Authors Note: Again, thankyou to all of you amazing people reviewing, alerting and favouriting my stories. Okay, very little happens in this chapter. Unfortunately as it turns out, a story needs a plot and not just JohnSherlock interaction (Damn) So, the plot does come into play at the end of this. Oh! And with the last line, I just couldn't resist. But for now, enjoy Chapter Three.
Chapter Three.
I'll Sleep When I'm Dead.
Early morning light filtered through the dusty windows of the flat, casting an opaque yellow-gray tint over the room. A man lay stretched out over the sofa, resting comfortably on his back, his bare feet hanging over the arm. One long-fingered hand held a case file upon his chest, the other hand twisting a cheap newsagents Biro, the end slightly chewed. His intense blue eyes darted back and forth, following the trail of words across the pages.
All in all, Sherlock presented a state of neatness on the surface with a sense of general dishevelment underneath. His shirt was pressed and tidy, but the sleeves were rolled haphazardly back over his forearms, and his black suit trousers were coupled mis-matched socks.
A cup of tea sat steaming on the floor, he reached down and picked it up without pausing in his reading.
"Still working on that, I see." John leaned against the doorframe leading into the kitchen. He spooned some cereal from the plastic bowl he held in his hand and munched on it quietly.
Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow at him over the edge of his papers
"Don't you ever sleep?" John asked as he sprawled himself down in the chair on the other side of the room. "Or do you just live off of Earl Grey?"
"Good morning to you, too, John" He flipped over a page and circled a phrase with his pen, a soft V creasing his forehead.
John saluted with the spoon, an action which Sherlock took to be John's own strange version of a 'Good morning', and flicked on the television. A perky blonde woman smiled at them from in front of a large map of Britain and cheerily informed them that it would be raining today.
"Sherlock?" He looked up at the sound of his name, decidedly not in John's voice, and caught sight of Mrs Hudson standing in the doorway, a blanket around her shoulders, and holding a large box.
"Mrs Hudson, you have the flu. You should be in bed," John got up and took the box from the old woman, a chiding expression on his face.
"I was, Dear," She patted his cheek, sniffling slightly as she did so. "But there was someone at the door and no-one seemed to be getting it – do you have a tissue?"
Nodding, John dropped the heavy box onto Sherlock's chest, making the detective groan at the sudden weight, and headed into the kitchen.
Glaring at the retreating back of John, Sherlock pushed the box onto the coffee table and pawed through the paperwork inside. "Oh, excellent! Thankyou, Mrs Hudson," He spared her a smile before pulling out another folder of police-files.
"More Moriarty stuff?" John asked as he handed Mrs Hudson a tissue. "Now, get back into bed, Mrs Hudson," Their landlady tutted indulgently, but left the flat with promises to do as he said.
"Yes, Lestrade said he'd bring over more files," Sherlock said, already engrossed in another set of papers. "He owed me a favour after that last case,"
"The stolen ring?"
"Correct,"
"How'd that go, by the way?"
"Eurgh, dull,"
John's chuckles faded out as he fell back into the files.
Sherlock knew he'd set himself a punishing lifestyle, cramming every waking hour – and most of his sleeping ones - with Moriarty. He was tracking down every scrap of information about the man, no matter how trifling or innocuous, and was filing away every single piece of data in his brain. It kept his attention focused and his mind engaged, and he loved it.
There was nothing he loved more than an illusive fact.
Reclining back into his original position, Sherlock began ferreting through the files, his Biro occasionally making an appearance when an interesting phrase or so jumped out at him.
...Working for unnamed leader. Suspect refused to give information...
...Part of a criminal ring. Leader thus far unnamed...
...Suspect admitted to working for professor. Name not known. Suspect claims not to know professor's name...
...Suspect received regular deposits in bank account from unknown benefactor...
"Sherlock, what do you want to eat?" John's voice broke into the haze.
"What?"
"Chinese or Pizza?"
He blinked once in confusion and slid his eyes to the window. The morning light he'd last clamped eyes on had faded through the spectrum to become a deep velvety blue. He'd spent the entire day sprawled across the sofa. "Oh, um...doesn't matter. You choose," He shrugged, setting the file to one side and rotating his neck until it cracked, trying to realign his inner-clock.
Giving him a knowing look that showed Sherlock that he knew exactly what had confused the detective, John smirked and began dialing.
Sherlock smiled. He hadn't lived with many people in his life, but John was the only one who had taken in his eccentricities – Such as breezing past whole days – and didn't think him a freak for it. In fact, John may have been the only person in the world who'd taken Sherlock's idiosyncrasies in stride, not dismissing them as weird. He'd been awed by Sherlock's skills of deduction and that had peaked the taller man's interest in him.
John was fast becoming the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had ever had.
Scrubbing his slender hands through his hair, Sherlock pressed his head back into the leather of the arm of the sofa and sighed loudly. He rubbed a hand over his face and untucked his shirt, trying to get even more comfortable.
"Sherlock, if you're going to undress – do it in your bedroom," John quipped, sending him a wicked grin from the kitchen before his eyes widened comically. "Oh, hi, I'd like to order a pizza,"
Sherlock chuckled under his breath as he returned to their work, paying mind to not let his thoughts wander so drastically again. At some point during his study, a plate full of pizza slices was placed by his side. He gave a mumbled thanks, but soon returned to his papers. The next hour passed in relative silence with thankfully no interruptions. Placing his Biro down, Sherlock stretched his arms above his head, arching his back until it popped pleasantly. The clock above the mantle-piece ticked quietly as he absentmindedly bit into a slice of cold pizza, toying with the edge of his papers while he ate.
After several hours of Sherlock's silence and night-time T.V, John got up and trudged off to bed with a murmured Goodnight, leaving Sherlock to his notes.
The next couple of days flew by in a numb blur for Sherlock, the bubble he'd created for himself comprising only of text on the pages, his own breathing, and the occasional cup of tea that appeared at his side. He was constantly reading and re-reading the files and papers he'd already been supplied. He was really getting bored with his current supply of data, as by now it just contained facts he already knew. There wasn't much more he could squeeze from the papers, and it was getting to the point where he just had to admit it to himself.
"Sherlock, you do remember that I'm a doctor, right?" John's voice broke through his haze. It didn't sound real, like he was listening to the sound whilst lying underwater, so it took him a few seconds to discern what the other man had said.
Even after he'd figured it out, all that came it his lips was a rasping noise that was meant to be a "Huh?"
"Me, doctor. Remember?" John asked from his position of surveying Sherlock over his cup of tea with barely disguised amusement.
Staring at the man as though he were mad, Sherlock nodded slowly, trying to work out why his roommate was acting so strangely.
"Well then, as a doctor – Get to bed! You'll burn yourself out if you carry on like this,"
"I've slept," Sherlock corrected him, his voice rising at the end as his indignation broke through. Personally, Sherlock never found much attraction in going to sleep. He couldn't deny his body when it began screaming at him to shut down and sleep, but it was just precious time wasted otherwise. He preferred it when it was quiet, it gave him an opportunity to reflect, to relax his mind…to ponder and get lost in his thoughts. Rest for a bit and re-charge his batteries, so to speak.
"Not for days," John countered, jabbing a thin finger in the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. "Bed,"
"I'm not a child,"
"Could've fooled me," John grinned. "Bed,"
"But I'm no-"
"Bed,"
"John, you're bein-"
"Bed,"
"This is ridicu-"
"Bed,"
"John, I-"
"Bed,"
"Fine!" Sherlock hissed, irritation flashing in his eyes like electricity. "I'll go to bloody bed. Happy?"
"Ecstatic," John told the other man, fighting to keep his face deadpan. "See you in the morning,"
Scraping up the last of his crumbling dignity, Sherlock sent the ex-soldier a withering glare and headed for his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with such a ferocity that the doorframe trembled several seconds afterwards.
He would have felt quite smug about that, were it not for the fact that he could hear John's laughter echoing through the wall.
John Watson stepped into the kitchen the next morning, yawning as he rubbed a hand over the rough stubble on his face. He hadn't shaved in three days and it was starting to get annoying and slightly itchy. This seemed to be the way it always happened. He would get too lazy to shave, decide to grow a beard, and shave it off after a few days when it got to be really annoying.
It was strange, he mused to himself, after almost a week of awakening to find Sherlock still sprawled across the sofa to not see the detective in his usual position. But he stuck by what he had said last night. The younger man was running off of reserves of alertness that John hadn't known a human was capable of having. It had been almost mind-boggling to see the bruises grow under Sherlock's eyes and not see his roommate succumb to sleep.
As he poured himself a bowl of cereal, remembered there was no milk, and resolved to just eat it dry, he heard the trembling groans of the shower shudder into life, telling him that Sherlock had woken up. Well, it was a bit earlier than he would have liked, but at least the detective had gotten some sleep...he hoped. Knowing Sherlock, he could have just been lying in his room seething for majority of the night and refusing to sleep just to spite John.
The young detective, John had discovered since living with him, was a case study of contrasts. He could give deep insights that would make even a philosopher stop and stare in awe, or he could act as petulant as a small child denied his favourite ice-cream. John was sure that there was probably a psychiatrist somewhere who would love to get their nails into Sherlock and his various oddities, but when John considered his roommate the thought of Sherlock just made his head spin.
He heard the groaning of the shower cut off and not two minutes later a suitably drenched Sherlock wandered into the kitchen, water droplets soaking the top of his shirt collar. Locks of hair stuck comically to his pale face, making John stifle a smirk. He looked as though he'd never even heard of a towel.
"Happy? Am I suitably rested now?" Sherlock shot at him, flicking away the drops of water that had congregated across his eyelashes.
John appraised him for a few seconds, taking in the rings that were still under the detective's eyes. Only now they were a faint lilac rather than painfully purple as they'd been last night.
"You'll do,"
"Christ, you're like a mother hen," Sherlock sighed, but the slightest tweaking of the corner of his mouth showed John that the other man wasn't entirely irritated with him.
"I saw your blog," Sherlock commented absentmindedly a few minutes later. "About the cabbie. 'A Study In Pink', nice,"
Suddenly feeling quite self-conscious, John shrugged. "Yeah, well. Pink phone, pink case, pink lady. It seemed to fit,"
Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.
"What did you think?" John asked, irrationally nervous. Sherlock had casually announced that he'd be reading John's blog a few days ago, insisting that he was only doing do to make sure that John wasn't writing lies about him.
It had turned out that John was. Lying, that is. Sherlock had read through the blog last night before succumbing to John's orders of sleep, and had been quite surprised (A rarity for him). John had written about him like he was the best thing that had ever happened to the ex-army-medic.
Sherlock hadn't known what to think. It wasn't exactly a familiar thing for him to be...appreciated the way John valued him.
He simply scratched his head uncomfortably, before obviously deciding to voice his opinion anyway. "Deduction," He emphasised, because it was safer to lock away whatever that was and focus on the blog itself. "Is a science, John, an exact science. You've romanticised it."
John opened his mouth, closed it again, then opened it once more. "...How did I 'romanticise' it?" He spluttered, mildly insulted by the criticism of a work he was quite proud of.
"You should have stuck to the facts." Sherlock advised, before a quite offended expression crossed his young face. "And I didn't appreciate the personal slights!"
"Personal...?"
"Yes. 'Sherlock can see through everything and everyone. What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things'!" He quoted, evidently having memorised the offending line.
"I didn't mean it like-"
"Oh, so you were using the lesser known complimentary meaning of 'Spectacularly ignorant'!" The sarcasm dripped from Sherlock's tongue, the remarks cutting. "Sorry, I misunderstood,"
"Alright, I'm sorry," John attempted to pacify the other man. He'd been on the receiving end of one of Sherlock's more unreasonable tempers. That'd been terrifying enough. But to be the sole focus of an anger that was because of him, wasn't exactly on his to-do list. "But, you have to admit, not knowing that the earth goes around the sun..."
"Oh, that again?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking more and more annoyed with each passing second. "What does it matter? I don't care, don't have to care. It affects my life in no way whatsoever, John. Has your life benefited from that knowledge?"
John blinked. "I...guess not," He sounded more like he was asking a question.
"Exactly." Sherlock retreated into silence, his point proven.
"Okay. I'm sorry I offended you. That wasn't my intention," John apologised formally, a creeping sense of guilt filling him up. He hadn't meant to pique the detective. In truth, he'd been in utter awe of the man and had tried to convey as such in his blog. Aside from that one line, he'd done nothing but praise Sherlock.
Sherlock nodded, making an odd humming noise through his lips, the sound a wordless forgiveness. John nodded to himself, satisfied with the response, and returned to his task.
A gentle quiet fell about them, Sherlock listlessly drumming his fingers on the table and John scrubbing the few dishes that had been left by the sink. This was the way it tended to be in their apartment; long stretches of quiet until one of them had something to say. There was never any pointless filling of the silence.
A shrill ring echoed through the quiet as John was packing away the dishes, almost making him drop the china on the floor. Steadying himself, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Sherlock pull out his mobile – the source of the shriek. A spark glinted bright in the detective's keen eyes, something John had seen flicker into life so many times in such a short while. A flash that jolted Sherlock out of his stupor and back into the world of crime, danger and excitement. There was a case.
"Lestrade?" He asked out of habit, turning to his roommate as he slid away his phone.
"Yes. He needs me," Sherlock stood, a new spring in his step as he began whirling around the flat, grabbing his socks, shoes, and anything else he needed.
John watched in bewilderment as Sherlock managed to finish dressing himself and look entirely acceptable, straightening out any of the imperfections that had accumulated around him during the past two weeks. His shirt somehow uncrumpled, his socks now matched, and his cuff links were buttoned up. The only remainder of his disorderliness was the few smears of ink on the end of his pale fingertips.
"You ready?" Sherlock asked a few minutes later as he pulled on his coat and looped his scarf around his pale neck, looking about ready to leap out the door.
"Me?"
Halting in his momentum, Sherlock blinked confusedly at John for a few seconds before sending him a lop-sided smirk. "I'd be lost without my blogger,"