Sherlock sighed loudly for the second time in as many minutes. He had his laptop, but was staring at the screen with disinterest.

"All the cases on my website are stupid or exceedingly dull," he said, sighing again. "I need a good serial killer, or a locked room murder, or anything at all to do," he moaned. "A crime scene, a chase, a fight. Something. Anything." He kicked his feet like a small child having a temper tantrum.

John had been reading through Sherlock's chart, examining all his labs again. He set it down on his lap. "Sherlock!" he hissed. "You need a bloody heart transplant. You cannot just go waltzing around chasing criminals like everything is fine, because it is absolutely not!"

Sherlock stared at him. "Why not?"

"... Are you being serious?" John choked.

Sherlock tilted his head slightly. "Yes. I don't see how needing a heart transplant should prevent me from doing anything."

John choked for a moment before answering, Sherlock watching him with intrigue.

"Sherlock, the whole point of needing a heart transplant is that yours isn't working anymore. It's not like we decided you could do with a new one, just because that one is getting a bit old. It's failing, Sherlock. Actually failing! That's not something you can just get over, or push past because you think it's only transport. Like it or not, without transport, you have nothing."

Sherlock examined John critically after he finished that.

"Fine," he said quietly.

John froze. "What?"

"I said fine."

John frowned. "No, you don't just say fine. You fight me every step of the way, argue, try to use screwed up Sherlockian logic on me, until you finally get exhausted and give in or Mycroft shows up."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not this time," he sighed, and there was a hint of something in his voice that John hadn't heard from Sherlock before.

Like exhaustion.

Looking closely, John could see the tiny signs that Sherlock had been desperate to hide. The bags under his eyes, the unhealthy colour of his skin, the lines around his eyes that told John more than any of Sherlock's words ever could.

"Are you alright if I stay at the flat tonight?" he asked, watching Sherlock carefully for his reaction.

"Of course," he replied, looking away.

Something in the back of John's mind tickled.

Sherlock waking up after being shot, hand frantically groping around for John's. Sherlock after being stabbed, calling out for John, smiling when he saw him. Sherlock refusing to let any other doctor besides John stitch him up.

"Actually," he amended. "I just have to run home to grab some things, and then I'll be back. Any requests?"

Sherlock examined him. "Violin," he said finally. "The skull. And my dressing gown."

"Which one?"

"Blue."

"And for god's sake Sherlock, I am not bringing the skull."

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly, but John could see the hints of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

"Also, you behave, or I will keep your dressing gown hostage," he warned. "And that means keep the oxygen on the whole time. And don't think I won't know, because I will."

Sherlock frowned. "You couldn't."

John raised an eyebrow. "Wanna try me?"

A challenge. One he was sure to lose.

Sherlock only sighed. "Just try to not mess up the sock index. Again."

John shook his head as he left.

Sherlock toyed with the idea of pulling the oxygen off, looping the tubing around his fingers.

He really would like to know how John would be able to tell, but didn't think it was worth the risk.

And he did feel better. Not that John needed to know that of course, because he would moan the whole time about it. And they both knew it was a show. Mostly. (Because it was irritating to be hooked up to the wall, and the whistling noise was eventually going to burrow its way into his brain.) Sherlock didn't know why they both kept pretending.

Sentiment?

No...

Sherlock fell asleep before he could come up with an answer.