"Sherlock!"
The world's only consulting detective didn't even bother to pause in his work. He knew what John was upset about – it was obvious from the direction of his voice and his tone that he had discovered -
Oh. Oh.
Faster than the skinny man looked to be capable of, he was out of his seat and halfway to the bathroom. John barely had time to finish wrapping a towel about his waist before a rushing Sherlock Holmes burst through the door. He jumped, nearly dropping his towel, before pinning the dark-haired man with a glare.
"You know, most people knock when entering a bathroom," he muttered, not truly expecting a response.
"Most people are idiots, but that doesn't mean that I have to comply with that expectation."
John Watson rolled his eyes, all too used to that type of remark. "So what's all this, then?"
Sherlock did not halt in his fuss, continuing to delicately sponge away any of the spilled red fluid with the fabric nearest to him. "An experiment, obviously."
His partner glanced down at the matching substance covering his legs, swallowing nervously. "Tell me this isn't what I think it is..."
The tall man finally looked at him. "Well, if you have got any sense at all, you could see that this is blood, slightly coagulated in its age-"
He was interrupted by the sound of John's retching into the toilet next to them.
Sherlock went back to tending his "experiment". "Honestly, is that necessary?" he mumbled. John could practically hear his eyes roll.
"Right, so. My legs are covered in... blood. And the shower is also full of blood. So what exactly do you expect me to do about this bloody mess?"
His flatmate looked up at him suddenly, a new look in his eyes. John just stared blankly back at him before finally realizing what he had said. All at once, they burst into loud guffaws, John's high giggle mixing with Sherlock's throaty chuckle.
The feud was immediately forgotten.
The rest of the evening was uneventful. John had thrown the bloody towels and cloth (which had turned out to be one of his favorite jumpers) into the wash, and both of them were currently milling about in their respective hobbies.
John was sitting in his armchair, laptop lying open before him. His hands sat, still, on the keyboard. Sherlock noted that his eyelids were drooping, and an unfinished blog entry remained, untouched, on the screen.
The consulting detective rested lazily in his own char, rosining his bow with long fingers. His mind drifted, touching on the cases he had solved earlier.
It was a dull day, all of the cases boring him in one way or another. Honestly, he didn't understand how a group as incompetent as Lestrade's could even function. Each case was so obvious. He even went so far as wondering if they had only invited him down as a joke. He had quickly dismissed the idea, knowing that both Anderson and Donovan would sooner quit than spend any free time with the detective.
He raised his prepared bow to the taught strings, letting it rest lightly on the bridge.
Sherlock glanced over to his now-sleeping friend, pondering the obvious exhaustion etched into the lines of his faces. He considered for a moment before gently drawing his bow over the strings, sending a rich, velvet note reverberating throughout the room. He smiled softly before beginning a slow, melancholy melody. He played just loud enough that it distracted him from his boredom, but not loud enough to wake his flatmate. John's mouth twitched in his sleep as he rolled onto his side.
Sherlock, having been pulled to his feet in the inspiration of the music, halted his tune long enough to allow himself time to catch the soldier's laptop before it hit the floor. Setting it carefully on the cluttered table, he laid down on the sofa, bringing the soft song to a listing end.
The tall man sighed softly, disappointed by his body's desire to sleep. Frowning, he decided to comply. When had he slept last? It could not have been more than three days – four days at the very most. Disgruntled – as always – by necessary bodily functions, he rested his violin reverently on the table. He glanced at the clock – 12:21. Fine. He would sleep for five hours, then call Lestrade for a case.
Content with his plan, he relaxed his head against the Union Jack pillow. Five hours would do nicely...
A bleary mess of dark curls and exhaustion blinked his eyes open, a sense of stiffness and confusion flooding through him. How long had he been asleep? Taking in the light, it had to be a quarter past seven. And why did his chest feel so heavy? Also why-
Why was John staring at him like that?
The blond soldier was seated comfortably in an armchair, with a smirk twitching at the corners of his lips. His eyes danced with a mixture of wonder, confusion, smugness, and amusement.
"What?" the detective asked, voice irritated and distorted with sleep. His head ached and he badly needed nicotine patches. Several nicotine patches.
"Shh! Keep your voice down," John whispered urgently, his grin growing wider. Sherlock didn't care at all for the mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Why?" he demanded. Receiving a reprimanding glare, he lowered his voice to a whisper. "Why?"
"You don't want to wake our guest," his flatmate replied, shrugging, smirk never leaving his face.
Sherlock glared at him, finally breaking his groggy deadpan. "What time is it? How long was I... oh," he trailed off, realization of the man's words hitting him. His eyes narrowed. "What 'guest'?"
John only continued to smile. "Oh, come now, Sherlock. You're the world's only consulting detective. Surely you can deduce this."
The man on the couch had already tuned him out. His lips barely moved behind his tented fingers, and his eyes darted furiously beneath closed lids. His mind rushed through a hundred possible visitors, finding no likely suspect. His lips turned down, not used to the lack of immediate results. Playing his violin would help. He would do that. First he had to get what it was off his chest – oh.
Oh.
Frown already deepening, he opened his eyes to an absence of John. He glanced over just in time to see his flatmate rush through the door. He groaned, finally noticing – and hating – the vibrations going through his chest.
"JOHN!" He yelled, glaring when he heard his friend's laughter in response.
The small dark kitten merely let loose a wide yawn before once again curling contentedly on Sherlock Holmes' chest.