"Sherlock, you don't sleep that much," John said in a concerned tone, typing softly on his often-tampered laptop. "Does it affect you in any way?"
No reply. He either ignored John's question, or he did not want him to know. In fact, it does affect him. But not in a physical way...in an emotional way.
"No, it doesn't," he replied sternly. "Why do you even ask? That's an unusual question." He walks toward the sofa and lies down, silently thinking. John was probably wondering what is in his introverted mind.
"Nothing, it's just...curiosity," John replied. He continues typing, god knows what. "So you never feel like sleeping? It can kill you, you know," he stated. He stopped typing and gazed at Sherlock, a bit interested and preoccupied about his flatmate. "It can really kill you..."
Sherlock sighed in disagreement, and stared back at John in annoyance. "I sleep, but not always. It's a waste of time," he continued, "Besides, I'd rather just lie down and do nothing."
"Oh." A disappointed voice came from John. Sherlock stood up and walked to the kitchen idly.
"Sherlock, are you alright? You've been a bit down and sort of sick for the past few days," John stopped typing and inquired, following him into the kitchen. "John, I'm fine," Sherlock insisted. He checked if he has a fever. He was medically fine. "Oh, you're fine. Hmm. Okay, I'll lay off." John said and walked back to his chair and continued typing.
Suddenly, a loud thump echoed in the flat.
"Sherlock? What happened?" John yelled in surprise. He hurriedly stood up and hurries to the kitchen, and reacted in surprise as he saw Sherlock sprawled on the floor, with a grieving emotion present on his face. His eyes were closed tightly.
"Sherlock!" He exclaimed. He tried to carry Sherlock to his room, and he put him in bed. He checked his temperature again. Mild fever seemed to be the case. I hope it isn't too serious.
A/N: Sorry if it sucked a bit, I'm a new writer...