While this fanfic and the last both have a similar topic, they are not related. Enjoy!
Oddly enough, it was quiet in the flat. No Sherlock yelling about how bored he was, no gunshots slamming into the yellow smiley face spray painted onto the wall, no violin music, nothing.
That meant that John was suspicious and a tad worried.
"Sherlock," he called quietly. A groan answered.
"What?" Sherlock answered after the groan had finished.
"Just making sure you're here and alive," John said. He hesitated for a second, then walked into Sherlock's (virtually unused) room. Sherlock was laying face-first on his bed, his limbs splayed out a bit like a spider or starfish.
"What's wrong?" John asked, knowing that if Sherlock were in bed rather than out in the main room, something was wrong.
"Shut up," Sherlock ordered.
"Migraine?"
"Mfft," Sherlock grumbled.
"I see," John said. Sherlock flopped over.
"It's so stupid and boring. It hurts to even think." Sherlock ranted. "I can't do anything!"
He then winced and shut up, rubbing his head.
