Sherlock had lost track of time, but a significant amount had to have passed because the tepid water was becoming rather uncomfortable. He considered drawing another bath, but his smooth skin was pruning. Ultimately, it wasn't worth the effort.
Sherlock felt odd. Yes, he was stressed after an understandably stressing day, but he did not feel wound up and irritable. He was not stimulated, yet he was not bored. Sherlock did not have proper words for how he felt.
It happened at random, his moods. His brain would give him feelings that he abhorred and sometimes could not explain. So instead, he would withdraw from the world and enter his Mind Palace, or he would stomp about in a strop and complain until something interesting happened. Today, Sherlock didn't have the energy for either.
Sherlock pulled the drain plug and watched the few remaining bubbles swirl atop the water over the drain. He was a bit disappointed with the bath, not even the bubbles made up for it. He finally hefted himself to his feet when the yellow bath toy settled on its side on the shiny floor of the tub.
Sherlock lifted the shower liner over the edge of the tub and pulled the curtains closed, wincing at the metallic screech. He ran the water and flipped the shower head. He let the water rinse away the suds from his skin.
When he was satisfied and warmed up a bit, he gave his damp curls a quick, final rinse, and shut off the water. He finished the mundane, unconscious process of drying and dressing in his comfy pajamas and looked in the mirror.
What Sherlock saw was the unruly curls that take a considerable amount of time to tame and he decided to leave them be. He saw his defined cheekbones, pale as ever, contrasted with the dark circles under his eyes. He met those (typically) piercing, blue eyes and noted the were looking rather dull and foggy today.
The consulting detective frowned and his reflection frowned in return. He should have better control of his transport than this. He should not look so defeated. So lost.
Sherlock walked to his room to slip on his dressing gown before wandering, listlessly, through the flat. He stopped when he reached the kitchen and ran long fingers through his hair. His eyes automatically searched the room, landing on John. John said... something, but he wasn't sure what it was.
Sherlock blinked and took in the sight of his shorter flatmate. He looked relaxed and happy. 'So simple-minded.' John was wearing his oatmeal coloured jumper and held a mug he was stirring with a spoon. 'Ah, tea with sugar. That's for me, then.' More words left John's mouth that, again, did not register in Sherlock's brain.
With another blink, he moved to the fridge. The tub of sheep tongues was in his way, so he nudged it aside. 'Milk, there is no milk in my mug. Honestly John, even you should be able to deduce that this is a day requiring milk with tea.'
Sherlock was holding the aforementioned carton of milk. 'Cold.' Now, he held a mug. 'Warm.'
More words from John followed by a chuckle and Sherlock found himself sat on the couch with the warmth he held in his hands pressed to his lips. "Hmm." It really did taste delicious. Sherlock settled in for a nice silence but was interrupted by more dialogue from John. Maybe if he continued to ignore him...
John spoke again.
'Alright, this better be important.' Sherlock grudgingly tuned in to the one-sided conversation and heard, "Okay... hungry?"
"Hmmmmmm..."
Sherlock was starving in fact. The last time he ate was, well, 'what day is it?' He left it to John to find him something to eat. John would take care of his hunger. Take care of him.
After a long moment, Sherlock felt warm fingers curl around his and take away his forgotten mug. He dared not move. He felt a bit less lonely near John and that was good. He tried to calm his mind, which he found easier to do around John as well.
Sherlock managed as much as putting his deductions on hold and let himself wonder what could possibly brighten his day.
