"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing?" John exclaimed while jogging down the stairs in his pajamas. A loud bang – much like an explosion – had startled him rudely out of sleep and he'd instinctively rolled out of bed and headed down stairs to see what Sherlock had done now.

"An experiment." Came the short – though somewhat flustered – reply from the kitchen.

John rounded the corner to get a better look, "The stove is on fire!" he exclaimed – and it was not an exaggeration. Angry orange and golden flames licked the air, flickering dangerously close to the kitchen cupboards.

Sherlock whipped the dishcloth from the hook by the stove and turned to soak it in the kitchen sink before tossing it at the stove top. John caught it in mid-air. "No, it's too late for that now," he replied and dove under the kitchen sink for the fire extinguisher. He struggled to pull out the pin and hold the device correctly with just one good arm. After some initial trouble, he managed to get the fire out. The alarms out in the hallway, as well as the one in their flat, were screaming mercilessly at them.

"Go take care of the alarms," John ordered as his last shred of patience was worn dangerously thin. He didn't care to find out how Sherlock had managed to silence the alarms; all he knew was that it was done very quickly.

John ensured that the hot cooking pots caked with black grime were put safely in the sink to cool and that all of the burners were turned off. Half-expecting an angry visit from Mrs. Hudson any moment he put the fire extinguisher down beside their garbage and collapsed into his comfy armchair in the living room.

Sherlock re-entered the flat.

"Did Mrs. Hudson call down?" John asked.

"Yes, I told her everything was under control."

"If you could see the state of that stove you wouldn't have spoken so hastily," John said bitterly. He knew that he was going to have to clean that up before he left for work. He also knew that this entire fiasco was going to make him incredibly late, and that he should be rushing out the door to work within the next half-hour or so, but he was far too exhausted to rush – especially now that the adrenaline had left him – so he would just have to be late.

Sherlock stood opposite him, hovering uncertainly between the living room and the kitchen. He turned towards the mess as if he had the intention to clean it up, then, as if changing his mind he 'glanced' towards the living room. He did this twice, with his hand resting on the wall between the two rooms to steady him so that he did not become dizzy or disorientated. He did this often; as long as his hand could be touching something solid and familiar, his quick and graceful movements were not a problem – even in his current state. His grey, unseeing eyes finally settled in John's direction "I'm sorry for waking you," he said.

"It doesn't matter," John replied, fighting hard to keep the irritation out of his voice, the resulting tone made him sound exhausted and resigned, "but catching our flat on fire does…" he added, unable to mask the irritation this time, "What on earth were you doing in there?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. I have the results," the detective replied cryptically.

John sighed and pressed the heels of his hands to his tired eyes and rubbed them gently in an attempt to truly wake up.

"You will need to be getting off to work soon… won't you?" Sherlock asked a little uncertainly. John noticed that he wasn't wearing his audio-watch.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" John asked – part of him was just joking, but he couldn't deny that another part was actually curious.

"No."

John studied his friend for a long moment. He was in his slightly-too-large flannel pajamas with the blue silk dressing down hanging open and limp around his slender frame. His dark, curly, hair was everywhere and in need of a trim. He reminded John of a mix between a mad scientist and a boy playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

"I don't know if I should leave you alone after that stunt," John said curtly.

"I'm not a child, John."

"No. You're worse!" John replied, his voice rising, "A child would never get into half of the trouble that you do!"

Sherlock straightened his posture and huffed in indignation.

"Oh no," John said in warning, shaking his head and trying desperately to control his temper.

"What?" Sherlock pouted.

"You have no right to be irritable," John snapped, "I'm the only one who has a right to be angry this morning!"

A quirky smile crept across Sherlock's lips and he wandered over to the couch and sat down. Leaning forward so that his elbows were on his knees he gazed blindly in John's direction. Though his eyes could no longer pin John to the spot and analyze his every feature and every movement as they used to, Sherlock had lost none of his intensity – its influence had simply shifted from his eyes to his fluid body. Sherlock always found a way to be close to John and to truly express himself through that proximity. When he was mad at John, he kept a great distance, making a physical gulf between them, but when he wanted to show that he cared, his proximity could almost be alarming. Right now his face was less than a foot from John's.

"I am truly sorry that my experiment reacted unexpectedly," he said in earnest. Though the statement was meant well, those were not exactly the words John had wanted to hear.

"Unexpectedly?!" John cut in, "You could have been killed! Or burned down the entire flat!"

"I am also sorry that it woke you and that it has made a mess of our kitchen stove," Sherlock added as if John hadn't spoken.

That was a little better, though it made it sound like it was all the experiment's fault – as if Sherlock had had nothing to do with it… "Oh it's not just the stove, Sherlock," John grumbled in warning as he thought of the singed counter and cupboards and the mess in the sink.

John glared at his flat-mate and then noticed a singe mark on the sleeve of Sherlock's blue dressing gown and a thought struck him."Sherlock, were you burned at all?"

"Not badly," the taller man replied, sitting back with a shrug, "I ducked."

A brief mental image of the tall detective cowering away from the mini-explosion surfaced in John's mind and he fought back a satisfied smile. Maybe this scare was something Sherlock needed to teach him to be more careful. The implications of Sherlock's response of 'not badly' then hit John suddenly: "Let me see," he ordered.

"It's fine," Sherlock said flatly – his voice was believable but his actions were not. He had sat back on the sofa creating a larger distance between then, and placed his hands at his side.

"I'm reaching for your hand," John warned as he leaned forward stubbornly.

Sherlock was grateful for the courteous warning and resisted the urge to pull away. "Honestly, John," he said with an "you're over protective" lilt to his voice.

John gently pulled up the damp sleeve where hot water had caught the great detective's arm. The usually pale, milky-white skin was a dull red, but the burn was not severe enough to warrant more treatment than some cold water.

"See? Fine," Sherlock said in satisfaction when his sleeve dropped back into place, "I don't lie, remember?"

John gave a non-committal, "hmm."

"Now, off to work with you," Sherlock stated happily, patting John's uninjured shoulder as he stood up and headed back towards the kitchen.

"Promise that you won't do anymore experiments while I'm gone?" John hedged.

"You know that I can't promise that," Sherlock scolded.

Well, at least he's being honest, John thought as he stood and stretched, "Fine, but you can promise not to do any experiments involving fire, or corrosive liquids for the next eight hours."

"Fine," Sherlock said with a huff, "Now go get ready for work."

"Why do you want me out of the house so badly?"

Sherlock reflected for a moment. He never used to care if John was late for work or not. "I have already caused you enough grief this morning; I do not also want to be responsible for you losing your job."

John chuckled, "If they were going to fire me for lateness they would have done it ages ago," he said reflecting on the long-sufferance of his employers. "Besides, you need help cleaning this up."

"No I don't."

"Are you sure?"

"I am more than certain that I am capable of cleaning up the mess that I made," Sherlock said with annoyance.

John backed off. He was only trying to be helpful, but he knew that tone. Sherlock thought that John believed he wasn't capable of doing something because of his new disability. Though that wasn't the truth, John knew Sherlock would take deep offense to any more attempts to help, so he let it drop.

"Alright, I'm going up to get changed."

"Good idea."