John. I require your assistance. -SH

Will you be taking much longer?-SH

John.-SH

The flat could be on fire at this moment.-SH

JOHN!-SH

John sighed, exasperated at his flat mate's insistent texts. He'd recently taken a couple more hours at the surgery after Lestrade had cut off Sherlock from cases for a few weeks after Moriarty's trick at the pool. Sherlock's boredom had led to exploding teapots, violent violin plucking, and tense feuds between the two friends. Just recently, John had come home from the surgery to find Sherlock passed out on floor with a syringe a few inches from his limp hand. He had yelled for Ms. Hudson to call an ambulance as he began rapidly pumping Sherlock's chest. By the time the ambulance had arrived, Sherlock's eyes had fluttered open and he was making weak protests as he was carried out of 221b. After Sherlock's discharge from the hospital, Mycroft raided the flat and begged John to not leave the detective's side. However, a week after the incident he was unable to stand anymore of Sherlock's antics and began working late at the surgery again.

Sarah walked into John's office, "You can go home you know. Your shift ended two hours ago." John lifted his head and motioned to the paperwork in front of him. Sarah rolled her eyes and added, "You can't avoid Sherlock forever," and with that she turned around and closed the door. John stared at the closed door with tired eyes, she was right, avoiding Sherlock wouldn't help anything. He ran a hand through his hair and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes before getting up and grabbing his coat.

221B was eerily quiet. There was no violent violin plucking, no exploding teapots, not even the small click-click of Sherlock's fingers hitting the keyboard. As soon as John closed the door he bounded up the stairs and into the living room, his heart beating quickly in his chest. The room was empty, John spun around and burst into Sherlock's room. The room, of course, was a mess. There were books piled haphazardly on shelves and questionable liquid filled containers lining the wall. All sorts of pictures and newspaper clippings littered the floor and on the bed lay heaps of blankets. Amongst the blankets lay Sherlock fully clothed and asleep with a book on his chest. John sighed in relief as he watched the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, all traces of panic leaving his system. He turned around to leave the room when a soft murmur escaped Sherlock's lips, "John."

"Go back to sleep, Sherlock. I didn't mean to wake you." He whispered in apology.

"I wasn't asleep." Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, his mouth drawn into a thin line.

"Oh. Well, I'll just-" John awkwardly made for the door.

"You're worried. Ever since you found me passed out on the floor last week, you've constantly worried. "No hang on, you've been worried about me ever since...the pool..." Sherlock sat up and cocked his head to the side, "Yet you spend less and less time at the apartment. You have something to tell me."

John ran a hand over his face and sighed, the crease between his eyebrows forming again, "Sherlock, go to bed."

"I can't," he sulked.

"Can't or won't?"

"Can't, John. Don't make me repeat myself." Sherlock pushed past John and made a beeline for the couch. John caught his arm and jerked him around but he stubbornly pulled away and walked out of reach.

"Why can't you?" John crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock gave and exasperated sigh and collapsed onto the sofa. He drew his hands together and stared at the ceiling in silence. John rolled his eyes and made for the stairs.

"Because you aren't here." Sherlock breathes out the words and they're so quiet that John isn't sure they were even said.