John followed Sherlock away from Anderson, chuckling. Sherlock was silent, although when he turned a corner, the doctor saw a slight smirk on his face.
"Where are we going?"
His inquiry wasn't dignified with a verbal response, though Sherlock slowed down so that they walked side-by-side. John remained silent.
When they arrived back at the flat, the detective bounded up the stairs and immediately grabbed his violin. As the doctor walked up the steps with considerably less speed then his friend, a frustrated melody hit his ears. He didn't question his friend; rather, John merely walked into the kitchen and began to make them tea. He set Sherlock's cup on the cleanest surface close to the slightly swaying man and sat in his own chair. He began drinking his beverage as he stared into the fire, pondering the strange murder.
Their positions were reversed once more, though the realization hit John with less jovial triumph than it had at the restaurant. Normally, John was the one finding some way to vent from an appalling sight and Sherlock would sit still and contemplate the murder. Yet it was Sherlock venting in the only way he knew how, playing his violin, and John was analyzing, though with much less skill than the detective, the corpse.
His thoughts were interrupted when the music came to a screeching halt. Sherlock stood stark still for the first time since he left the crime scene.
"Got anything?"
"Nothing new."
Silence reigned once more as the violin was carefully placed back into its case. The detective took the tea sitting out for him and plopped into his chair, crouching like a vulture. He stared at the drink as though it held the secrets of the universe (which for all John knew, it did).
Sherlock shifted in his chair, his eyelids drooping and his mouth twitching as though it held back a yawn.
"Maybe sleep will help."
"Sleeping slows me down."
The yawn finally slipped out of the stubborn man, and he glared at the air in front of him as though it was the source of the offensive noise. Sometimes Sherlock reminded John of a five year old. The doctor stood, carefully masking a smirk as he grabbed the detective's arm and gently pulled him out of the chair.
"C'mon, you need your rest."
"I don't need sleep." The detective replied, his words barely louder than a whisper.
John chuckled, his hand snaking down the detective's arm and locking their hands together. Sherlock stared at their interlocked hands but made no move to break their contact. The doctor tugged him to his room and watched as the detective got under the covers.
John wanted to tuck the man in, but he was afraid the gesture would be met with scorn, so he abstained. Instead, he watched the man fall asleep, a strange protective urge overwhelming him along with another foreign emotion. Slightly afraid, he quietly and quickly left the bedroom and gently closed the door behind him.
The doctor awoke to silence in the flat. Trudging down the stairs, he was afraid for what he would find. Had Sherlock done something horrible to the flat while John slept?
No, he hadn't. Relief filled John before he realized the flat was empty. He looked around, worried when the experiments appeared abandoned. He walked down to Mrs. Hudson's flat.
"Has Sherlock left the flat?"
"Not that I noticed dear. Are you two having another domestic?"
"No."
He politely excused himself and went back up to the flat. There was one room he hadn't checked...
John walked to Sherlock's bedroom, praying that he was there and not off chasing a murderer. His silent pleas were answered; the detective was just sleeping. As he opened the door, a smell that was distinctly Sherlock assaulted his nose. Ignoring the urge to inhale deeply, he smiled at the sleeping man.
Sherlock was curled into a ball, his face peaceful as John heard a gentle snore. He immediately thought of a sleeping dragon, and his grin widened.
He stood for a moment longer, entranced by the innocence radiating from the detective's unguarded face before he re-closed the door.
John was reading a rather boring (compared to their adventures) detective novel when Sherlock emerged from his room, his hair wild and his bathrobe wrapped securely around the wraith-thin body.
"Sleep well?"
Sherlock grunted, his voice rough. He plopped on the couch, reaching for his patches. John got up, walking to the kitchen to make himself some tea.
"Would you like a cuppa?"
Sherlock replied with John interpreted to be an affirmative grunt.
As the doctor brought their drinks to the couch, he was surprised when the patches appeared to be untouched. To his further astonishment, Sherlock's arms were bare as he reached for the cup. John gave it to him, and sunk into his chair as Sherlock hummed contentedly. It was quiet, so low that John thought he was imagining it.
He was happy Sherlock hadn't put any patches on, though he was quite confused by their absence. Summing it up as an experiment, he ignored the bare arms once more.
Sherlock rose from the couch, empty cup in hand. John watched him in silence, befuddled by his actions. He was further surprised when the detective set the cup in the sink and filled it with water. He then returned to the couch and laid down, but not without noticing John's confused stare.
"What?"
"You put the dishes away."
"How very observant of you."
"Yes, well, I don't believe I have ever seen you clean up after yourself."
"I know how to clean up after myself, I just choose not to."
"Let me guess, boring?"
"Tedious."
John chuckled as he picked up his book and began reading once again.
"I can't believe you read that rubbish."
"It's Agatha Christie, how can you consider it rubbish?"
"The judge did it John, it was quite obvious really."
Slightly annoyed that Sherlock had ruined yet another book for him, he snapped the novel shut and set it on the end table. Sherlock turned his head away from the doctor, staring at the ceiling.
Bored, John got up from his chair and grabbed his laptop, heading to his room. He didn't want to disturb Sherlock while he was thinking.
He checked his emails and his blog, though neither of them provided much of a distraction. His mind kept wandering back to the blood-drained corpse. Disgusted, he shook his head, as though a simple jostle of his brain could send the horrific image flying out of his mind.
His thoughts began circling around Sherlock's face while he slept. He was amazed that this man, this eccentric brilliant man, allowed his apathetic mask to slip away, vulnerable, for John of all people. After all, wasn't he the quintessence of ordinary? Sure he was a military doctor, but wasn't he just like everybody else: participating in a job, buying groceries, making tea? Sure danger excited him, but that wasn't really a rare thing, what made him so special that he was allowed to see something that enthralled him more than Sherlock's brilliant mind and amazing deductions?
His thoughts were interrupted by his phone ringing. Thankful for the distraction, he picked it up, befuddled at the number on his screen.
"Hello?"
The book I was referencing was indeed by Agatha Christie, but I will not tell you which one. In the words of River Song, Spoilers!
Thank you for reading! :)