John was angry again. He couldn't be certain what it was specifically that set him off this time, but he was angry half to tears. As he banged around the kitchen in search of the dishes he needed to wash (with scalding water and industrial-grade detergent, to be on the safe side) in order to even eat, slamming pots, plates, and cupboards alike, it took all of his efforts not to just bin Sherlock's beloved kitchen table experiments.
He could never get truly upset about the experiments. Disturbed, yes, but a rather morbid curiosity forced him to tolerate them. He was still a little disappointed that Mrs. Hudson had got rid of the head in the fridge before he could figure out what that was all about. He'd tried asking Sherlock once, but all he'd got was "wait until I can get another," after which the man had stated at him for the rest of the night, unnervingly deep in thought about something John was sure he didn't want to know.
Once he was elbow-deep in sudsy water, he was able to calm down enough to look back upon his day without breaking something. Cleaning always calmed him down. It was the routine of it, and how it required just enough concentration to take his mind off whatever was bothering him. That was the trouble with living with Sherlock, it was generally impossible to get any cleaning done what with him keeping an experiment here and sleeping there, and oh, he slept so little, John just hated to disturb him. Between that, being dragged all across London on increasingly bizarre cases (not that he minded), and work, there was simply no time.
Work. That brought him back to the beginning of his headache. If he didn't know better (actually he didn't know better, he just couldn't deal with seeing it as a working theory), he would say that Sherlock was trying to get him fired. He hadn't even made it to his lunch break when the consulting detective had burst into his office, completely ignoring the irate receptionist shooting apologies round him at John.
"Sherlock, I'm with a patient," he'd hissed, glancing uncomfortably between the intruder and the rather attractive blonde woman he had been speaking with. "Whatever it is, it'll have to wait."
"She's faking, there's nothing wrong with her except for a complete lack of backbone." He hadn't so much as glanced at the woman before revealing her. "She fancies you, is all. You would do well to send her home before your relationship becomes something less than professional."
The girl had decided not to stick around and see what the doctor did, and had run, crying, from the room. Pity, John had thought. He'd rather fancied her, too.
"Well!" Sherlock had chirped. "Looks like you're free now!"
After that, John had found himself halfway across town in some old woman's apartment. The owner had died a few days prior, but her daughter had been suspicious of the coroner's claim of natural causes.
"Plenty of animals kill their elderly all the time out of mercy," she'd said, voice quavering. "'S perfectly natural."
As it turned out, the daughter had indeed 'mercy' poisoned her mother, planted evidence to place her ex-husband under suspicion after the fact, and called Sherlock herself to direct it away from her. She hadn't known Sherlock very well.
"Taking the day off, are we, Doctor?" DI Lestrade had joked as she was taken away in handcuffs. John's glare had shut him up.
By that point it had been too late to return to work. He'd been essentially kidnapped (technically, Sherlock had given him a choice; John could have come along on the case, or Sherlock could have passed the afternoon dissecting the ailments of all the rest of John's appointments, likely leaving him out of work. John had ignored Sherlock's slight disappointment when he chose the former), resulting in another day of not work that he wouldn't get paid for, to accompany a mad genius on a case they certainly weren't getting paid for. With the whole day essentially wasted, financially, he couldn't handle it when Sherlock had suddenly suggested they go to the cinema.
"With what money?" John had exploded. "You are just determined to eliminate every possible means of income for us!" He'd been pacing a bit in front of his stunned colleague, waving his arms about in agitation when he'd stopped, turned, and leaned in close, having a point to make. "No, Sherlock, we can't go to the cinema. We can hardly even make rent. Mrs. Hudson can't cut us deals forever, and then you will be out of a flat because you, unlike me, are an idiot who can't even manage his basic needs with a roof over his head." Having said his bit, he'd about faced and stormed off, shouting one final "You're an idiot!" before rounding the corner and ducking into the nearest pub.
Before he'd even touched his pint, he'd decided he didn't want to drink alone. He hadn't wanted to stew in the absolute hypocrisy of denying Sherlock a film (what could possibly have been playing that had piqued his interest?) because of money troubles and then immediately afterward buying himself a drink. He'd needed a distraction. He'd whipped out his mobile and dialed Sarah.
Three minutes later, he'd nearly dropped his phone into his pint and he hadn't cared one bit. She couldn't keep seeing a man who cared so little for his work, she'd said. It boded ill for his relationships, she'd said. It would be best if he could find another place of practice.
John surveyed his progress. There were two plates, cups, forks, knives, spoons and bowls each for Sherlock and himself, as well as two pots to be used for some sort of simple pasta. He was a doctor, not a five-star chef. He wasn't sure if Sherlock was eating today, but John wanted to apologize.
He had stumbled home, not drunk, but upset (which usually manifested as anger) to discover that Sherlock, no doubt expecting John to still be cross with him, had made himself scares, giving him space to vent his frustrations on the flat as he wished.
That was the blessing of living with Sherlock. The man understood, or at least was awkward enough to give John room when he needed it. He'd even left his experiments out, knowing full well the extents to which John's cleaning rages could go. It wasn't much, and John would still spend the majority of his time annoyed, but it was enough when it counted.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?"
He was indeed eating today, quite a bit. John had planned on leftovers, but that was clearly not going to happen.
"You're not an idiot, Sherlock."
"I know."