John had thought that getting Sherlock back to sleep would end the problem that was the drugged detective.

It didn't.

Sherlock had fallen asleep quickly, but he had been awake since then. On and off, just enough to grate on John's nerves, and on the last particular instance, Sherlock had gotten out of bed and gotten as far as the bathroom before finding something manageable to throw at the bathroom window. Thankfully, what Sherlock had found to throw was a roll of toilet paper. Unthankfully, it unrolled the entire way and John was left with a spectacular, winding mess.

He had gotten the detective back to bed- with much complaining on Sherlock's behalf- and had just cleaned up the mess in the bathroom when he had walked back into the bedroom to find Sherlock sprawled out on the floor.

With much toil, John had managed to haul the then-sleeping detective back into bed, albeit if he ended up stretched out at the wrong end.

And then, when John was exhausted and his back was aching and he didn't think he could handle much more of this drugged Sherlock lark, he had found that he wasn't able to go to bed with a conscious that wasn't guilty.

What if Sherlock is doing this? What if Sherlock is doing that?

his mind had whispered, and feeling fed up to a point of being near tears (and damning his doctors instincts), John had stumbled back to Sherlock's room and taken a seat on the floor by his bed.

There, he was finally able to fall asleep.

He had been awake every few hours, like an internal alarm clock, checking on Sherlock's fever and making sure the detective was still asleep. He always was and John was always jealous of that peaceful look on his face.

Now, John had been awakened by Sherlock slurring his name. He was just so exhausted and so tired of taking care of the detective that never a day in his life once said thank you.

"John...? What- Ow."

John blinked hard and, taking a deep breath, looked back towards Sherlock.

The look on the detective's face was by far enough to make any previous annoyance that John had felt just melt away.

Sherlock was sitting up slightly, propped up on an elbow. His hand was pressed, lightly, against his jaw. He was pale and there was a look of unguarded pain twisting his features.

"Hey... Don't touch... It'll just irritate them further..." John murmured sympathetically.

Sherlock blinked and the pain was- mostly- gone from his gaze as he looked towards John. "John? What-" He seemed to wince before taking a deep breath. "What happened..."

John carefully got to his feet, nearly cringing at the noise of his joints popping. "You had your wisdom teeth out, you remember? All four of them... Three were infected and they took the other out for prevention measures..." John explained slowly, watching Sherlock trying very hard to process the information. He was clearly still woozy. "They gave you some powerful anesthesia, so you might be out of it for a bit..."

"Teeth... right..." Sherlock murmured, ghosting his fingertips along his jaw. "It hurts..." he mumbled, although he didn't seem entirely conscious of the statement, and John's heart felt like it was shattering.

He'd said it- to himself- once before: Sherlock in pain was one of the worst things for him to witness. It was difficult for John to handle anyone that he couldn't help in pain, but Sherlock was worse than the average patient.

The average patient would whine and cry and groan, look for a course of treatment or ask for help. Sherlock didn't. Sherlock tried to suffer in silence, to internalize all of the pain and suffering, to ignore it... and it broke John's heart when Sherlock was suffering right in front of him and he couldn't do a single thing.

That was always the one thing he hated about being a doctor.

If you can't ease their suffering, you have to let them suffer.

John had always dreaded the moment where one of the patients would be rushed into the med tent, missing an arm or a leg or with severe bleeding and traumatising blood loss. Advances in medicine and technology was one thing, but if someone was too badly hurt...

John shivered, his fingers creeping instinctively to the old wound on his shoulder. He rubbed at it idly, focussing on Sherlock instead.

"I can give you your antibiotics and some more paracetamol... Getting you something to eat and drink wouldn't be a bad thing, either."

Sherlock sighed quietly, sitting up entirely. "Why am I sleeping at the wrong end of my bed, John...?"

"Because you were trying to sleep on the floor, saying that your bed was, quote, 'too marshmallowy'. I managed to get you onto your bed and didn't care from there."

Sherlock was frowning now. "What else did I say?"

"Er... something about bees and Moriarty and our flat being bugged and Mycroft being a clot," John murmured, recalling the statements.

"Well, I wasn't entirely out of it, then," Sherlock muttered, at the mention of Mycroft.

"No," John said seriously, "you were entirely out of it. You were really sodding out of it."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before shrugging slightly. "Where's my medication...?" he asked, seeming to not want to further venture the topic of his unconscious ramblings.

"I'll get it... Hang on."

John retrieved the medication and let Sherlock take the proper dosage, handing him a glass of water to go with it.

"Is there anything you want to eat? I can make you oatmeal, well, no, that might not be good, actually... Applesauce, mashed potatoes, ice cream..."

Sherlock groaned.

"Look, you can't chew, so it needs to be this stuff. Pick one."

"Fine... Mashed potatoes with melted cheese and sour cream, cinnamon applesauce, and a peanut butter milkshake."

"... Or pick all three," John muttered, although he turned and started for the hall. He paused, though, remembering something he had read in the information that the dentist had given Sherlock. "Oh, and leave your gums alone. You've still got an infection and you still can get all sorts of problems, like dry socket. They're going to bleed, so we've got a ton of gauze, but you can also use a wet tea bag. So, let me know if anything happens and I'll do what I can."

Sherlock just grunted as he stumbled across the room towards the bathroom.


"Are you finally pleased?" John asked, watching Sherlock shovel mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Wif wha'?" Sherlock asked, looking up at John.

"Brunch," John said tiredly, sinking into the chair opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock swallowed. "Oh. Yes."

"Good..." John rest his forehead against the palm of his hand, massaging his forehead slightly. He had this terrible headache... He blamed it on lack of sleep.

"You look terrible," Sherlock commented, stirring his milkshake briefly. "Were you awake all night?"

"Taking care of you," John retorted.

"Oh." Sherlock took a bite of the milkshake. "This is good."

John looked up. "Why do you sound so surprised? I can cook... or wrangle ice cream and peanut butter..."

"I figured," Sherlock murmured, taking another bite. "But you never do."

"I rarely have time..."

Sherlock hummed in reply, continuing on making his way through brunch. John watched him tiredly, although he was glad that Sherlock seemed to be feeling a bit better with medication and food in his system.

"Take it easy," John said, noting Sherlock flinch at one point. "It isn't going to go anywhere."

Sherlock gingerly raised his fingers to his jaw. "When does the swelling go away?"

John reached forward and wrenched Sherlock's fingers away from his face. "Stop messing with it."

Sherlock huffed and turned back to brunch.

"Anyway... the swelling could last for a week." John glanced up. "There's a ton of information that the dentist gave me for you. You should read it."

Sherlock only rolled his eyes. "Dull."

John sighed. "Well, I'm glad you're feeling better, at least. It seems like your fever's gone down..."

"Antibiotics will do that," Sherlock commented.

"Well, that's the point, yeah." John rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"Why were you taking care of me all night?"

John peered through his fingers at Sherlock, frowning. "Because, Sherlock, you were not... well, you weren't suitable to be walking around by yourself."

"I thought I was sleeping."

"You were supposed to be. You tried to break the bathroom window on one occasion. I'm thankful that all you threw was a roll of toilet paper."

Sherlock was frowning again. John could practically see the cogs turning in Sherlock's mind; the detective was probably trying to figure out why or at least remember. John could also see that Sherlock was getting nothing in the memory department.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock murmured. "They administered anesthesia."

"Yes, and you woke up after the surgery. And you called me your partner, which always has a sodding brilliant ring to it when you're two blokes in a dentist office. And then you fell asleep in the cab and decided that I was a pretty great pillow, and refused to stop clinging to me long enough for me barely to pay the fare!"

Sherlock had paused with a spoonful of potatoes halfway to his mouth when John mentioned the fact about the cab. Of course, the detective fluidly completed the motion a second later, like nothing had been said, and swallowed the mouthful of potatoes before speaking.

"You are my partner."

John groaned. "I know, but can't you say that I'm your, I don't know- friend?"

Sherlock huffed moodily, wincing slightly. "I don't care for the term."

"Oh, Heaven forbid that Sherlock Holmes should have a friend!"

Sherlock's lips twitched towards something that looked like a smirk. "Go to bed, John."

John sighed, feeling his shoulders slump as the anger left just as quickly as it had attacked his mind in the first place. "It's nine in the morning, Sherlock. I just woke up."

"And clearly you're exhausted, so do please go to sleep before you have Mrs. Hudson in a flutter with your raised voice."

"You know, for someone post-op, you're incredibly cheeky. Doesn't it hurt to talk?"

Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"Of course it does. You're just too fond of your own voice to stay quiet." John stood, stretching. As much as it wasn't proper, John was simply too tired to not go back to bed. "You should be resting, too," he murmured, brushing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. It was still warm, although an improvement over what it had been. "You'll get some sleep?"

"I slept all night."

"No, you didn't. You might think you did, but you didn't. Please?"

Sherlock sighed. "Fine, John. Whatever you want."

"You don't have your fingers crossed?"

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

"... Okay, you probably don't know about that one," John murmured, turning and trudging for the stairs.


John's exhausted and Sherlock, as usual, loves the sound of his own voice. Just a normal day... sort of.

Probably one more chapter... Not entirely sure...

Thank you!