John heard the sluggish footsteps on the stairs and glanced at the clock. He hadn't really known when to expect Sherlock, but it seemed like he should have been in before eight p.m. John also vaguely wondered if Sherlock would remember he was moving in today. They hadn't actually spoken since their dinner at Angelo's.
The door opened and closed and Sherlock slowly stepped into the kitchen. John looked over his shoulder and noticed the exhaustion dragging down the muscles in the detective's face. There were dark shadows under his startling grey eyes and his suit was wrinkled with continuous wear.
"Hello," John said turning back to the pot simmering in front of him. "I'm just finishing up some beef stew, have you eaten?" There wasn't an immediate answer but after several seconds a loud grumbling filled the room. John smiled as Sherlock's stomach answered the question for him.
John reached into a cabinet and pulled down two of the oversized mugs he'd unpacked an hour ago. He'd been only marginally surprised to see that Sherlock had only bothered to unpack one dish, one cup, and one set of silverware. John had dutifully emptied all of his boxes, and suspected that his would be the items that they used.
"Here," he said turning and handing Sherlock a mug. The detective's face brightened as he sat at the small dining table. After a moment John joined him.
"Do you cook often?" Sherlock asked, tentatively taking a bit of the stew. "This is delicious," he added.
"It's a hobby," John said. They ate in silence for several minutes. John was pleased the detective seemed to be enjoying it. His too-thin frame suggested that he didn't eat enough and probably on an irregular schedule. It was hardly a healthy lifestyle.
"How's your embezzlement case?" John asked.
"What?" Sherlock asked, snapping his head around and looking at John. The doctor almost laughed at the shock on the detective's face but nodded towards a stack of files sitting on the small coffee table. "Oh," Sherlock said as he turned back around. "I was wondering where I left those."
John smiled. "They were on top of the fridge. I figured you might be needing them."
"Did you look through them?" There was a hint of accusation in Sherlock's tone, but John ignored it.
"Yes," he answered simply. "And if the brother is the owner of a green ladder, he's probably your man."
"A green ladder?" Sherlock asked. John found that he enjoyed impressing the detective more so than anyone else he knew. "The marks outside of the warehouse," John answered. "They were green and perfectly placed for a ladder. Obviously Henderson was working with his brother and they climbed through the window after hours to burn the files that would tie them to the missing money. They're smart, but not brilliant. I doubt they've thought to open accounts in Switzerland or in the Caymans. They've more than likely acquired fake identification and opened accounts under those names. I'm sure if the warrant comes through for the brothers' property you'll find those IDs and the money. I suspect you'll make an arrest by Wednesday or Thursday at the latest."
Sherlock stared at him, grey eyes alert despite all the signs of exhaustion. This confirmed to John that Sherlock's sleeping habits were probably as deplorable as his eating habits.
"How…" Sherlock started but trailed off. After a second he held his palms up and sighed. John grinned and sat back in his chair.
"I just notice things. When I was a kid my dad would play games with us, show us things and see how much we could remember. I just started working really hard at it, and before I knew it I was noticing things that nobody else did. It's nothing special, really. I just pay attention."
Sherlock continued to stare him. "That's extraordinary," he said after a moment and John felt himself color slightly – much to his dismay.
"That isn't always the reaction I get - but hopefully this helps."
"I'm sure it will," Sherlock said. "I found the brother suspicious right away, but I couldn't figure out how he was involved."
John smiled, standing and grabbing both mugs. He sat them in the sink and was just about to say something else when he felt the twinge. He automatically cradled his left arm against is his chest and dug the fingers of his right hand in to the counter.
"No," he whispered as the pain shot down his arm. He closed his eyes, grimacing against the onslaught.
"John?" Sherlock said, his voice sounding like a whisper as John's heart started pounding in his ears.
"Fuck," John said. He took a deep breath and tried to swallow down the pain. He straightened his back, not aware that he'd partially curled over the sink as his muscles tightened. He forced his fingers to release the counter before he turned to face Sherlock.
Concern was spread over the detective's face as he pushed his chair back to stand.
"I'm fine," John said to the unasked question. "I'm fine."
He could see the disbelief on Sherlock's face and vaguely wondered just how horrible he looked. He needed to take a pill and go to bed. Sherlock probably wouldn't do the washing up, but perhaps if John asked him to put the rest of the stew in the fridge… the thought vanished as fire shot through his neck.
Sherlock took a step towards him as John gritted his teeth against the pain.
He hated it. He hated the whole thing – the pain, the weakness, both of them being witnessed by someone he hardly knew.
"It'll be fine," John managed, feeling the contractions in his stomach that indicated he was going to be sick. He wouldn't do that here. Sherlock had seen too much already. "I just– I have medicine." He took a step towards the stairs and almost stumbled. John saw Sherlock reach out just as he managed to catch himself on the table. Bed, he needed his bed. The bathroom first, then bed.
"John?" Sherlock asked again, but didn't move as John stumbled past him and up the stairs.
John padded quietly down the stairs, his throat parched from the pain medication. He'd glanced at the clock as he climbed out of bed and wasn't surprised to see that it was past three in the morning. He was grateful that he'd be able to go back to sleep for a few hours. The pain had left him but the memory of it still made him ache.
It had been a bad one but it wasn't surprising. He hadn't moved any of the boxes into the flat, but he'd certainly done enough unpacking to agitate the injury. He knew better than that.
Having Sherlock see it had hardly been what John wanted – but that was over and if Sherlock asked any questions, John would answer them.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the kitchen was the pot he'd cooked in and both mugs piled neatly in the drainer. John opened the fridge and saw a collection of neatly stacked storage containers holding the leftovers. John smiled, closing the door and reaching for a glass.
He downed one glass of water and then filled it up again before moving into the living room and in the faded light noticed that Sherlock had straightened up in there as well. John looked quietly around the room then headed towards the stairs. As he started to climb a slow smirk crossed his face.