*** Author's Note***

Towel Day prompt: "We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem." -Douglas Adams

"Trouble in paradise?" Greg kept his voice conspiratorially low. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood just behind Sherlock, looking down over his shoulder at the corpse.

Sherlock, crouched over the body in order to inspect the grit and debris clinging to the victim's knees, didn't give him a glance. "If this is your idea of paradise," he motioned flippantly to the dank alleyway they were in, "your standards are entirely too low."

"Not what I meant, and you know it."

"I make logical connections using quantifiable evidence to come to intelligent conclusions. Your intentionally dubious statement is none of those things." Sherlock stood, nearly lost his footing, and grabbed Greg's forearm for support. The next instant he released Greg's arm, squared his shoulders and gave an imperious sniff. "I am not a mind reader. If you have something to say, say it."

Greg chuckled. "You just seem a bit… off today is all." Greg shrugged. "For a few days, to be honest…"

"I am not off. What does that even mean?" Sherlock's foot slipped again as he moved to turn away in a huff.

"You've been… Hmm… Cantankerous." Greg offered, a bit too chipper for Sherlock's liking.

"I'm always cantankerous."

Greg hummed in agreement. "But you're normally cantankerous and rude. Now you just seem…" He sighed and looked at Sherlock with something - surely not sympathy - in his eyes. "Well, you seem kinda sad."

Sherlock scoffed and marched toward the mouth of the alley. Lestrade followed close behind. "It's okay if you've got personal stuff, for godsake, we all do. It's just not like you to let it show."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock spun to face Greg. "Please, enlighten me."

"Well," Greg cleared his throat, "you seem…"

"Do not say cantankerous." There was a threat in Sherlock's tone.

"Distracted." Greg flinched as he said it.

"I'm not."

"Ah, I think maybe…" Greg glanced down once, and then back up at Sherlock. "You were standing in the victim's blood back there."

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it shut when he looked down and spotted the sticky clotting mess on the toe of his shoe. He'd left a trail from the corpse to where they were standing. "Oh, fucking…" he breathed, then snapped his mouth shut again.

Shocked by the fact it was Sherlock swearing, Greg laughed outright. "We've all done it."

"I have not."

"Okay, mate. Then today is not your day, because…" Greg tilted his head and glanced down again.

Sherlock followed his line of sight and realized the hem of his coat had also trailed in the blood when he'd crouched down. He clenched his jaw tight and glared back at the body as if it had personally, intentionally wronged him.

"Is that enough quantifiable evidence that you might be distracted. Just a bit?"

Sherlock flushed crimson. Greg refrained, barely, from snapping a photo with his phone.

"I…"

"You complimented Anderson."

"...did nothing of the sort!" Sherlock growled.

"You told him his observation was marginally less imbecilic than his normal." Greg patted his arm. There was no denying it, that was sympathy.

"I still called him an imbecile!"

"But respectfully." Greg snorted and had to cover his mouth with his hand to keep from laughing at the look of horror on Sherlock's face.

"Damn," Sherlock started to bury his face in his hands, realizing almost too late he was still wearing grimy latex gloves. He grumbled as he tore them away and tossed them at a nearby skip. "I can't do it."

Greg stared back at him. "Can't do what, exactly?"

"This," he motioned broadly down the alley, then tugged his hand through his hair.

"This as in solve the case? I thought you said you were close."

"No! I mean, yes, but no. I mean," he growled in frustration. "I can't be Sherlock Holmes when he's not here."

"Who?" A small smile played at the corners of Greg's mouth.

"Don't be obtuse, Gavin."

"All right, all right." Greg rolled his eyes. "So, John's ruined you?"

"Quite the contrary." So soft, Greg had to lean in to hear him. "He makes me better. When he's not here, I feel lost. Unmoored."

"So, are you two…"

"You ask the wrong questions. Everyone always asks the wrong questions." Sherlock sighed. "Except John."

"Well, where is he then?"

Sherlock looked put out. "He insists on maintaining his medical registry. Picks up locum shifts when he can. Peak flu season, so the hospitals have been very demanding. He worked last night, is still there now. Worked two day shifts before this one."

"Ah, that's why he hasn't been around. But he still talks the case over with you after?" Greg had been slowly leading Sherlock to his car. He needed to collect Sherlock's shoes and coat for the evidence on them.

A jerky shake of his head, and Sherlock fished the necessities from his coat pockets. "The first night he did, but the next night, the one before last night, he said he was exhausted. Didn't want to disturb me. Went right…" Sherlock stuttered. "Right upstairs to his room."

"That seems considerate." Brows furrowed in confusion, Greg frowned. "That doesn't seem…"

"He hasn't slept upstairs since…" Sherlock froze, in a near panic, and glanced around to make sure no one heard.

Greg just grinned.

Sherlock sighed and ducked his head. "He sleeps in my bed. And we… do… we are ... more than strictly just flatmates. He didn't want to be a distraction, but all I could think about was him not where he was supposed to be. I…"

"You've got it bad mate." Greg carefully folded Sherlock's coat into an evidence bag.

Sherlock hummed in agreement as he untied his shoes.

"And John? He's in deep too?"

"The evidence is… quite conclusive." Sherlock blushed again.

"Well," Greg shook his head. "Not really sure if congratulations is appropriate."

"Can we not?" Sherlock slid his shoes into an evidence bag and wiggled his socked toes against the soggy concrete. "We haven't told anyone. Not yet."

"Not a word," Greg held up both hands. "But a bit of advice?"

Sherlock sighed and motioned for Greg to continue.

"Does he work tomorrow?"

"No." Sherlock looked minutely relieved.

"And when was the last time you slept?" Greg cocked an eyebrow at him and pointed at the passenger side of his car.

"I fail to see…"

"When?"

"What day did this case start?" Sherlock huffed in disdain climbing into Greg's car.

"Christ, Sherlock. That's four days." Greg maneuvered the car into traffic.

"I don't need…"

"Yes. You do." Greg cast him a sidelong glance. "And so will John. Here's my advice. Have dinner waiting, then you two go to bed." Greg laughed when Sherlock groaned, and slid down in his seat completely mortified. "To sleep, idiot. Just sleep. Look at the case fresh tomorrow."

Sherlock scoffed. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow." Greg nodded. "Together. With John."

"With… John…" Sherlock mumbled to himself. "That," he looked at Greg, "is acceptable advice." He nodded to himself, deep in thought. "Very insightful of you, Greg."

"Git," Greg laughed. "You may want to shower first. You smell like a skip." He pulled to a stop in front of 221b and Sherlock jumped from the car.

"Greg," Sherlock leaned down and stuck his head back into the car.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

John fumbled his keys at the front door and stumbled up the stairs to the flat. He tried to check the time on his mobile, but it had been dead for hours. It was late, he knew. So late it was practically early. John shook his head and groaned. Rain-soaked and dizzy with exhaustion, he barely managed to hang up his coat before he realized Sherlock's coat and shoes weren't in their usual place.

Feeling lonely and a bit weepy - a symptom of fatigue and two missed meals he told himself - John toed off his shoes and stared into the dimly lit sitting room, not sure what to do next. Sleep. God yes. But he needed a shower. Shower. Sleep. Or eat? He could practically smell his favorite…

The table was set for two. Ridiculous portions from Angelos. Wine carefully poured. Cannoli. Two taper candles burned down to nubs.

The fireplace had burned down to glowing embers, and their best, only slightly mismatched, tea service sat ready next to John's chair.

"Oh, Sherlock." John no longer had an excuse for the weepiness. His vision blurred with the overflow of his heart, and he shuffled through the flat toward their room. He'd wait for Sherlock to come home to reheat dinner, but he could still shower.

And there, in the middle of the bed, curled on his side and snoring softly, was Sherlock dressed in pyjama bottoms and John's old RAMC t-shirt. John sat on the edge of the bed, and was tempted to just stretch out and pass out right then. He ran his hand lightly along Sherlock's back, feeling the dips and ridges, not nearly so defined as they used to be, of his spine.

"I love you, you know?" He paused with his hand on Sherlock's hip. "I've missed you."

"John?" Sherlock mumbled. He turned over so he was wrapped around John's back and wrapped his arms around John's middle.

"Didn't mean to wake you, love."

"Tried to wait." He snuggled closer to John. "You should eat."

John yawned. "Don't know if I can." Another yawn. "Need to shower." He leaned back against Sherlock. "Where's your coat?"

Sherlock mumbled something into John's side.

"Hhummm?" John wasn't entirely sure how he managed to focus enough to wrestle his jumper over his head.

"Evidence."

"Bad day, love?" John shifted so he was laying with his back to Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock nodded against John's shoulder, then stretched some to fit along his back. "You'll never get up now," Sherlock breathed against his neck before placing gentle kisses there.

"Mhmm" John sniffed and scooted back to get closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, finally able to breathe, and tucked his face into the crook of John's neck. "Love you too, John."