#13 | Remark
Sherlock came out from his room, his curly locks in disarray. He wore simple pyjama bottoms and a grey t-shirt with his blue dressing gown limply hanging on his slim shoulders, well half-hanging. One side of his dressing gown had slid off one of his shoulders. He looked tired but his blue-green-grey eyes were as keen as ever.
John looked up from his newspaper and looked over his shoulder as the consulting detective shuffled into the kitchen and turned on the kettle with an unconcealed yawn. He'd been sleeping in his room for at least 14 hours since having solved a case that'd gone on for three days with said detective having only slept for three hours during that 72 hour period.
Sleeping for that long would've usually worried John, because this was Sherlock Holmes—even if he did only get three hours of sleep during a three day period—but at the end of the case Sherlock had also been injured: a nasty gash on his upper forearm that was deep enough to need stitches and a deep stab wound in his other lower forearm both from a scalpel. (Which was another story for another time.) Anyway, because of those injuries he was on meds, much to Sherlock's objections (which had been loud and constant, but John convinced him to take them).
"How are you feeling?" John asked as Sherlock padded into the lounge and sat down in his armchair.
"Well, I'm on medication," he started in a soft voice, just above a whisper, closing his eyes and steepling his hands under his chin. "So, I imagine I feel how people of average intelligence feel all the time."
Once again, credit to Bones (the television show) for giving me this idea.
Thank you for reading,
TheBrightestNight