I don't own those characters, as always.
Experiment
1. Preparation
Eight days. It had been eight days.
At least that was how long John Watson had been keeping track.
They had had a case, of course, a complicated one. Or two cases, rather, two break-ins resulting in two corpses - and no suspects, nothing to go on, as it seemed to John.
And yet, Sherlock had been investigating, had been convinced that there had to be a link somewhere, a link that nobody had picked up on yet.
He had spent the past few days in a blur of activity, scrutinising the crime scenes, talking to Lestrade, attempting to convince him to suspect a connection, questioning witnesses who in the end turned out to know nothing, researching cold cases similar to the current ones, analysing data with Molly at the morgue, staring into his microscope at 221B.
But not sleeping.
It hadn't been until the sixth day that John had grown worried. Not until Sherlock had stumbled in the kitchen and almost knocked his precious microscope off the table. Sherlock never stumbled. Lest alone in the kitchen.
Or until Sherlock had repeatedly interrupted himself when talking to Lestrade or John, his faltering, however, not followed by an orgasmic 'oh', but rather by a look of utter confusion on his face.
When Lestrade had addressed him with his name, his voice clearly saying 'worried', Sherlock had only snapped at him tetchily, continuing with his speech, about an entirely different train of thought.
John wasn't stupid. Of course he had realised what was going on, had noticed the dark smudges beneath Sherlock's eyes and his irritability.
"Maybe you should take a break," he had suggested in the evening of the sixth day. "Just for a few hours. Eat a proper meal and sleep for a bit. You know, I'm sure Lestrade will manage a few hours without…"
Sherlock's only reaction had been to cut him off and snarl: "I'm fine without your advice, thank you, Doctor!" And to of course not go to bed, even when John had retired for a nap.
He had, however, kept a close eye on Sherlock the next two days, noticing all the little details telling him that Sherlock's sleep-deprived body was about to revolt against its harsh treatment, but always being subdued by Sherlock's brain, entirely focused on 'work'.
He stumbled twice within ten minutes, and lost train of thought exactly four times, and one time, in the morgue with Molly, started swaying on his feet, almost spilling the contents of a vial with acid over his right forearm.
John rushed to his side, quickly grabbing the vial and shoving Sherlock to a chair - in which he collapsed, all colour drained from his face.
Of course John didn't miss the concerned and confused look Molly shot him as he crouched down in front of Sherlock, who was sluggishly rubbing his eyes.
"'m fine, John," he insisted, trying to push John away and get to his feet again.
"I can see that," John had replied, keeping a firm hold on Sherlock and not letting him get up. "Molly will get you a glass of juice which you will drink, and only then you're allowed to get up. To get up, get into a cab and drive straight to Baker Street - and go to bed."
"'m not tired…," Sherlock interrupted.
"Yeah," was John's only reaction. "That's why you almost fainted with a vial containing acid in your hand."
Luckily for John, busy with keeping Sherlock seated, Molly had been kind enough to indeed fetch a glass of juice, blushing while handing it to Sherlock who indeed drank it as John had insisted. Without any complaints. Worryingly so, in fact.
"Come on, Sherlock, we're leaving," John had urged him soon afterwards, giving Molly an excusing smile. "Sorry, Molly, and thank you…"
Sherlock had already wrapped his scarf around his neck with shaking hands, watching John's attempts to be polite with utter disgust on his face. "Come on, John," he demanded. "First you expect me to…" Then, suddenly, his eyes had drifted off into space, going wide, causing John to already prepare himself for having to catch Sherlock when his flatmate had abruptly turned around, pacing quickly. "Of course," he had muttered. "Of course."
John and Molly had both flinched when Sherlock had pointed his right hand at her. "Molly, you weren't wearing any perfume earlier. Then you put on your coat, and suddenly… Of course, of course! How could I not see it? Perfume! Lingering on… Of course! Come on, John, we need to do some research."
With that, he had hurried off, leaving it to John to apologise to Molly once more and to rush after him.
And that had been how they had ended up investigating further instead of going home and resting.
Sherlock had deemed John worthy to be let in on his thoughts - traces of the same perfume lingering in both victims' clothes, but not of the victims' perfume - in the cab they had hailed, and while trying to follow his flatmate talking about perfume and clothes and traces and linked, he had completely forgotten about his mission to get Sherlock to sleep, adrenaline taking over, being entirely caught by the case and the near break-through.
The lead had been the decisive one, even convincing Lestrade that it had been the same murderer, and so they had returned home early in the morning in high spirits.
Home where Sherlock had spent the entire three minutes it had taken John to pay the cab driver, get back the change and wish him a good day with fiddling with his keys in front of the door, not succeeding in unlocking it.
That had been the moment, the adrenaline rush slowly fading, when John had remembered that Sherlock needed sleep - urgently.
By the time they had reached their flat, Sherlock had stumbled twice and was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat visible on his forehead.
"Sherlock," began John as he collapsed into his armchair, feeling weary himself. "Don't you think now would be the time to go to bed for a while?"
"Bed? What? No," Sherlock had mumbled distractedly, his hands steepled beneath his chin, pacing in their living room.
"Sherlock…," John began again. "You're proven that there is a connection and you even managed to show Lestrade those fingerprints which were present at both crime scenes. Don't you think he'll be able to do the rest himself?"
"Something," Sherlock muttered under his breath, almost falling over the table. "Something I'm missing, something…"
"Sherlock," John had addressed him, louder and more firmly this time.
"What!" Sherlock had yelled, turning around in a whirl. Too fast, in fact, the movement causing him to almost fall over.
Vertigo. Brilliant.
"'m fine without you help," Sherlock muttered, reaching for his head, probing his temples for a moment with a confused look. Headache, then, too. And puffy eyes. "Fine, John, you hear me? And now go to bed or whatever you waste your time with, leave me in peace and just let me think!"
John had indeed shut up for a couple of seconds, not sure whether he should be annoyed, worried or utterly furious.
"Alright," he eventually had stated curtly. "Do whatever you want. Wreck your transport. I don't care. I'll go to bed."
While climbing the stairs to his room, John found himself suddenly remembering the pack of prescription sleeping pills he still kept for emergencies.
First part, so far.
Hope you enjoyed it. And thank you for reading!
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