Sherlock was sulking in his armchair, his lips pursed and his hands clapped together on his mouth. His untidy, curly, black hair was even more dishevelled than usual and the area around his eyes was black and drooping from lack of sleep. The look was not at all unusual; it occurred whenever there was no case or when a case went unsolved. Sherlock was usually to bed early and likewise arisen in the morning. There was occasion, however, when Sherlock's mind was either so bored or so fixated that he couldn't possibly sleep or eat. The latter took too much energy and brain space.
John knew Sherlock was in the stupor because of their most recent case, what John referred to as the case of the missing padlock, went unsolved. A man in his forties had come to call at 221B Baker Street not three days ago. He had gone to open his shed that morning but instead of finding his garden auger, he instead found a dead body. The body was female, maybe 25, and was holding a gun. She'd died of a bullet wound to the head ut as there were no stains from black powder, she couldn't have done it herself. The padlock and the auger from the shed were both missing, there were no fingerprints on the gun but the girl's. Sherlock had inspected everything at the scene from the soil in the toolshed to the foreign hairs on the girl's skirt (cat). Nothing gave a good lead to anything that happened leading up to the morning the man found her body.
After ten minutes of deciding what to do, John had formulated a plan to move Sherlock from his determined disdain. He first grabbed the blanket draped over Sherlock's legs and harshly shook his shoulders. Sherlock blinked. John sighed and prepared the second part of his plan, which involved filling the mop bucket with ice water
"I don't see any reason why you would do such a pointless thing as dump that on my head, John, but if you need logical reasoning for why you would gain nothing from the exercise, I'll indulge you."
"There's no-"
"I am assuming that the water in the bucket has been chilled to less than 10 degrees which would cool my body temperature enough to make me uncomfortable, causing me to go change my clothes and proceed to sit in my chair. I am not accustomed to holding a grudge for such frivolous actions, however, I am sure that I would, for at least a short time, refuse to move or speak to you out of spite and amusement. Given that I'm assuming your intention is to get me to move, it would actually be counterproductive for you to dump that water on me."
John smiled a bit and emptied the bucket in the sink.
"You should eat. It's not healthy. Sleep is good, too. You've got bags under your eyes."
"Unnecessary."
"Even so, it's unhealthy."
"Says the retired army doctor discharged for poor health." John winced slightly at the jab but considered the argument progress from silence. He tried again, not sitting in his adjacent armchair, very tired himself.
"There are other cases. We could try one of them." In truth, John felt thoroughly unhelpful for this case and was a bit bored himself.
"They're all boring. No. I just need..." and he was gone again, lost in his mind palace, leaving John to pick at a magazine lying on the table next to him.
In his head, Sherlock was standing in a large office analyzing slides on a projector. He flipped through photos of the crime scene, maps of the surrounding area, then picked up a file containing witness accounts of the victim's whereabouts the night before. He was beginning to piece together exactly where should would have had to have been at time of death to end up in that shed. He re-examined the soil stains on her dress and compared them to samples from each of the possible locations, finally determining an alley behind a pizza parlor was the most likely location.
A sharp ough from John shook Sherlock from his thoughts. John was slumped over in his seat, breathing heavily. Sherlock recognized his flushed features and compared them to the position he was sleeping in along with the occasional deep coughs and decided it all indicated a chest cold. He draped a blanket over John and closed the curtains so there wasn't as much light. He thought John would probably be more comfortable on the sofa, but saw no easy way to move him, so he left the doctor to his sleep. Sherlock came back and checked on John every fifteen minutes or so, noticing the steady increase in his temperature. At one point, Sherlock used an ear thermometer to check, careful not to wake up John and saw it had gotten over 38 degrees, so he put a cool cloth on his head.
John slept for a few hours before waking up with a new cloth on his head, a pillow propping him up, and a blanket carefully covering him. He felt groggy, his head hurt, and he was sore, but the setup was rather comfortable. Sherlock wandered in, rather comfortable. Sherlock wandered in, a book in hand and absent-mindedly stuck his hand on John's cheek to cheek for any change in his fever. John jumped slightly at the touch but allowed it.
"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked, not looking up from his book. John noticed the bags under Sherlock's eyes went unchanged.
"It's just a cold. Came on quickly. Have you eaten anything?" Sherlock shook his head. The two were in no condition for anything involving a lot of energy. As though on cue, greg Lestrade ran into the flat.
"Sally's gone missing," he said, nearly shouting. He'd obviously ran to get to the fat. He was breathing heavily, there was a thin layer of sweat sitting about his furrowed brow. He looked at Sherlock and then John.
"John, stay here," Sherlock said calmly. "I'll handle this. The kettle's on for tea. It will be ready in two minutes." Without another word, Sherlock left down the stairs. Lestrade stuck around for a few seconds longer and asked, "Are you sick?"
Before John could answer, Sherlock shouted from downstairs. "Excellent deduction. Scotland Yard, everyone. Come along."
Lestrade left and suddenly the flat was too quiet. John lazily got up and made tea, his whole body aching now, then went to sleep on the sofa.