No real pairings, unless you squint. Just enjoy. :)
The morgue was cold and lonely when John walked in, guided by a strained-looking Molly. "He's just been sitting there," Molly whispered, eyes on Sherlock's back. The curly haired man didn't turn to acknowledge them, but John knew he was listening. Sometimes, his flatmate's hearing was supernatural. Much like the rest of him. "And he hasn't done anything, just…sat."
"Yes, thank you, Molly, for calling me," John said, glancing at the door. She took the hint, looking once more at Sherlock before making a reluctant exit.
"Brought you some coffee," John said conversationally, going over to his flatmate and holding out the Styrofoam cup. He waited a moment and after realizing Sherlock wasn't going to take it, set it on the table. He tried to ignore the cadaver in front of him, looking at Sherlock. "You know, staring at him isn't going to figure him out."
Sherlock looked up at this, his eyes tightening in thought. "I don't want the coffee, you drink it," he said haltingly, delayed. His eyes were far away. "You didn't have to come."
"But I did," John said curtly, peering down at the body before them. They both fell silent, staring at it. "Have you got anything…anything at all?"
Sherlock took a breath, rattling off a few facts. "Jim Moriarty is dead. Full name James Anthony Moriarty, aged twenty nine, classified consulting criminal. He has no puncture marks or physical wounds, meaning it was poison. I've done every test but nothing is coming up. Whoever did this…they were very clever about it."
John took that as a very frustrated no.
"We'll figure it out eventually, Sherlock, but for now you need to come home and sleep. And maybe eat something – you look terrible." John examined his flatmate's pale, gaunt face with weary alarm. "When is the last time you ate?"
"What is today?"
John sighed. "Thursday, Sherlock."
"Ah." Translation: I need to eat but I'm busy deducting and it will disturb my thought processes. John nodded briskly.
"Thought so. Come on, we're going for takeaway and then I'm taking you home. You can come back tomorrow – maybe." He took Sherlock's arm and hefted him from his stool, gesturing. "Let's go."
"But John - "
"You're not arguing with me over this, Sherlock. Moriarty is dead and he's not going to mess with your eating or sleeping habits any more, as long as I'm concerned." John gave him a light push towards the door. Sherlock shot him a clearly unamused look, before a slight light came into his eyes.
"The Chinese near the flat? China Star?"
"Whatever you want, Sherlock, as long as you eat it," John laughed, flipping the lights off and closing the door. "And frankly, we have yet to celebrate that Moriarty is on a slab."
"That's very crass of you, John."
"He tried to kill us both, Sherlock." John reminded him, but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly in amusement.
"Yes, I suppose he did. Chinese, then, in celebration."
The two men laughed, and left in the echoes of their bickering, Jim Moriarty lay cold.