It had been two weeks since Sherlock woke in pain. He thought that he had put up with John's constant mothering quite well, but he felt much better and hadn't hurt in days. He hadn't had a case in days, either. Sherlock could practically feel his brain atrophying. He was "Bored!" he shouted out.
John briefly looked up from his paper then back down again before responding, "Good."
"Good. Good! GOOD! How can boredom possibly be good? My brain is melting. Slowly rotting. Turning into a massive lump of putrescent... meat." Not my best rant. Now Sherlock was up and pacing, taking great strides and turning when he reached the limits of the room. He was careful to turn rapidly so that his dressing gown flared dramatically, if not as nicely as his coat. It was the only method available at the moment to draw John's attention away from the newspaper and back onto Sherlock. To his surprise, it actually worked this time.
"Oh for fuck's sake Sherlock, sit down!" John snapped. To his surprise, it actually worked this time. John's hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Look, go compose something or start an experiment. Just stop it with the pacing. Try to relax a bit. Your body doesn't need this right now." And there he goes.
"Transport, John. Merely transport." Sherlock bounded to the window. Looking out, his hands fidgeted with the curtain.
John sighed with frustration. "You need to be paying attention to your transport right now, Sherlock. It's not functioning correctly. Speaking of which, have you taken your meds?" John was not surprised at the lack of response. "Right, then." John made his way to the kitchen without another word. Once there, he quickly made toast, grabbed a glass of water and Sherlock's prednisone. He walked to where Sherlock was standing and held out the plate and glass of water. "Now, Sherlock."
Sherlock huffed, snatched the prednisone off of the plate, and downed it with the glass of water.
"Toast, Sherlock," John growled.
Sherlock pierced John with his best glare and stuffed the entire piece of toast into his mouth.
John had to stifle a laugh. Sherlock was such a child at times. Well, at most times. When he wasn't being brilliant.
"I need a case," Sherlock growled.
"No, you don't. Not until we get this sorted." Appeal to his vanity. "Look, just do whatever it is that you do in your Mind Palace, and tell me what someone with RA should be doing to take care of themselves."
Sherlock looked back out the window. "Can't. Deleted it. Besides, you said it yourself. We don't know that is what I have so why dwell on it."
Anyone else would have bought the careful mask of indifference that had slid into place when Sherlock spoke. Not John. He could see the fear behind the mask. He's scared. He can't control this so he's scared. The thought was disconcerting. "We'll hear back from the tests soon." For once, John was more than happy to take advantage of Mycroft's influence. The faster a diagnosis was reached, the better. Mycroft was moving things on quickly.
Of course, Sherlock had been furious when he deduced that John had called his brother. Honestly, John didn't give a damn.
"I'm hungry." Sherlock turned from the window again with a grimace. This had been going on for days and he didn't like it. At first, he had tried to ignore the sensation, but it had grown. Now it would not leave him alone. Insufferable.
"Alright," John replied. "I'll fix us a proper meal. Just limit what you eat between, okay." Those were words that John never thought he would be saying to Sherlock. Oh the joys of prednisone.
Sherlock's only response was a grunt.
