John woke up in bed feeling exhausted. The last few weeks had been hectic. He had been constantly running between New Scotland Yard, St Bart's and that one creepy cemetery. He'd had his gun out, aimed and ready to shoot at least three times a day in the last week alone, before that even more.
He glanced at the clock. Shit. It was eleven in the morning already. The eerie quiet of the flat unnevered him. Well it was better than yesterday; one of Sherlock's old experiments had blown up in the desk draw, waking him. The room had been a smoky haze for the next few hours and still smelt like slightly off milk.
John made his way down stairs and almost tripped over the same pile of old case files that had been sitting at the foot of the steps for the past two weeks. He glared at them wishing that will power alone could get them put back in their boxes. It was his best hope, Sherlock wouldn't do it.
He continued to the kitchen and pulled down two mugs from the cupboard while placing the kettle on boil. The routine was so familiar these days that he didn't even have to think about it as he made tea for himself and his mad flatmate.
Because it was almost lunch time John thought he had better make some attempt at food too. Toast, with jam, sounded excellent right now. He pulled out the bread, checking it for mould either natural or experimental, and retrieved the toaster from its normal cupboard.
As he placed it on the counter he heard a strange plop from inside. Fearing the worst he glanced down inside and sure enough there, caught in the metal prongs, was a decaying human finger. Instead of fishing it out John threw the whole thing towards the bin. How did Sherlock live all his life and never learn that fingers in the toaster was a bit not good. A lot not good.
John glared whole heartedly at Sherlock's closed bedroom door. He couldn't stay mad though. It was such a Sherlock thing to do that it almost made him sad. He refused to get sad today however and quickly swallowed down his tea and headed for the shower.
Here was a challenge. Don't-think-about-Sherlock-in-the-shower was John's least favourite past time. Get self wet; rain running over Sherlock, too consumed by a case to notice or care. Shampoo hair; the bounce of those curls as he ran towards the greatest threat he could find. Wash self; washing yet another of the brutal injuries Sherlock always managed to pick up.
John showered and dressed as quickly as he could. The less time he spent thinking about his friend the better for everyone. As he pulled on his socks in his room he eyed his gun. It was sat on his desk, where he had left it yesterday. No need for that today. He picked it up, feeling the weight of it, the power of it, and hurriedly put it in a draw. Out of sight, out of mind.
Back down the stairs. Back past the pile of bloody case files. John looked into the main living room. John moved into the kitchen. The second cup of tea he had made was going cold on the dining table. It was typical really. When did Sherlock ever drink the tea he made?
John wasn't needed at the clinic today, they had given him quite a bit of time off after the last few weeks, and he wasn't needed for a case. This was the kind of day John had been talking about when he told Ella Thompson 'nothing ever happens to me'.
Still it was no use sitting in the flat and moping about so John picked up his jacket and the blue scarf from the coat hanger by the door and made his way out. He tried to hail a cab for about five minutes before giving up the endeavour. He never had Sherlock's annoying magic cab hailing powers.
He frowned at Sherlock's window and started to walk. He wasn't even sure where he was headed. He could go to the pub, but it was only twelve at this point, a bit early. He could go to Bart's, except he wasn't sure he could face the place today. Where else was there? Mike's? No. Greg's? No. The bloody Diogenes Club? No. Did he really have so few friends that he considered going to visit Mycroft? When did that happen? Sherlock would not be pleased.
Instead he walked aimlessly for an hour or so. He eventually ended up at the stupid cemetery. He'd been here far too much recently. He should turn and walk the other way. He didn't. John walked into the graveyard, following the gravel path between the large trees. When he reached his main attraction he sighed heavily.
'Here I am again.' He whispered to no one. He sat down on the grass, his back leaning against the perfect black headstone.
'You really should find a better past time' replied the deep baritone he knew so well, 'this one's so dreary. It'll never make you happy.'
John laughed to himself. Figures he would hear Sherlock here. Wasn't like the mad genius had anywhere better to be right now.
'Yeah, well, I like it here. What's your excuse?'
'I hardly had a choice, John. I was quite literally put in a car and driven here. I blame Mycroft.'
'Course you blame your brother.' John said, 'When hasn't the broken kettle or the noxious gas or the lack of milk ever been anyone else's fault but Mycroft's'
'I am glad you understand the terrible misfortune you have in knowing him.' Sherlock replied and even though John couldn't see him he could hear the smile in his voice.
John always loved when Sherlock smiled. So often it was the fake put on smile for an audience when he wanted information. Rarely was it a genuine smile. Those smiles only ever happened when it was just the two of them. John closed his eyes and imagined that smile.
'I would have died to see you smile like that more often.' John said, his voice wavering.
'Oh, stop it. Really, if you had died I wouldn't have smiled at all.' Sherlock said. His voice was no nonsense, fact stating. It made John shudder.
'No, I don't suppose you would have. Probably would have sulked around the living room all day in your dressing gown. Although that's not different from a typical day so I guess I shouldn't feel special.' John said in a huff.
They were quiet for a moment, breathing in the cold morning air.
'Is that my scarf?' Sherlock asked, he didn't sound annoyed though.
John pulled the scarf from under his coat and ran the ends through his hands, 'Yea, yes, it is. Thought you wouldn't need it so, yea.'
'It's perfectly fine John. Suits you. You should wear it more often. I'm sure I can go without it.' Sherlock said.
It broke John a little, hearing that. It was Sherlock's stupid scarf, not John's. He shouldn't have picked it up this morning. Sherlock should have. Sherlock wouldn't though, he couldn't. John stood abruptly.
'You're leaving?' Sherlock asked. He knew of course, he could deduce it.
'Yeah. Might go sort out those papers at the Yard. Only a few more to go through.' John really was sick of the papers. He didn't want to go to the Yard. He wanted to stay here, with Sherlock. He couldn't though, it wasn't right. He had to do something to keep himself from losing it completely.
'Tell Lestrade he's an idiot from me.' Sherlock smirked.
'I'm sure I will.'
John moved away from his friend. He moved away from the still freshly turned earth he had been sitting on. He moved away from the black headstone. The one that said, quite simply, in beautiful gold writing; Sherlock Holmes.