Farsighted.
Sherlock started to notice the blurriness of things close to him, had started banging into the corners of walls. Normally, this wouldn't be of any consequence to him, which is why he let it continue for at least six months as his vision gradually worsened, but it was starting to affect his work.
"Sherlock, you need to see an eye doctor!" John repeated to the 'stubborn as sixty-three mules' man in front of him when he crashed into the third wall today. Wasn't even the corner this time – smack-dab in the middle.
Sherlock groaned and rubbed his temples. For John's troubles, Sherlock had received a stress headache instead of a pair of glasses. "For once, you may be right." Sherlock granted. "But, it won't be on any time when there's a case-"
John didn't let Sherlock finish his sentence. Instead, he came up to Sherlock and aided his friend at putting on his long black and grey coat. "We're going now." John declared, taking Sherlock by the wrist and dragging him away from his chair.
Sherlock literally whined when he was stuffed into the taxicab and taken to an eye doctor appointment.
The doctor stared in shock at Sherlock. "This man has serious vision problems. Why did you take so long to come here?" she asked.
Sherlock's hands darted out to keep him from bumping into someone or something. "I only came because this blasted interference kept disturbing my work."
The eye doctor, Ms Josephine, sighed and turned to John. "His glasses'll be ready in two weeks. Don't let him leave the house, I don't care what you have to do if he doesn't get a concussion."
So, for the next two weeks, Sherlock brooded. John refused to let him leave the house, even when Lestrade (or Leslie as Sherlock loved to taunt him) came with a very impressive case. At the very least, an Eleven.
"John," Sherlock whined. "It's a class-Thirteen case!"
"Not until your glasses come." John refused to succumb to the temptation of going out for a walk because whoever he left with Sherlock would eventually leave the room and Sherlock would escape to bang into walls and signposts.
Sherlock crossed his arms and sat down in his chair.
Sherlock plopped headphones over his ears and instead listened to death metal, violin music (he admitted he could appreciate Lindsey Stirling's work), or various other styles of music in different languages.
John relaxed into his chair. Scotland Yard was baffled with the class-Thirteen case (as Sherlock described it), and kept coming over to Sherlock's flat without cease to find out if he got his glasses yet.
It got to the point where a private detective went over to the eyeglasses place and ordered that they speed up the process for official reasons. They even left a hundred dollars.
In effect, two days later, Sherlock's glasses came.
Sherlock strode across the scene of the crime, his eyes bugging out in the lenses of his glasses.
"I truly forgot what seeing correctly was like." Sherlock remarked, swerving away from a nearby signpost.
John chuckled slightly, then walked straight into a brick wall.
On the other side of the wall, the crime scene John had been attempting to reach, Sherlock's condescending voice called out: "John, you might want to get your eyes checked."
Fin.
Leave a review, thanks!
-Sapphy Ink.