Several hours passed. Sherlock went from sitting on the sofa, to pacing, to inspecting the flat and eventually ended up on the sofa again. All these actions looked funny on John's stocky little body but none of them ever looked out of place on the lanky detective. He sighed and pushed the pillow into his face.
"Well?" The true John said, hand on Sherlock's bony hips. "Got anything?"
"Not a dickey bird." Sherlock shook his head, surprised when he didn't feel curls on his cheeks. "Wait... did I just say that?"
"Yes you did, you incompetant fool!" Surprise was written all across Sherlock's features. "I didn't mean that." He said quietly.
"Our speech patterns are being affected now. For the time being, we still have our natural voices but I suppose they will also eventually fade into each other's.
John smiled. "Well you still sound like you should, Sherlock. Tea?"
"Yes, please."
John walked over to the kettle realising he could move much faster in Sherlock's body than his own. He almost tripped up, not used to having size 10 feet. He suddenly gave a sharp gasp.
"John? Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, a look of worry on John's features. Turning around slowly, Sherlock could see that his already albaster skin had gone even paler.
"John? What's wrong?"
"I... I..." John gasped. "I was hit by... so many thoughts... all at once... like they were fighting for a place in my brain."
Sherlock giggled. "That's normal for me."
"Does that mean you can't deduce anymore?"
Sherlock went wide-eyed and worried. He glanced around the room frantically then scampered down the stairs and out into the street. People were walking up and down the street. Street lamps glowed. Cabs glided noiselessly down the street. Everything was normal. Sherlock ran up to a woman and gripped her by the arms, studying her. She shreeked and hit him with her handbag, screaming 'Pedophile!'. Sherlock backed away quickly and walked back to John, who was waiting on the doorstep.
"Well? Can you?"
Sherlock walked slowly up the stairs, not answering.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
Sherlock lay down on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He looked like he might burst into tears.
"Sherlock?"
"I can't."
"Can't what, love?" John realised a second too late what he had said and bit his lip, blushing. Sherlock hadn't seemed to hear him.
"I can't deduce."
John put a comforting hand on Sherlock's arm. Or his own arm. It was all very confusing.
"Ah well. It's not the end of the world."
At these words, Sherlock's eyes went wide and he sat up.
"WHAT?"
"It's not the end of the world, Sherlock." John was confused.
"Yes It Is!" Sherlock argued. "I can't deduce!"
"So?"
"That means I can't help the Yard! That means I can't outsmart my brother! That means..." Sherlock's voice broke slightly. "I'm not me anymore. I'm boring. Mundane. I'm a boring boring person with a funny little brain and an urge to breathe!"
"Oh Sherlock..." John wasn't sure what he was meant to do.
"Leave Me Alone!" Sherlock turned on the sofa so he wasn't facing John.
"But..."
"LEAVE ME ALONE!"
"God, you're such a drama queen..." John grumbled as he walked to his room and lay down on his bed.
The Science Fairy looked down on Sherlock and John with a frown on her face. Her plan wasn't working at all. They were meant to be falling head over heels with each other, not rowing! She sighed.
"Silly little humans." She muttered, reaching for her wand. Twiddling it between her fingers, she wondered if using magic would help them find their feelings. She shrugged. A little bit of Thought Manipulation couldn't hurt. She pointed her wand at John and a wave of purple stars fell over him. After she was satisfied her spell was working, The Science Fairy turned her wand to Sherlock. She gave a soft, motherly smile.
"Even the smart ones are idiots." She zapped Sherlock with a green glitter ray.
After staring at the ceiling for about ten minutes, John noticed a dull ache in his lower back. Great. Now he couldn't even sleep on his own bed because it hurt his boyfriend's back. Wait. Did he just think Sherlock was his boyfriend? No... that's not right. It couldn't be right. John squirmed, trying to forget what just happen and moved into a more comfortable position, falling asleep almost instantly and dreaming the strangest dreams. He was drowning in a sea of silver which was exactly the same colour as Sherlock's magnificent eyes.
Sherlock, from his position on the couch, was struggling with having a normal brain. Maybe he had been a little harsh with John. Maybe he should apologise. Maybe he should make some tea. Maybe he should talk to Yorick. Maybe Yorick wouldn't answer. All these thoughts zipping around his head gave Sherlock a migrane. He stood up and hunted around silently for some paracetamol. He didn't want to wake John. Suddenly there was a flutter in Sherlock's stomach. It was pleasantly warm and it tickled. He lay a hand against his stomach and stared at it curiously. What the hell was that? Maybe switching bodies with John had messed up his system? There it was again. The flutter. Sherlock lay back down on the sofa, still staring at his stomach. John's stomach was soft and stuck out just a tiny bit. He had left himself go slightly since Afghanistan but Sherlock didn't mind. Little white scar lines ran across it, obviously from army days. One lead right up to John's navel and he ran his finger along it. John's navel was an outtie. Sherlock poked it curiously. It tickled, but not as much as the warm flutter he had got before. He closed his eyes. Maybe he was hungry. It was true that he hadn't eaten in days. Sherlock fell asleep, hand still on his stomach.