Chapter Two

John didn't sleep very well that night and when he found the moon shining so brightly into his room that he could sense the light through his closed eye lids, he decided that getting a drink of milk might help. He had been aware of that cliché and enjoyed strengthening it since he had been a child. His mother had read him stories where the greatest problems became easier to solve after a forbidden sip out of the milk carton. It always had been comforting to him.

With a grin he made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He gasped at the cold tiles under his naked feet, realising too late that this would only wake him up further. He opened the fridge and grabbed the milk, taking a sip, reminiscing about his childhood. Just as he was about to put it back and close the door he heard that all too familiar deep voice from the door. "John?"

He dropped the carton, milk spilling over the floor and his feet. "Fuck!" His heart was racing. He was definitely not young enough anymore to take such shocks lightly. He turned around to Sherlock. "What the hell?" There were so many indecencies he wanted to shout at him, but he was still too much in shock to think of any proper curse that would fit his reaction. And something in the corner of his mind told him that Sherlock might not have done it to scare him or even to make him feel guilty for standing in his pyjamas in front of the fridge at four o'clock in the morning, drinking milk straight out of the carton. It had been more of a question, really.

He wondered why he was thinking all of this while he stared at Sherlock, still angry with him, his heart only calming slowly.

"I do apologise." Despite his words, Sherlock looked a little smug. But at least he had not laughed at him, and for that John was indeed grateful. "I expected you to hear me."

"No doubt something that you would have, I presume."

"Obviously."

John sighed and lifted his right foot, letting milk drop off it onto the tiles. So much for a small sip of milk before going back to bed.

"Oh, John, look at you." Sherlock walked towards him and reached for the tea towel, throwing it down at his feet. Then, realising that it would not suffice, he went to the drawer and pulled out a fresh one. John stood there for another few seconds until he lowered himself, holding onto the fridge for support. Despite having lost his crutch and his hobble, he sometimes felt his leg ache, as if he hadn't yet gotten used to move normal.

Sherlock, with one swift move, got rid of his dressing gown, which had seemed ridiculous to John when he had first seen him wear it. However, he had soon realised that Sherlock seemed to uphold an image of himself for just the sake of it, or so it seemed, clearly not caring for other opinions than his own. And – John noticed amused as he looked up at his friend, looming over him, seeming even taller than usual – he looked much younger without his dressing gown. Like a too tall boy in pyjamas. He had to look away, because that image was definitely disturbing, and he did not want Sherlock to notice anything.

"Anything the matter?" So maybe he wasn't such a lost cause after all?

"No Sherlock, nothing is the matter, except that I'm standing an inch deep in milk." But his anger had left his voice and he sounded tired now. He took the towel and started to soak up as much milk as he could when he found that Sherlock was actually rolling up the legs of his pyjamas before stepping closer. John couldn't help but snort.

Sherlock chose to ignore it and started dabbing at the milk with the towel he had pulled out of the drawer. "I will ask Mrs Hudson to clean up properly tomorrow morning."

John looked at him, but he could only see a head full of hair as Sherlock was still trying to sponge up milk. "No, Sherlock, I'll do it, of course. I really just wanted some milk because I couldn't sleep properly, and now..." he trailed off, not quite knowing why he felt the need to justify himself.

"There." Sherlock said, and with a sigh stood up again. He looked disoriented for a second and John couldn't help but grin at the fact that despite his body control, the blood would still need just a second longer to reach the head of a tall person who rose quickly, and Sherlock was no exception. "Case solved."

"Thank you." He said, even though he wanted to blame him for getting him into this situation in the first place.

Sherlock smiled tiredly at him, just for a split second, before he turned and wandered out of the kitchen. "Good night, John."

John shook his head to clear it. What had just happened? Why had he shown up at this hour of the night to enter the kitchen and then leave again without having gotten anything for himself. For a moment he pictured Sherlock standing in front of the fridge, drinking from the milk carton. It made him smile widely. He leaned against the counter and rubbed his face. He knew he would not be able to sleep properly anymore, but the prospect of staying up now did not seem too inviting either. He went into the bathroom and washed his feet. John wasn't even surprised when the real motif entered his clouded thoughts. Of course Sherlock had heard something and he had merely checked on the noise and found him. He wondered what it must have looked like for him, and whether he would remind him of the situation the following days or whether he would throw it out of his system as irrelevant information.

When he was back in bed he decided that when he would wake up, he would feel different. He did not understand why he had been so confused today, as there had been no reason at all. His health was perfect as Sherlock had observed quite correctly, and still, something was off. Moments before sleep took over he understood that Sherlock's strange behaviour was the reason for his own confusion.