Summary: In which Sherlock says something a bit not good, has a row with John, injures himself, gallivants around London solving cases, falls asleep while experimenting and John leaves. Well, but not necessarily in that order.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters. As much as I wish I do, sadly I don't.

Author's Note: Hey, I'm back with the second chapter of 'Five Days Without John Watson'. I really do hope I managed to make the characters in-character (especially Sherlock, frankly he is quite hard to write!). I think I might take some time with uploading chapter three since there will *hopefully* be more action in the next chapter. Anyway, enough of my ranting. On with the story!


Chapter 2

Of Boredom (and Missing John)

Bloody sunlight, thought Sherlock, lifting his arm in a bid to shield himself from the sunlight streaming in steadily through the window as he all but tumbled to floor. The carpeted floor. He stopped short. His bedroom floor wasn't carpeted. But that would mean he was in the living room, probably on the couch.

Brilliant deduction, he thought to himself sarcastically.

He huffed irritably as he picked himself off the ground. He detested mornings. It always made his brain all sluggish and soupy. Soupy? How the hell did such a word even manage to get into his brain? He immediately chucked the useless word from the data bank that was his brain. Can't have such utter rubbish clogging up his mind palace after all. Probably picked it up from some of those crap television shows John was so terribly fond of or one of those books John left lying around. Speaking of...

"John, a cup of — oh."

Oh.

Right.

John left to visit his sister yesterday. And not exactly in a happy mood either. Yesterday's events flooded back to him and his mood soured considerably. Not that his mood was ever truly pleasant in the morning, unless Lestrade had delivered an interesting case that was potentially worth his time.

"Stupid, stupid," he muttered aloud to himself as he flopped back onto the couch, having seemingly lost all his energy for the day.

He stayed that way for a minute (which was remarkably long considering the extreme boredom his mind was being subjected to) before with a loud exclamation of "Bored!" he leaped up again and began pacing around the room, in a manner very much alike to a caged tiger.

As he paced, he mentally began to dissect the events that happened yesterday which led up to John's extreme vexation and eventually, his departure. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered with petty and trivial things like emotions but this time was different. Different, he thought, because this time, John was angry. And John, for as long as he knew him, never got angry. Well, he did, but it's usually just the why-didn't-you-tell-me-sooner? mild exasperation, or at the very most when he was tired from a day of work, sod-off! kind of annoyance.

He had merely been explaining the reason of John's visit to his sister since John was, as usual, not getting to the point as quickly as Sherlock would have liked. He distinctly remembered describing the late-night habits of John's sister, about her getting dumped and losing her job. The usual, wasn't it? But John had been really upset about that, evidently, by the way he had raised his voice and gestured much more than necessary. And what he'd said, about Sherlock being cold and uncaring and —

Sherlock frowned. He couldn't deny that he had felt something (fine, so maybe just a tiny prickle of hurt) when he had been called insensitive. He had been rather immune to insults and jabs from various people in the past. He had been perfectly fine before he had John as a flat mate. Logically, this meant he'd be perfectly fine even without John. But then, why did he still feel this weird empty feeling inside him?

Sherlock wasn't very happy with where this contemplation was going. Nowhere productive, for sure. He might as well go check on those fingers in the refrigerator; he figured he had left them there long enough to get some results.


Mrs Hudson's voice floated up from below, "Sherlock? You alright up there?"

Muttering a reply, Sherlock stared at the smiley face painted on the wall, contemplating whether there needs to be a few more holes in it or not. He had finished with his experiment and collated the results which were not exactly very thrilling but he filed that information away anyway. After all, it might prove useful for future cases (which might or might not involve a murderer with a fetish for cutting off fingers of his dead victims).

Oh, but now he was bored. Again.

He had found himself calling out "John, I'm bored!" or "John, a cup of tea if you would!" and several variations that ran along the same line for the past hour, but of course, as said person was not around, no one answered. His only response was the cold emptiness of the flat. On one occasion, he actually got up to make tea but soon returned to his slouched position on the couch when he was greeted by the sight of an empty refrigerator (save for a few packets of stale crackers and a jar of expired beans). Out of milk, as usual. Except this time there was no John to get the milk, no huff of annoyance from John or even a exasperated yell from John for Sherlock to "Get the bloody milk yourself!" because he had gotten the milk for the past few months so it was sure as hell Sherlock's turn this time.

Sherlock sighed. It was truly dull to be all alone in the flat. Utterly boring. Why couldn't Lestrade just hurry up and come with a case already? Of course, he had contemplated bothering John by sending him multiple texts. In the end, he decided not to. He was probably still rather mad at him and anyway, he was sure he could survive at least a day without John. (Although he won't admit it, he was still sore from John's comments. After all, those words held a greater significance coming from his only friend. Not that he'd willingly admit that.)

Hmm... Perhaps he could go to the morgue and see if he could check out any of the newly-arrived dead bodies, maybe even bag a few body parts home. "Boring, already did that yesterday" was supplied by his brain rather unhelpfully.

"What else could I possibly do then?" he all but growled at thin air.

"Sherlock dear, are you talking to yourself? Are you sure everything is fine?"

There was a series of thumps, indicating that Mrs Hudson was making her way up. A few muffled complaints about "that bloody hip again!" later, Mrs Hudson poked her head through the door, peering in at the room that was mostly unlit save for what little light was filtering in through slivers between the drawn curtains. She almost jumped out of her skin when a loud gunshot tore through the room. Evidently, Sherlock had finally decided that the wall needed a few more holes.

A few more gunshots later, Mrs Hudson decided that she had had enough.

"Sherlock! What are you bloody doing to my wall again? Didn't I tell you the last time that any more shooting of my walls and it'll be going into your rent?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes but ceased his firing.

"It's not just my rent, Mrs Hudson. It's John's too," he reminded. Gesturing with the gun still in hand, he continued, "Anyway, I'm bored. Life is terribly dull and mundane. What do I have to do to get a case? My mind rebels at stagnation! Give me data, give me work! I'd rather not rot to death in this room simply because there is simply nothing remotely stimulating enough for me to be engaged in."

He let the gun in his hand clatter noisily onto the table next to him and slouched even deeper into the couch (if that were even possible), eyes closed.

"Oh, don't be like that Sherlock, I'm sure a nice murder case will come by and the next thing you know it, you'll be off running about London solving it," came Mrs Hudson's sympathetic reply.

He hummed somewhat disgruntledly in response.

"Anyway, John will be back soon in what, five days' time? Then everything will be back to normal again. "

At this, Sherlock cracked an eye open.

"Four, actually," he said, somewhat absent-mindedly.

"Four…Pardon?"

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh before he replied, eyes closed yet again, "Four days, until John returns, not five. But to be more exact, four days, six hours and forty minutes."

Mrs Hudson made a little 'surprised-yet-not-really' noise from the back of her throat as if she had rather expected that Sherlock would keep track of exactly how much time was left till John came back.

"Oh, that's so sweet and endearing of you to keep track of the exact time. You must miss him, then. Well, don't worry; he'll be back soon enough."

Sherlock's eyes flew wide open. What? Now she was assuming he actually indulged in petty sentiments and emotions such as missing someone? That's bloody blasphemy. However, before he could get a chance to rebuke her warped perspective (because Sherlock Holmes simply didn't miss anyone), Mrs Hudson had already rattled on.

"Now, if you'd be needing anything, just call, alright?"

With that, she turned on her heels and walked out of the room.

Halfway through the door, she called over her shoulder, almost as an afterthought, "But remember, I'm not your housekeeper."


6.30 PM

To: Lestrade

Any interesting cases?

-SH

6.30 PM

To: Lestrade

Dying of boredom here.

-SH

6.31 PM

To: Lestrade

So is there or is there not?

-SH

6.31 PM

To: Lestrade

Are you going to answer me or do I have to come down to the Yard myself?

-SH

6.32 PM

To: Lestrade

Looks like I'd get to insult Anderson and Donovan face-to-face today after all.

-SH

6.37PM

To: Sherlock

Bloody hell. 5 texts in 2 minutes. Really, Sherlock? I was busy just now. And no, there aren't any cases you'd classify as interesting today.

-GL

6.38 PM

To: Lestrade

Finally, someone deigned to grace me with an answer.

-SH

6.38 PM

To: Lestrade

Are you certain there isn't?

-SH

6.40 PM

To: Sherlock

Certain there isn't what?

-GL

6.40 PM

To: Lestrade

Cases, Lestrade, cases! Sometimes I wonder just how you got to be Detective Inspector.

-SH

6.43 PM

To: Sherlock

No need to be insulting. Yes there are cases, but unless bank robberies and petty thefts interest you, then no.

-GL

6.43 PM

To: Lestrade

No interesting murders that have victims with some part of them brutally mutilated?

-SH

6.43 PM

To: Lestrade

No cases of mysteriously vanishing people?

-SH

6.44 PM

To: Lestrade

At this point I'd be happy if there were cases with stolen works of art involved. Or lost glow-in-the-dark pets. Anything!

-SH

6.48 PM

To: Sherlock

Sorry, nope. We've got everything pretty much under control and these cases aren't really bizarre enough to warrant your help. Much.

-GL

6.48 PM

To: Lestrade

When you say under control, I know you mean utterly clueless and desperately in need of help. And is it really that difficult to reply texts faster? One might think you had a finger missing or something along those lines.

-SH

6.51 PM

To: Sherlock

When I say under control, I just mean under control. For God's sake, Sherlock! I'm working here, obviously I can't be on hold, waiting for and replying your bloody texts 24/7. I know you're bored, but please go find something else to do. I don't know. Get John to accompany you for a walk or something!

-GL

6.51 PM

To: Lestrade

So you're sure you don't require assistance? That is a little hard to fathom, what with people like Anderson working in the Scotland Yard. Why would I want to go for a walk? That's as boring as watching paint dry.

-SH

6.52 PM

To: Lestrade

Are you really, really certain there aren't even any cold cases for me to work on?

-SH

6.53 PM

To: Lestrade

Lestrade? Lestraaaaaade?

-SH


Sherlock stared at the bright screen of his mobile phone for a minute more before, certain that Lestrade wouldn't be replying, carelessly tossing it to the table beside him. Today had been an altogether rather unproductive and wasted day, he thought, rather appalled at his lack of activity. Then again, there had been times when he had lazed around for the entire day, slouching in his chair for hours and not doing anything. Well, such episodes of extreme lethargy had begun to decrease when he had moved in with John. Speaking of which...

He had just opened his mouth to call out for John to ask if he wanted to join him for dinner at Angelo's when he clamped his mouth shut again. He shook his head in disgust. Almost a day without John and he still wasn't used to it? Utterly appalling.

Well, there really was no point in having dinner alone. Sherlock took a bite of the cold, stale toast from yesterday morning, grimaced and plopped it back down onto the plate again. Right. There was no food in the refrigerator and tea was out of question as well since there was they were out of milk (and no, he simply refused to drink tea without milk). Sighing, he flopped back down onto the couch, such that he was now lying horizontally on it. Digestion of food slowed down his thinking anyway, he reminded himself, something he had often told John when they were on a case.

But now there was no case and no John.

As if on cue, a low grumble issued from his traitorous stomach. He glared down at his stomach in the darkness of the room.

"I don't need food," he thought aloud. Or John, he added mentally.

Bloody hell. This was going to be a long four days.