John needs to have a break, don't you think?
Medical Knife
"John, we have a case. John, do wake up. You've had more than adequate sleep. John we have a case."
John was expecting those words to follow the next day, though he didn't have expectations for them to be the first thing he hears in the morning. Sherlock stood beside his bed, dressed already, holding a plate that was bearing toast and grapes.
"This is all that is quick to eat," He handed to a still-drowsy – and slightly frazzled – John, who accepted the plate despite not quite making it to a sitting position. He'd moved to kick off his sheets, all the wrappings he'd been able to cocoon himself in over the night, when Sherlock turned to leave, abruptly as he did so, quickly enough that he was already shutting the door when John called out to him.
"Sherlock? Aren't you going to… you know, check in?" John squinted. Did Sherlock open his blinds?
Sherlock shook his head. "I'll be seeing you downstairs. Be reasonable with your time, please, we're already late as it is."
With the door shut, and his eyes still hazy with dreams, John blinked several times. He tried to quiet the anxiety pent up in him. Then he adjusted his seat so he would specifically not be in direct contact with the sun. Then he looked out the window.
Since when is it ever this bright after a storm?
"Thank you."
"Whatever for? You thank me too often. I think it's become small talk for you by now, hasn't it?"
John ignored the jab and resigned himself to a silent reply. He was dressed, and unmarked, and awaiting a cab, stuck in the 8am foot-traffic shuffle that employs make when they're just a bit late for work. The man to his side barely paid him noticed, engrossed in the screen of his reliable cell, very concentrated on the content at hand. The streets were filled with people dressed for all sorts of profession, and John felt like he could see clearly now in what felt like half a deployment. The streets still glistened with water, but the buildings and glass store fronts and cars were long since purged of the presence of moisture. People were bright, with their suits or outfits or strict faces, pouting and straining and possibly still half asleep. The sky was a blue shade he forgot it capable of being, dotted by clouds mostly white, though few still lingered in grey from the aftermath of the storm. His shoes were splashed with water spots. Sherlock's jacket required a lint roller.
Sherlock hailed a cab in the midst of John's appreciation for primary colors, and tugged his arm when he failed to acknowledge it. "Oh come on, get out of your head for a moment."
"What? Oh, oh. Okay." John didn't care that he lacked grace when entering the cab, still caught up in the sights that surrounded him, in the colors that were renewing themselves to him. Red had been all he was seeing, all that there was, and now, somehow, by some miniscule change, it wasn't all he had to live with anymore.
"John, what is going on through your head?"
John smiled as the cabbie said something and then began driving, to a place he was sure Sherlock had already given directions to. "I'm just… paying my dues to whatever it is I was too busy being pitiful to appreciate for the past few months."
John liked his answer. He liked telling the truth.
"Hmm."
John suspected that Sherlock didn't hear him, and smiled when he looked over to confirm his guess, as Sherlock was still very intensely conversing with his phone's screen.
"It's just a lovely day," John mumbled, letting out all the tension from his lungs and breathing in the new , rain-washed air. Nerves and all, he was almost excited at the idea of returning to his life.
Life wasn't that bad.