wanted to help his friend. But Sherlock's lips cracked into a smile before John could move a single step.

"You'd better eat, John. I know I've kept you busy." As he spoke, the pencil fell from his lips and he retrieved it absently from his lap, scribbling something on his notepad.

It was so eerily considerate of the selfish Sherlock Holmes that John had no other choice than to stammer out a rebuttal. "Sh—Sherlock—It's okay, I'm fine. I want to help."

"You can help by fixing yourself some breakfast." Sherlock, hunched over his book, looked up through his dark curtain of curly hair. "Can't have my blogger falling down on the job." He smiled faintly, his eyes showing it more than his lips, and quickly went back to his work.

John was afraid he could argue no further. Besides…he was starving. As he went into the kitchen to prepare eggs and ham and toast with jam, he heard Sherlock shuffling through the papers. He was just cracking a second egg over the frying pan when he heard his flatmate give a sharp hiss. "What's the matter?" He asked, ready to rush into action.

Sherlock laughed, a bit uneasily. "Paper cut. Don't worry, John." And he was back to flipping through the pages again. After a minute of that, he could be heard typing away on his laptop.

"Would you like a cuppa?" John asked, getting two cups from the cupboard while he waited for the ham to be done.

"Maybe later." Sherlock replied distractedly, scribbling something in his notepad.

John frowned as he collected the toast and began to spread his favorite strawberry jam on it. Sherlock rarely turned down tea on a case, and since it was the only thing he ingested while working, this was no light matter. John had picked up some art of deduction from his friend in the short time they'd been together—John was a fast learner—and knew that the case must really be puzzling Sherlock, if the man couldn't be bothered to tear himself away from the case for a cuppa after roughly twelve hours of work. "Sure you don't need my help?" He questioned, worried that Sherlock would faint before long if he didn't have at least a little energy to run on. Two sugars in his tea or coffee wasn't much, but at least it was something.

"No." Sherlock replied, his voice firm and cold but not harsh. "Eat now, and don't worry about the case."

"How can I not worry?" John stamped to the front of the kitchen, his plate in hand. He leaned against the wall, tearing into his ham with vigor. "You're in over your head, Sherlock. You and I both know that."

Without missing a beat in his routine of page-turning, typing, and writing, Sherlock shook his head and put the pencil behind his ear. " 'In over my head' just makes it more exciting and worthy of my time, John." And with that, he took the laptop into his lap and set it firmly on top of the old book. He began typing furiously, his eyes scanning the screen at the speed of light. John noted that the dim, bluish glow from the screen outlined the tired lines, the dark circles and sunken cheeks that had already begun to plague his friend's face. When Sherlock backed away from the computer, he took a deep breath and pulled up his phone, typing on it. He then rifled through one of the folders at his elbow, throwing papers haphazardly behind him during his search.

John shook his head and began shoveling down his eggs. "There must be something I can do to help," he mumbled, mostly to the battleground that his ravenous appetite had turned his plate into.

"Are there leeches in the marsh?" Sherlock asked, his thin fingers pouring through the papers in the folder with ease.

John swallowed thickly. "Don't think so. Why?"

"Then you've just helped me." Sherlock threw the folder at the wall, frustrated, and then began ransacking the poor folder at his feet. "It's unlikely we gained any unwanted guests from our little swim, then."

"That's not very fair, Sherlock," John accused. "That has nothing to do with the case!"

Sherlock tilted his head a little, the way he often did when acknowledging John if he couldn't be bothered to take his eyes off something else. "Doesn't it?" He inquired, the uptick in his voice an obvious, innocent question that held no sarcasm. "Pardon me for playing doctor, Doctor, but I think it is necessary for us to be in decent physical condition for the remainder of the case."

John finished off his breakfast by shoving the last of his toast into his mouth. While he licked his fingers, he posed another point. "You mean mine."

"Hm?" This was Sherlock's distracted 'why are you bothering me' noise. Sherlock pulled out a paper from the folder, scanned it with his eyes, and then crowed in triumph, referencing it immediately to the book in his lap. He stretched out one leg at about half length to steady his computer and then hummed, something which sounded a bit like buzzing because his teeth were pressed in a firm line, his tongue trapped against their backs.

"You don't eat or sleep while on a case. It's all I can do to get you to drink a little coffee or tea when you're distracted." John listed patiently, sipping his own tea. "You do stupid things like dive into the marsh—"

"I thought it was all shallow."

"—and stay in your damp and dirty clothes!"

Sherlock ignored the last one, his fingers tracing a particular line, his mouth moving, whispering the words to himself, too softly for John to hear. Then, he sprang up, one hand holding aloft the dauntingly enormous volume, the other closing his laptop and holding it tucked under his arm. He deposited his laptop on the desk, and then the book with a loud thud. He picked up his violin and began to rosin the bow.

"Are you listening to me?" John demanded, more concerned for than angry at his strange and ingenious flatmate.

"Barely." Sherlock admitted calmly. John groaned in frustration and pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. The consulting detective rested the reddish-honey colored instrument in the crook of his neck, holding it gently as if it were a baby. Then, quite suddenly, he spoke, his eyes at the window. "You look tired, John."

John jumped, mostly because he'd expected complete silence the moment Sherlock had begun to rosin his bow. That's what his playing the violin meant: no words from Sherlock. But here he was speaking. God, it must be important. Except…it wasn't. Just Sherlock deducting—quite correctly, in fact. "I'll live," he admitted with a smile.

Sherlock shook his head, some water droplets that were still nestled amongst his curls freed by this action. "You're exhausted, John. It's been a tough case and I've been a terrible friend."

"No, Sherlock, you haven't."

"All the same. Lie down on the couch and I'll see if I can't relax you. Well, go on." That last add-on was in response to John's incredulous look.

John shrugged and obeyed Sherlock, lying down on the couch and getting comfortable. It was a piece of furniture he rarely occupied, since usually Sherlock was lying on it, and it was quite soft and warm. Almost like a bed of soft clouds. Against his will, John closed his eyes.

After only a moment, John heard the faint touch of the rosin on the strings and Sherlock began to play. It was a soft, calm melody that encouraged rest and relaxation. John sighed, lulled by the soft music—Sherlock's own composition, for he was good at improvisation on the strings. John yawned, feeling himself growing sleepier as he listened to Sherlock's song. When he snuck a peek at his flatmate, he had a faint, blurred image of Sherlock waltzing around the flat, eyes closed and head bent into the glorious machine.

With a satisfied sigh, John drifted off into a deep slumber, serenaded by the violin's beautiful lullaby.

The fact that the lullaby is canon…*fangirl screams*. What? If you don't believe me, read 'The Sign of Four' and see for yourself!

I thought that this scene in the book was irresistibly cute and completely out of character for Holmes…and yet, so beautifully in-character, for him to do such a selfless thing for his friend…adorableness abounds! So, here I reproduced it with the cast of Sherlock!

…God, I hope they do this in the show.

Thanks!-SH