Chapter Ten

The morning arrived on a much better note than the previous mornings had. John slept until nine and, upon walking downstairs, found Sherlock awake and staring blankly at the television screen.

"Morning," John greeted.

Sherlock gave a sort of huff in response, not looking up from the television.

"What are you watching?"

"Not watching it."

"Okay, what is on the telly, that you happen to be staring at but not watching?" John asked with mild humour. It was clear that Sherlock was feeling better; or else he was feeling so terrible that he was zoning out unconsciously, but John didn't bet on that. Sherlock didn't do much unconsciously, so, while Sherlock was clearly off in another world, John assumed that he was simply thinking.

"Something 'book'. Book, the Book, the Note-Notebook," Sherlock mumbled, not looking up.

"You're watching The Notebook?" John asked incredulously, letting his gaze deviate to the television again.

"I'm not watching it," Sherlock repeated, sounding annoyed. "It started awhile ago, the remote is on the other side of the room and I couldn't be bothered to get it," Sherlock said stubbornly, finally looking at John.

"You're feeling better," John remarked.

"What? Oh, yeah. Better."

"Symptoms?" John inquired, crossing the room and placing his hand against Sherlock's forehead. He was pleased to find that his fever seemed to be very low-grade, if not nonexistant.

Sherlock didn't respond, not even seeming to notice as John placed his hand on his forehead.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped to John. "What?" he asked again, very clearly annoyed now. "My throat feels strange, but it doesn't hurt."

"What do you mean, 'strange'?"

Sherlock shrugged a bit, his eyes flickering back to the television. "John, what is this heinous programme? It's a romance," he complained.

"Yes, well, I didn't turn it on," John muttered. "Now, what do you mean by 'strange'?"

"Like a sort of gag-inducing sensation."

"Like something's stuck in your throat?"

"Essentially."

"Okay. That's part of the strep, too, although I imagine it's a step in the right direction. No pain?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not really. I'm hungry."

John sighed. "What would you like?" he asked, slinking to the kitchen.

"Toast will do."

"Sherlock..." John said, planning on giving Sherlock a lecture on how he needed to eat while he was on medication, but Sherlock sensed it ahead of time.

"Omelette, then."

"Good."

John worked on the omelettes (he decided that an omelette sounded good, so why shouldn't he make one for himself?) for awhile in silence, before Sherlock's tone broke the silence over the movie playing in the sitting room.

"John..."

"If you don't want to watch it, don't."

"I'm aware of it now; I can't tune it out and I need to think!" Sherlock complained.

"If you don't want to watch it, turn it off," John clarified. "And, no, I'm not getting you the remote. You're no longer incapacitated and you said you felt better. Do it yourself." John removed the omelettes from the stove, placing them on two different plates.

John walked back into the room as the two characters on the movie declared their undying love for each other. John literally heard Sherlock scoff.

Laughing, John handed over a plate to Sherlock. "So, what was it that you were so busy thinking about that you managed to block out half of The Notebook?"

Sherlock didn't respond. John wasn't particularly surprised.

John sank into his chair (after grabbing the remote), quickly changing the channel. He settled on the morning news, only half listening to it as he ate his breakfast.

"Why do you do this?"

John glanced up as he took a bite of his omelette. "What?"

"Doctor," Sherlock replied.

John blinked. "Why am I a doctor?"

"Yes."

"Why are you a consulting detective?" John retorted, although he was only joking. He wasn't sure how to answer the question that Sherlock had posed to him. He was a doctor because-

"I'm good at the profession and I enjoy what I do," Sherlock said, giving John a response.

"There you go," John said. "That's why I'm a doctor, too."

"But how can you enjoy taking care of snivelling, sick people? Healthy people are annoying as it is, not to menion the crying that they do when they're sick."

"Not everybody snivels when they're sick," John pointed out, giving Sherlock a glance.

Sherlock snorted, reaching for his cup of tea from- assumingly- earlier.

"Besides, I like helping people," John continued. Sherlock rolled his eyes pointedly, unable to speak as he was taking a drink of tea. "No, I do, Sherlock. Not everyone wants to be an arrogant sod like you."

Sherlock smirked, setting his mug down. "Little do you know, John, that everybody should want to be like me."

"Wow. Pompous in our sickness, aren't we?" John asked, smiling as he looked back to his omelette.

"Honestly, John, I'm always pompous."

"Tell me about it," John muttered.

John had nearly finished his omelette before Sherlock spoke again, and when he did, John nearly choked.

"You're right. You are good at being a doctor."

John fumbled for his glass of orange juice, taking a drink. "What?"

Sherlock shot him a distasteful look, shuffling his sheet closer to him.

"Did you just pay me a compliment?" John asked in disbelief, staring at the consulting detective.

Sherlock had resolutely looked back to the news.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't look back, but John couldn't help himself from grinning. His smile lasted through the rest of his omelette, his orange juice, and the trip to the kitchen to deposit his dishes into the sink.

John suspected that this was Sherlock's way of saying thank you without actually having to say those two, simple words. Despite the fact that Sherlock couldn't seem to bring himself to actually express gratitude, John took this as a major accomplishment and a serious compliment.

"John, stop making that ridiculous face," Sherlock muttered as John sank back into his chair.

John's smile gave way to laughter.

"Honestly..." Sherlock muttered, sinking lower in his chair. He looked, vaguely, uncomfortable.

"Sherlock, I'm just going to say this, and I'm kind of going out on a limb here, but, you're welcome."

Sherlock frowned. "I never said 'thank you'."

"Uh huh," John murmured, smiling to himself.

"I didn't!"

John only grabbed the remote and set to flipping through channels as a distraction from Sherlock's affronted face.

His flatmate might try to seem like he was the most uncaring sod in the world, and he might actually pull that act off most of the time, but John knew better. If only for an instant, one teeny, tiny instant, Sherlock could be normal. Sherlock could be sentimental.

John also knew that Sherlock was only ever 'sentimental' around him. He only ever acted human around him.

And that was the biggest compliment that John knew he could ever receive.

Silent Night reaches it's conclusion here! I want to thank you all for the favs, the follows, and the reviews. Your wonderful thoughts are... wonderful, obviously, and I appreciate each and every review!

THANK YOU!

[P.S. My penname is going to change again- this is only important for those who follow me- so, yeah, just to let you know!]