Doctor John (Hamish) Watson liked to think he is a master of patience. He has dealt with his alcoholic sister, his parents' problems until their divorce.

But nothing in his life could have prepared him enough for living with the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

It was just a mundane Sunday morning when John had gotten their freshly washed clothes and got done putting his away. When he came back into the living room of the flat, he saw exactly what he had seen before he left to put his clothes back into his room: the stack of Sherlock's clothes still on the sofa, and the detective still staring into, and fiddling with, his microscope.

"For god's sake, can you do anything on your own for once in your life?!" He snapped at his flat mate.

"Busy."

John groaned in frustration and just took the clothes into his flat mates room, already knowing that this was a losing battle anyways. Besides, if the bloody genius was too busy to just put his own clothes back where they belong, he wouldn't care if he disturbed any of his 'indexes'.

As he was sorting the pants in with the others in the drawer, something caught his eye.

He is a medical man, and knew in seconds, without question, what was hidden in the furthest corner. He took it into his hand.

An inhaler.

A blue 'rescue inhaler', the can saying 'Salbutamol'.

Impossible.

Sherlock wasn't..

..was he?

No. No. It couldn't be.

But then.. why else would he have this..?

Shaking his head, John decided that it was probably just a one time thing and that he just still had the thing, just in case. Because really, if he would need it frequently, why would it be in the furthest corner of a clothes drawer? Plus, it was not his decision. If Sherlock was or wasn't going to tell him, that would be his decision.

With those thoughts he put the inhaler back where he had found it, finished up with the rest of the detective's clothes and just went back into the living room, resuming what he had planned on doing today.

Nothing.

"John, we have a case."